Night Watch (Discworld #29) 0

'Did I tell you to do this?'

'No, sarge.'

'There's too many alleys. There's too many people, Fred.' Colon brightened. 'Ah, well, there's more coppers too, sarge. A lot of the lads found their way here. Good lads, too. And Sergeant Dickins, he knows about this stuff, he remembers the last time this happened, sarge, so he asked every able-bodied man who knew how to use a weapon to muster up, sarge. There's a lot of 'em, sarge! We got an army, sarge!'

This is how the world collapses, thought Vimes. I was just a young fool, I didn't see it like this. I thought Keel was leading the revolution. I wonder if that's what he thought, too? But I just wanted to keep a few streets safe. I just wanted to keep a handful of decent, silly people away from the dumb mobs and the mindless rebels and the idiot soldiery. I really, really hoped we could get away with it. Maybe the monks were right. Changing history is like damming a river. It'll find its way round. He saw Sam beaming among the men. Hero worship, he thought. That sort of thing can turn you blind. 'Any trouble?' he said to Colon. 'Don't think anyone's worked out what's happening here, sarge. There's been a lot happening around Dolly Sisters and over that way. Cavalry charges and what have you- hold on, here come some more.' A watchman had signalled from the top of the barricade. Vimes heard the commotion on the other side of the pile. 'More people runnin' away from Dolly Sisters, by the look of it,' said Colon. 'What d'you want us to do, sarge?' Keep them out, thought Vimes. We don't know who they are. We can't let everyone in. Some of them will be trouble. The trouble is, I know what's going on out there. The city is a little slice of Hell, and there's no real safety anywhere. And I know what I'm going to decide, because I watch me decide it. I don't believe this. I'm standing over there now, a kid who's still clean and pink and full of ideals, looking at me as if I'm some kind of hero. I don't dare not be. I'm going to make the stupid decision because I don't want to look bad in front of myself. Try explaining that to anyone who hasn't had a couple of drinks. 'All right, let them through,' he said. 'But no weapons. Pass the word around.'

'Take weapons off people?' said Colon. 'Think about it, Fred. We don't want Unmentionables in here, do we, or soldiers in disguise? A man's got to be vouched for before he can carry arms. I ain't going to be stabbed in the back and the front at the same time. Oh, and Fred ... I don't know if I can do this, and probably it won't last, but as far as I'm concerned you're promoted to sergeant. Anyone who wants to argue about the extra stripe, tell 'em to argue with me.' Fred Colon's chest, already running to fat, swelled visibly. 'Right, sarge. Er . . . does that mean I still take orders from you? Right. Right. Right. I still take orders from you. Right.'

'Don't move any more barricades. Fill up the alleys. Hold this line. Vimes, you come with me, I'll need a runner.'

'I'm pretty runny, sarge,' Nobby volunteered, from somewhere behind him. 'Then what I want you to do, Nobby, is get out there and find out what's happening now.' Sergeant Dickins turned out to be younger than Vimes remembered. But he was still close to retirement. He'd maintained a flourishing sergeant's moustache, waxed to points and clearly dyed, and the proper sergeant shape, occasioned by means of undisclosed corsetry. He'd spent a lot of time in the regiments, Vimes recalled, although he came from Llamedos originally. The men found that out because he belonged to some druid religion so strict that they didn't even use standing stones. And they were strongly against swearing, which is a real handicap in a sergeant. Or would be, if sergeants weren't so good at improvising. He was currently in Welcome Soap, a continuation of Cable Street. And he had the army. It wasn't much of one. No two weapons were exactly alike and most of them were not, strictly speaking, weapons. Vimes shuddered when he saw the crowd and had a flashback, which was probably a flash forward, to all the domestic disputes he'd attended over the years. You knew where you were with strictly-speaking weapons when they came at you. It was the not- strictly-speaking ones that scared the cacky out of a new recruit. It was the meat cleavers tied to poles. It was the long spikes, and the meathooks. This was, after all, the area of small traders, porters, butchers and longshoremen. And so standing in raggedy lines in front of Vimes were men who, every day, peacefully and legally, handled things with blades and spikes that made a mere sword look like a girl's hatpin. There were classic weapons, too. Men had come back from wars with their sword or their halberd. Weapons? Gods bless you, sir, no! Them's mementoes. And the sword had probably been used to poke the fire, and the halberd had done duty as a support for one end of the washing line, and their original use had been forgotten . . . . . . until now. Vimes stared at the metalwork. All this lot would have to do to win a battle would be to stand still. If the enemy charged them hard enough, he'd come out the other side as mince. 'Some of 'em are retired watchmen, sah,' Dickins whispered. 'A lot of them have been in the regiments at one time or another, see. There's a few kids wanting to see some action, you know how it is. What d'you think?'

'I'd certainly hate to fight them,' said Vimes. At least a quarter of the men had white hair, and more than a few were using their weapons as a means of support. 'Come to that, I'd hate to be responsible for giving them an order. If I said “about turn!” to this lot, it'd be raining limbs.'

'They're resolute, sah.'

'Fair enough. But I don't want a war.'

'Oh, it won't come to that, sah,' said Dickins. 'I've seen a few barricades in my time. It generally ends peaceful. The new man takes over, people get bored, everyone goes home, see.'

