And together they had won the battle. The hardest one Allday had ever shared.

Now he was back, and God help anyone who tried to stand against him. Allday touched the heavy cutlass beneath his seat. They'll have to take me first, and that's no error.

But they had not even driven into the outskirts of Rochester before trouble showed itself.

Bolitho had his orders spread on his knees as the carriage gathered speed down another hill when he heard Allday exclaim, "On the road, by God-looks like a riot! Better turn back, Old Matthew!"

The coachman was yelling at the post-boys, and Bolitho thought he heard Allday groping for a loaded piece from the weapons box.

"Stay!" Bolitho swung out of the door and held on to the handrail. The carriage was almost broadside across the road, the horses steaming and agitated by the baying sound of voices.

Bolitho drew a small telescope from his coat and levelled it on the road. There was a surging crowd of people, some waving their arms and sticks, others laughing and drinking from flasks. Two of them were mounted. They were all men.

Allday laid a short, heavy-muzzled blunderbuss on the carriage roof and covered it with a piece of canvas from his seat.

He said harshly, "I don't like it, Cap'n. Looks like a hanging mob."

Ferguson was examining his small pistol and said, "I agree, sir. We should pull back. There must be a hundred of them heading this way." He did not sound frightened. The Saintes had taught him to overcome fear. It was more like concern.

Bolitho held the small telescope steady. It was much easier with the carriage halted.

In the centre of the yelling crowd two figures, each with a halter tied around his neck, were being dragged along, their hands pinioned, their feet bare and bloodied on the rough road. One was naked to the waist, the other had had his shirt almost ripped from his back.