Chapter 44：THE ANGRY MOB

And then his eyes narrowed, seeming to consider as well the calibre of the man who had made it. Since Ian was taller by more than half a foot, he had to look up to make that assessment.

"I got a right to discipline a runaway." He said sullenly. "And no nob need to tell me I can't, magistrates or not."

Apparently assuming that his speech would put an end to Ian's objection, he again tried to reach around the ex-major to grasp the boy. Annie stepped back to avoid his hand. The child pushed her even farther back as he attempted to burrow into the perceived safety of her skirt.

It was only then that she realized the sweep's followers had surrounded her and Ian while their attention had been focused on the master. One of the other men, bolder than the rest, grabbed at the boy. Annie turned her back on him, pulling the boy around with her.

As she did, her eyes searched the street, wondering that no one had come to help them. The few shoppers who were about, several of whom had stopped to watch the confrontation, seemed paralyzed by amazement. Although gangs of Mohocks occasionally preyed on those foolish enough to venture unprotected into certain unsavoury areas of London at night, it was almost unheard of for people of their class to be accosted in broad open daylight. Especially in this neighborhood.

"Ian," she warned.

He didn't turn to look at her, but he took a step back, putting the child between them again. "Stay close," he ordered.

He was still holding the sweep at arm's length, but the ruffians who had followed the man on his quest to recapture and punish his apprentice had begun to crowd ever nearer, forcing any other pedestrians back. And that had happened with a swiftness that took Annie by surprise.

"Someone call the magistrates," Ian called towards the bewildered bystanders. He had to raise his voice to carry above the cries of the boy, who pleaded with heartbreaking sobs for Annie to save him from his Master's whip and torch. The voices of the sweep's fellows joined in the growing cacophony, urging him to reclaim his rightful property and not to let any nob come between him and his livelihood.

In the hubbub Annie doubted anyone had heard Ian's command.

Their coachman would soon realize what was going on, she told herself, but as yet there was no sign of him. And then, as she looked over the crowd for any indication that a rescue attempt was underway, one of the sweep's supporters began pull at her arm again.

She wrenched her elbow free stepping forward towards Ian. Suddenly there was a rush of bodies from the front, shoving Ian into her. She staggered back, the boy still clinging to her skirt like a monkey. He or someone else stepped on the hem of her dress, tearing a portion of her skirt from the bodice.

Just as it seemed she might go down and be trampled, a strong hand grasped her elbow, holding her upright until she had regained her balance. She looked up into a pair of furious hazel eyes. Ian wrapped one arm around her waist, supporting her.

With the other he began to lay about him with his cane, using it like a Sabre in battle, slashing at the men who milled around them, trying to drive them back. Instead they continued to press nearer, shouting and grabbing at the screaming boy. And above it all Annie could hear the whistle Ian's stick made as it rose and fell, and even the occasional sound of it striking something.

And he was finally seeing some success, she realized.

The close-packed bodies began to give, driven back by the fury with which Ian was wielding his cane.

Then something struck Ian's chest. It splattered against her cheek, and automatically Annie ducked her head, turning it into the protection of his shoulder. His arm around her waist, Ian lifted her bodily, dragged her off the kerb and out into the street, still using his cane to fight off their attackers so that they could escape.

At some point, although she had not been aware of when it had occurred, the child had lost grip on her skirts and disappeared into the swirling madness. As soon as she realized he was gone, she lifted her head and looked back over Ian's shoulder, trying for a glimpse of the boy amidst the chaos. He seemed to have vanished, although she could see his master at the forefront of the mob, continuing to press his claim.

Another missile landed with a splat on Ian's back. A pungent smell permeated the air around them. Only then did Annie realize someone was throwing rotten eggs at them. Shielding her face with one hand, she looked up at Ian, seeking reassurance or instruction.

The handsome, familiar features were rigid. His jaw was set, lips flattened and white, as he propelled her, even supporting part of her weight, along the street. This was a man she didn't know, she realized. He was a stern faced stranger who had been created by the violence that had erupted around them.

Suddenly, Ian stumbled, catching his dragging foot on one of the uneven cobblestones. He fell onto one knee, inadvertently pulling her down with him. Her fall was cushioned by his body, but his had not been. Even from that position, one knee and one hand on the ground, Ian raised the cane as the sweep and his screaming cohorts came rushing after them, like wolves surrounding a downed sheep.

"Run," Ian commanded, releasing his hold on her. "Do it now," he ordered when she hesitated.

Knees trembling, Annie rose in response to the sharpness of that command. Instead of running, however, she put both hands around his upper arm, the one that wasn't raised defensively in preparation for the mob's approach.

She pulled, urging him to his feet.

"Go, damn it," he demanded, watching the enemy.

"Not without you," she said stubbornly.

She wouldn't. No matter what happened to her, she wasn't going to leave him in his knees and at their mercy.

"Damn you." The words were uttered under his breath, but the tone of them was vehement. Heartfelt.

As he said them, however, his eyes lifted to meet hers. And seeing the determination within them, perhaps, Ian lowered the cane, using it and her support to push himself to his feet. By that time, the howling sweep and his cohorts were on them.

One of them struck Ian with his fist, sending him into her. She braced herself to bear his weight, and he quickly regained his balance, charging the throng, cane slashing. This time, however, his attackers had taken time to arm themselves.

They had grabbed anything they could get their hands on to use as weapons. One held a buggy whip, no doubt snatched from a driver whose vehicle had been block by the melee. Another had ripped a length of board loose from somewhere. And far too many of the blows they aimed at the man who was defending her, Annie realized, were hitting her target.

Ian retreated even as he fought, keeping her behind him and pushing her backwards as he moved, ever vigilant to the next feint, the next blow. She had time to wonder how long he could keep it up, and then he stumbled once more.

He didn't go down this time, thank God. The mob was too close to allow her time to get him to his feet if he fell again.

However, they were being driven inexorably towards the buildings on the opposite side of the narrow street. Deliberately driven? she wondered. Because when they reached it, a matter of only seconds now, considering the fury of the mob, further retreat would be cut off.

"Go." Ian ordered again, reading the situation as she had.

As he turned to hurl the single syllable over his shoulder, he was struck in the chest by that length of wood. He stumbled a step or two, trying not to go down. He didn't, but his backward momentum pushed her into the brick wall at her back.

There was a howl of victory from the mob. She looked up in time to see the sweep grab the cane and rip it from Ian's hand during the split second the ex-soldier had been forced to concentrate on regaining his balance.

Defenceless now against the onslaught, Ian did the only thing he could to protect her. He turned his back to the attackers, pressing her closely against the bricks. He put his hands on the wall above them, and lowered his face so that his cheek rested over the top of her head.

The position protected her, but it also prevented her from seeing anything.