'But Winder is a nutter,' said Vimes. 'Tell me one that wasn't, sah,' said Dickins. Sir, thought Vimes. Or 'sah', at least. And he's older than me. Oh well, I might as well be good at it. 'Sergeant,' he said, 'I want you to pick twenty of the best, men that have seen action. Men you can trust. And I want them down at the Shambling Gate, and alert.' Dickins looked puzzled. 'But that's barred, sah. And it's right down behind us, it is. I thought maybe-'

'Down at the gate, sergeant,' Vimes insisted. They're to watch for anyone sneaking up to unbar it. And I want the guard on the bridges to be strengthened. Put down caltrops on the bridge, string wires ... I want anyone who tries to come at us over the bridge to have a really bad time, understand?'

'Do you know something, sah?' said Dickins, with his head on one side. 'Let's just say I'm thinking like the enemy, shall we?' said Vimes. He took a step closer and lowered his voice. 'You know some history, Dai. No one with an ounce of sense goes up against a barricade. You find the weakness.'

'There's other gates down there, sah,' said Dickins doubtfully. 'Yes, but if they take Shambling they get into Elm Street and have a nice long gallop, right into where we're not expecting them,' said Vimes. 'But . . . you are expecting them, sah.' Vimes just gave him a blank look, which sergeants are quite good at deciphering. 'As good as done, sah!' said Dickins happily. 'But I want a decent presence at all the barricades,' said Vimes. 'And a couple of patrols that can go wherever there's trouble. Sergeant, you know how to do it.'

'Right, sah.' Dickins saluted smartly, and grinned. He turned to the assembled citizenry. 'All right, you shower!' he yelled. 'Some of you has been in a regiment, I know it! How many of you knows “All The Little Angels”?' A few of the more serious class of mementoes rose in the air.

'Very good! Already we has a choir! Now, this is a soldiers' song, see? You don't look like soldiers but by the gods I'll see you sounds like 'em! You'll pick it up as we goes along! Right turn! March! “All the little angels rise up, rise up, All the little angels rise up high!” Sing it, you sons of mothers!' The marchers picked up the response from those who knew it. 'How do they rise up, rise up, rise up, how do they rise up, rise up high?'

'They rise heads up, heads up, heads up-' sang out Dickins, as they turned the corner. Vimes listened as the refrain died away. 'That's a nice song,' said young Sam, and Vimes remembered that he was hearing it for the first time. 'It's an old soldiers' song,' he said. 'Really, sarge? But it's about angels.' Yes, thought Vimes, and it's amazing what bits those angels cause to rise up as the song progresses. It's a real soldiers' song: sentimental, with dirty bits. 'As I recall, they used to sing it after battles,' he said. I've seen old men cry when they sing it,' he added. 'Why? It sounds cheerful.' They were remembering who they were not singing it with, thought Vimes. You'll learn. I know you will. After a while, the patrols came back. Major Mountjoy-Standfast was bright enough not to ask for written reports. They took too long and weren't very well spelled. One by one, the men told the story. Sometimes Captain Wrangle, who was plotting things on the map, would whistle under his breath. 'It's huge, sir. It really is! Nearly a quarter of the city's behind barricades down there!' The major rubbed his forehead and turned to Trooper Gabitass, the last man in and the one who seemed to have taken pains to get the most information. 'They're all on a sort of line, sir. So I rode up to the one in Heroes Street, with me helmet off and looking off-duty, sort of thing, and I asked what it was all about. A man shouted down that everything was all right, thank you very much, and they'd finished all the barricades for now. I said what about law and order, and they said we've got plenty, thank you.'

'No one fired at you?'

'No, sir. Wish I could say the same about round here. People were throwing stones at me and an old lady emptied a pissp- a utensil all over me from her window. Er . . . there's something else, sir. Er . . .'

'Out with it, man.'

'I, er, think I recognized a few people. Up on the barricades. Er . . . they were some of ours, sir . . .' Vimes shut his eyes, in the hope that the world would be a better place. But when he opened them, it was still full of the pink face of only-just Sergeant Colon. 'Fred,' he said, 'I wonder if you fully understand the basic idea here? The soldiers - that's the other people, Fred - they stay on the outside of the barricade. If they are on the inside, Fred, we don't, in any real sense, have a bloody barricade. Do you understand?'

'Yes, sir. But-'

'You want to do a spell in a regiment, Fred, and one of the things I think you'll find they're very hot on indeed is knowing who's on your side and who is not, Fred.'

'But, sir, they are-'

'I mean, how long have I known you, Fred?'

'Two or three days, sir.'

'Er . . . right. Yeah. Of course. Seems longer. So why, Fred, do I arrive here and find you've let in what seems like a platoon? You haven't been thinking metaphysically again, have you?'

'It started with Billy Wiglet's brother, sir,' said Colon nervously. 'A few of his mates came with him. All local lads. And there's a lad Nancyball grew up with and a bloke who's the son of Waddy's next-door neighbour who he used to go out drinking with, and then there's-'

'How many, Fred?' said Vimes wearily. 'Sixty, sir. Might be a few more by now.'

'And it doesn't occur to you that they might be part of some clever plan?'

'No, sarge, it never did. 'cos I can't see Wally Wiglet being part of a clever plan, sarge, on account of him not being much of a thinker, sir. They only allowed him to be in the regiment after he got someone to paint L and R on his boots. See, we know 'em all sarge. Most of the lads join up for a bit, just to get out of the city and maybe show Johnny Foreigner who's boss. They never expected to have old grannies spitting on them in their own city, sarge. That can get a lad down, that sort of thing. And getting cobblestones chucked at them too, of course.' Vimes gave in. It was all true. 'All right,' he said. 'But if this goes on, everyone is going to be inside the barricade, Fred.'