‘Not great, no,’ said Red Hat.

Dogman eased his way closer to the edge of the trees and hunkered down again. ‘And it looks no better from here.’

‘Wasn’t going to, really, was it?’

‘Not really. But a man needs hope.’

The ground weren’t offering much. A couple more fruit trees, a scrubby bush or two, then the bare hillside sloped up sharp ahead. Some runners were still struggling up the grass and beyond them, as the sun started throwing some light onto events, the ragged line of some digging in. Above that the tumbledown wall that ringed the Children, and above that the Children themselves.

‘All crawling with Ironhead’s boys, no doubt,’ muttered the Dogman, speaking Red Hat’s very thoughts.

‘Aye, and Ironhead’s a stubborn bastard. Always been tricky to shift, once he gets settled.’

‘Like the pox,’ said Dogman.

‘And about as welcome.’

‘Reckon the Union’ll need more’n dead heroes to get up there.’

‘Reckon they’ll need a few living ones too.’

‘Aye.’

‘Aye.’ Red Hat shielded his eyes with one hand, realised too late he’d got blood stuck all over the side of his face. He thought he could see a big man standing up on the diggings below the Children, shouting at the stragglers as they fled. Could just hear his bellowing voice. Not quite the words, but the tone spoke plenty.

Dogman was grinning. ‘He don’t sound happy.’

‘Nope,’ said Red Hat, grinning too. As his old mum used to say, there’s no music so sweet as an enemy’s despair.

‘You fucking coward bastards!’ snarled Irig, and he kicked the last of ’em on the arse as he went past, bent over and gasping from the climb, knocked him on his face in the muck. Better’n he deserved. Lucky he only got Irig’s boot, rather’n his axe.

‘Fucking bastard cowards!’ sneered Temper at a higher pitch, and kicked the coward in the arse again as he started to get up.

‘Ironhead’s boys don’t run!’ snarled Irig, and he kicked the coward in the side and rolled him over.

‘Ironhead’s boys never run!’ And Temper kicked the lad in the fruits as he tried to scramble off and made him squeal.

‘But the Bloody-Nine’s down there!’ shouted another, his face milk pale and his eyes wide as shit-pits, cringing like a babe. A worried muttering followed the name, rippling through the boys all waiting behind the ditch. ‘The Bloody-Nine. The Bloody-Nine? The Bloody-Nine. The—’

‘Fuck,’ snarled Irig, ‘the Bloody-Nine!’

‘Aye,’ hissed Temper. ‘Fuck him. Fucking fuck him!’

‘Did you even see him?’

‘Well … no, I mean, not myself, but—’

‘If he ain’t dead, which he is, and if he’s got the bones, which he don’t, he can come up here.’ And Irig leaned close to the lad, and tickled him under the chin with the spike on the end of his axe. ‘And he can deal with me.’

‘Aye!’ Temper was nearly shrieking it, veins popping out his head. ‘He can come up here and deal with … with him! With Irig! That’s right! Ironhead’s going to hang you bastards for running! Like he hung Crouch, and cut his guts out for treachery, he’ll fucking do the same to you, he will, and we’ll—’