Matt Lewis

The peace of the dawn air is disturbed by the rasp of drums. Their inexorable rhythm is so alien to your rural surroundings that even the pink glow of twilight seems spoiled by the sound. Nearby, you hear the clatter of hooves from a solitary rider. The pace is furious and the heavy panting of the horse is almost as loud as the warning cries from its master.

The peace of the dawn air is disturbed by the rasp of drums. Their inexorable rhythm is so alien to your rural surroundings that even the pink glow of twilight seems spoiled by the sound. Nearby, you hear the clatter of hooves from a solitary rider. The pace is furious and the heavy panting of the horse is almost as loud as the warning cries from its master.

The peace of the dawn air is disturbed by the rasp of drums. Their inexorable rhythm is so alien to your rural surroundings that even the pink glow of twilight seems spoiled by the sound. Nearby, you hear the clatter of hooves from a solitary rider. The pace is furious and the heavy panting of the horse is almost as loud as the warning cries from its master.

You wonder for how long and how far the poor beast has galloped through the night. Nevertheless, you understand the rider's hurry. Punctuating the calm morning air, the drums get ever closer. Their snare is unmistakable, and underneath you hear the crunch of marching feet. There can be no doubt what's creating the martial rhythm. As the rider passes each farmhouse, he repeats his warning.

You wonder for how long and how far the poor beast has galloped through the night. Nevertheless, you understand the rider's hurry. Punctuating the calm morning air, the drums get ever closer. Their snare is unmistakable, and underneath you hear the crunch of marching feet. There can be no doubt what's creating the martial rhythm. As the rider passes each farmhouse, he repeats his warning.

You wonder for how long and how far the poor beast has galloped through the night. Nevertheless, you understand the rider's hurry. Punctuating the calm morning air, the drums get ever closer. Their snare is unmistakable, and underneath you hear the crunch of marching feet. There can be no doubt what's creating the martial rhythm. As the rider passes each farmhouse, he repeats his warning.

From within the wooden buildings, voices rise in response. A tone of panic dominates. Wives wake their husbands, fathers rouse their eldest sons, and the bustle of urgent activity soon joins the muffled cacophony. You recognise the metallic clack of wrought iron and the thud of walnut wood. The tapping of ramrods confirms your suspicions.

From within the wooden buildings, voices rise in response. A tone of panic dominates. Wives wake their husbands, fathers rouse their eldest sons, and the bustle of urgent activity soon joins the muffled cacophony. You recognise the metallic clack of wrought iron and the thud of walnut wood. The tapping of ramrods confirms your suspicions.

From within the wooden buildings, voices rise in response. A tone of panic dominates. Wives wake their husbands, fathers rouse their eldest sons, and the bustle of urgent activity soon joins the muffled cacophony. You recognise the metallic clack of wrought iron and the thud of walnut wood. The tapping of ramrods confirms your suspicions.

The residents of this normally quiet town are preparing their firearms. The sound of drums is as clear as the sun above the horizon now, as the warmth of the first light of day creeps across the dewy ground, elongating the shadows of the trees into infinite black chasms. You can almost feel the tremors of hundreds of stamping feet and the rumble of cannon wheels on the road outside town.

The residents of this normally quiet town are preparing their firearms. The sound of drums is as clear as the sun above the horizon now, as the warmth of the first light of day creeps across the dewy ground, elongating the shadows of the trees into infinite black chasms. You can almost feel the tremors of hundreds of stamping feet and the rumble of cannon wheels on the road outside town.

The residents of this normally quiet town are preparing their firearms. The sound of drums is as clear as the sun above the horizon now, as the warmth of the first light of day creeps across the dewy ground, elongating the shadows of the trees into infinite black chasms. You can almost feel the tremors of hundreds of stamping feet and the rumble of cannon wheels on the road outside town.

Yet, already lining up in well-rehearsed formation on the common, seemingly all the adult men and their barely adult sons of the town are gathered to meet the oncoming force. They don't wear uniforms. They don't have standardized weapons or regulation hairstyles. In fact, there's nothing regular about them at all.

Yet, already lining up in well-rehearsed formation on the common, seemingly all the adult men and their barely adult sons of the town are gathered to meet the oncoming force. They don't wear uniforms. They don't have standardized weapons or regulation hairstyles. In fact, there's nothing regular about them at all.

Yet, already lining up in well-rehearsed formation on the common, seemingly all the adult men and their barely adult sons of the town are gathered to meet the oncoming force. They don't wear uniforms. They don't have standardized weapons or regulation hairstyles. In fact, there's nothing regular about them at all.

They look like nothing more or less than what they are, a militia of citizens ready to defend their families. The drums are in the town, the pounding echoes between the houses, and it sounds as if the drums are all around you. You look over your shoulder instinctively, just in case you really are surrounded. But there is nothing.

They look like nothing more or less than what they are, a militia of citizens ready to defend their families. The drums are in the town, the pounding echoes between the houses, and it sounds as if the drums are all around you. You look over your shoulder instinctively, just in case you really are surrounded. But there is nothing.

They look like nothing more or less than what they are, a militia of citizens ready to defend their families. The drums are in the town, the pounding echoes between the houses, and it sounds as if the drums are all around you. You look over your shoulder instinctively, just in case you really are surrounded. But there is nothing.

Instead, the real position of the drumming is revealed by the harsh bark of a commanding voice. the indistinct vocalisation that carries the weight of an order that must be followed or discipline will be faced. The militia on the green turn to face the approaching army. Their captain orders them to stand fast and they obey with nervous determination.

Instead, the real position of the drumming is revealed by the harsh bark of a commanding voice. the indistinct vocalisation that carries the weight of an order that must be followed or discipline will be faced. The militia on the green turn to face the approaching army. Their captain orders them to stand fast and they obey with nervous determination.