Micah Clarke by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle — Read

The purple shadows of evening had fallen over the countryside, and the / sun had sunk behind the distant Quantock and Brendon Hills, as our rude / column of rustic infantry plodded through Curry Rivell, Wrantage, and / Henlade. At every wayside cottage and red-tiled farmhouse the people / swarmed out us we passed, with jugs full of milk or beer, shaking hands / with our yokels, and pressing food and drink upon them. In the little / villages old and young came buzzing to greet us, and cheered long and / loud for King Monmouth and the Protestant cause. The stay-at-homes were / mostly elderly folks and children, but here and there a young labourer, / whom hesitation or duties had kept back, was so carried away by our / martial appearance, and by the visible trophies of our victory, that he / snatched up a weapon and joined our ranks.

The skirmish had reduced our numbers, but it had done much to turn our / rabble of peasants into a real military force. The leadership of Saxon, / and his stern, short words of praise or of censure had done even more. / The men kept some sort of formation, and stepped together briskly in a / compact body. The old soldier and I rode at the head of the column, with / Master Pettigrue still walking between us. Then came the cartful of / our dead, whom we were carrying with us to insure their decent burial. / Behind this walked two score of scythe and sickle men, with their rude / weapons over their shoulders, preceding the waggon in which the wounded / were carried. This was followed by the main body of the peasants, / and the rear was brought up by ten or twelve men under the command of / Lockarby and Sir Gervas, mounted upon captured chargers, and wearing the / breastplates, swords, and carbines of the dragoons.