War Game

A stocky young man in a loose white shirt, a curious tasselled forage cap on his head, appeared on the edge of the counterscarp where Mitchell had been. He swept off the cap and bowed to Strode.

'Sir. The ordnance awaits your pleasure,' he said.

'Another five minutes,' murmured the stop-watch man.

'Their guns aren't in position yet.'

Strode nodded. 'Patiently, Master Rodgers. Do thou await our signal.' He smiled again at Audley. 'Billy Rodgers always likes to get off the first shot against the Malignants,' he confided.

'We go down to the field now,' prompted the stop-watch man.

'Gentlemen—' Strode gestured to the left and the right '—in God's name let us look to the ordering of the battle.'

Audley lifted the lace at his wrist to check his illegal wristwatch. It was time at last for him to look to the ordering dummy5

of his own battle too.

He touched Strode's arm. 'Mr. Strode, I must speak to Charles Ratcliffe now—at once.'

Strode ran his eye along the battle line. 'He's down there on the right with his regiment, Dr. Audley.'

'But I must speak to him up here, alone.' Audley pointed along the ramparts towards the Great Bastion. 'There, say—

on the redoubt by the big gun.'

Strode frowned. 'The bastion's off limits, Audley.'

'I know. That means we won't be disturbed. It's vitally important I speak to him.'

Strode looked from Audley to the battle line, then to the roped-off area of the redoubt, and finally back to Audley again. 'Oh—very well, Audley. You've called your dogs off, so I owe you the other side of the bargain, I suppose. . . .

Galloper!'

The Roundhead horseman, who had remained on the counter-scarp in readiness for further orders, raised his hand in salute. 'Sir!'

Strode pointed towards the right of the line. 'I pray you, carry my compliments to Colonel Ratcliffe together with this strict order: I charge him to repair with the utmost despatch on this instant to the Great Bastion, there to receive of one of my officers further intelligence concerning my will and pleasure.'

'Sir!' The galloper wheeled away down the slope.

dummy5

Strode turned back to Audley. 'But don't keep him too long.

He's in command of the right wing, and although we're not actually fighting today I do want him down there to see that angry brigade of his obeys orders—they're a damned quarrelsome lot.'

Audley saluted. 'I shalln't keep him long, sir. And then, by your leave, I shall strictly attend your grace once more upon the field of battle.'

There was a puff of smoke and a bang from the ridge opposite. The first of the Royalist guns had been brought into action ahead of the scenario's schedule.

Audley put his telescope to his eye and focused on the Roundhead guns just in time to see Billy Rodgers shaking his fist first at the enemy, and then at his own general.

Tum, tum, tum-tum-tum—

The Royalist musketeers were advancing towards the stream, pacing themselves with their musket rests, their ammunition bandoliers dancing. Now the whole elaborate ritual of the seventeenth-century fire-fight was about to begin, with the rival sergeants intoning the long sequence of orders—'Blow off your coal', 'Cock your match', 'Guard, blow and open your pan' and so on—which preceded each volley, and which according to Strode was an enormous favourite with the watching crowds.

Now too there was movement in the Roundhead ranks as dummy5

their musketeers detached themselves to the sound of drum-and-fife—

Tumpty-tum, tumpty-tum, tumpty- tum—

Charlie Ratcliffe was coming up the hillside, from the right.

Audley swept the telescope to the far left, where the militia regiments were lined up in the shadow of the trees, next to the guard ropes which would keep the spectators off the battlefield tomorrow.

Superintendent Weston was watching him like a hawk.

He snapped the telescope shut and started along the rampart towards the Great Bastion. He could just make out the top of the red powder-tent in the crater behind it.

Red for danger.

Tum, tum, tum-tum- tum—

Charlie Ratcliffe was there ahead of him, scrambling up the half-ruined rampart wall with the agility of a monkey and ducking under the restraining rope.

DANGER!

Authorised persons only may proceed beyond this point Under the broad-brimmed black hat the face was shadowy, but as Audley approached him he lifted it off and shook his fair hair free in the fitful breeze.

Fair hair, blue eyes, high colour—the English subaltern face par excellence, like a