Until the Colours Fade Read Free

rocks and branches blocking their path, while above them, on top of the embankment, indistinct shapes of men with burning torches were visible, some of them levering up granite blocks with iron bars and sending them hurtling down onto the roofs of the stationary vehicles. The omnibus full of railway passengers had stopped just short of the most exposed part of the road, but its occupants, taking no chances, were tumbling out and slithering down the slope to the right of the road. Seconds later rioters were leaping down onto the road from the embankment and soon the hopelessly outnumbered troopers were struggling with a formidable mob; their slashing sabres no match for such numbers. One of the troopers’ horses shied and became entangled with the thrashing hoofs of a fallen omnibus hack, eventually crashing down on its flank. Another horse was hit by a rock as Tom watched. Too stunned to think at first, Tom turned his horse blindly and dug in his heels with all his strength. Half-way to the station he met the ‘fly’, which the well-dressed gentleman had hired, and yelled to the driver to stop; then, without waiting to see whether he did, galloped on to warn the rest of the troop. A minute or so later he saw them riding towards him in the distance. Tom reined in his horse and turned, ready to ride up beside George when he came level.
    Braithwaite did not at first recognise Tom in the near darkness , but, when he did, his pale blue watery eyes bulged with anger.
    ‘What the devil are you doing here, Strickland?’
    Tom did not answer the question but hurriedly told him what he had seen. George nodded, as though to assure Tom that he had expected as much.
    ‘Hadn’t you better order your men to stop?’ Tom asked hesitantly , as they approached the final bend which would reveal the chaos ahead. Strickland looked about him uneasily and was shocked not to see any sign of the ‘fly’, for they had passed the point at which he had shouted to the driver.
    ‘I know what I’m about,’ drawled George dismissively, taking a hand from his reins and tugging at his drooping sandy moustache : a gesture which Tom supposed was intended to convey nonchalance, but which in fact gave the impression of nervousness .The affected stiffness of George’s posture and his absurdly elaborate uniform with its enormous epaulettes filled Tom with fury.
    ‘Stay on this road and you’ll be killed,’ he blurted out.
    George turned to him scornfully and was about to shout back when he caught his breath. They had reached the bend where the embankment began and George had gained his first view of the scene of bloodshed and confusion, now luridly illuminated by the fiercely burning omnibuses. By the time George turned to his trumpeter, the troopers behind had already halted without waiting for the order. George too had pulled up his horse and was gazing ahead with stupefaction, evidently having thought that Strickland had been exaggerating. In spite of the cold, beads of sweat had broken out around the band of his imposing plumed shako. He had supposed that he would be able to leave the road to get round any obstacle placed there, but the sheer embankment to the left ruled out any attempt to get up behind the rioters, and, the road itself being impassable, his only other option was the precipitous slope to the right. Even in daylight horses would probably stumble and fall on the loose stones and rocks; at night it would be suicidal to try. It was no more than ten seconds since they had halted, but it seemed immeasurably longer. George apparently had no idea what to do, and Tom could think of nothing. It was then that he noticed the ‘fly’ pulled up to the side of the road under the shadow of the embankment some fifty yards away. A moment later the impeccably dressed man in the silk top hat and green pilot coat got out, and, seemingly oblivious to any danger, walked calmly up to them.
    ‘Better dismount, I daresay,’ said the stranger, as though