The Foot cleared the Redcoats of Colonel Denzil Holles from Wynn's house. Then, supported by Rupert's horse, the army of King Charles assaulted Brentford.

They destroyed the Parliamentarian barricade at the bridge on the River Brent. They drove the Redcoats to a barricade of wagons and fenceposts held by the regiment of Lord Brooke and two field guns.

Within two hours that position collapsed. The Parliamentarians fled through Brentford, abandoning arms and armor. Some, in their terror, dove into the Thames.

The King’s advance was checked on east of Brentford by Colonel John Hampden, whose Greencoats charged five times to cover the retreat of what remained of the regiments of Holles and Brooke.

The sun descended into the west. Rupert halted the attack. He gathered his men around around a bonfire of burning wagons.

"And now," he said, standing in his stirrups. "And now, to the delight of good soldiers!"

The troopers roared.

One spurred his horse through a door. Another shot out a window.
And just like that, a mob.

Thatch fired, glass shattered; men guzzling from bottles, staggering into houses and shops, and staggering out with bolts of linen and woolens, with bedding, with pewter and brass, with iron pots and kettles.

Men danced drunkenly in the street in gowns, in ruffs, in fur-lined cloaks. They chased pigs, dragged cows from barns; ran down the streets with hens beneath each arm. Those townsmen who had stayed despite the battle were slapped, mocked, beaten.

Brentford burned. The men drank and roared and smashed things. Rupert rode slowly among them, smiling.

Firth, Boy’s leash hooked to his belt, the pistol in his pocket, wrote it all down.

He saw Sir Philip chase a girl into a house.

He followed.
The kitchen in the rear of the house -- the girl, her dress torn; screams muted by sobs as Sir Philip pawed her breasts and tore at her skirt.
Boy barked.

Sir Philip turned, staggering.

"Why Firth," he said. "Come for some hic hic cunt? Wait your hic hic turn, boy."

Firth drew his pistol. Sir Philip hiccupped.

Firth shot him in the face.

Brains spattered the smoke-marred wall. Sir Philip’s body stood motionless for a moment, as though shocked by this sudden turn of events, then collapsed, the skull splitting it struck the edge of the hearth.

The girl screamed. Firth grabbed her, covered her mouth.

"Quiet," he said. "Be quiet. Get dressed. And wait here."

Firth relieved Sir Philip's corpse of its pistols. He went outside. Drunken troopers, hand in hand, singing and dancing around a bonfire. Rupert, that grin on his firelit face, clapped in time to their song.

The house next door was burning. Firth “liberated” a burning stave and carried it into the house.

He went to the kitchen and took the girl by the hand. He set fire to the curtains.

Then he led them – the girl in one hand, Boy’s leash in other other – through the streets toward the bridge, and the house where he’d earlier tied his horse.

He threw Boy across the saddle, mounted, and lifted the girl.

He galloped across the fields toward the Thames. Boy yapped with delight. The girl sobbed silently, her thin body quivering, fingers dug into Firth’s waist.

Firth reached the Thames and rode east, toward London.

Bodies floating in the river – he could see their red coats by the light of Brentford’s burning.