The soldiers, summoned from their barracks near the churchyard, arrived at the scene with a palpable reluctance. They saw the riot as nothing more than a raucous disturbance at a public house—something best left to local authorities. Their initial disdain was tempered by the chaos they encountered. The rioters had gathered in numbers, their shouts echoing off the old, stone walls of the inn, transforming what seemed like a petty squabble into a full-scale upheaval. The soldiers’ disdain was quickly replaced by a grudging sense of duty; their professional pride now demanded intervention.

The town constables, already on site, eagerly agreed to the soldiers’ terms: the military would capture the rioters, but the locals would handle the prisoners’ custody. The town hoped that arresting a few ringleaders would be enough to scatter the rest. Unbeknownst to both the military and civil authorities, however, a grotesque scene awaited within the inn—a scene so horrifying that it defied all reason.

As the soldiers and constables approached, they found the inn’s door heavily guarded. The pressing question was how to coax the rioters down from their barricade in the upper floors. After a brief debate, it was decided that a pair of troopers, accompanied by a constable, would ascend the stairs to apprehend the leaders.

The narrow staircase leading to the third floor, more of a perilous ladder than a staircase, was a physical barrier that the rioters used to their advantage. As the soldiers climbed, the crowd retreated up to the third-floor lofts, leaving behind a trail of chaos and darkness. The hurried retreat resulted in all lights being abandoned, plunging the inn into a suffocating gloom.

When the soldiers and constable finally reached the room where the body had been, they were met with a sight that made even the most hardened of them recoil. The mutilated corpse was an abomination—its ghastly state revealed the brutality of the mob. Even for soldiers accustomed to grim scenes, the sight was revolting. They turned away, their faces pale with revulsion.

Their initial shock soon hardened into a steely rage. How could anyone commit such an atrocity? The soldiers’ anger now matched the horror they felt, and a fierce resolve took hold. One soldier dashed downstairs to report the macabre discovery, his voice strained with indignation. The remaining soldiers, leaving a small guard at the door, stormed the stairs with the intent to drag every last rioter from their grim sanctuary.

Meanwhile, news of the military’s advance spread like wildfire through the town. Soon, a new crowd of idlers and miscreants gathered outside the inn, drawn by the commotion. They watched with a mix of curiosity and trepidation, their bravado faltering at the sight of the soldiers’ imposing carbines.

True to mob form, the onlookers showed a brief burst of courage before their resolve crumbled. With whispered plans and nervous glances, they decided to abandon their comrades inside. In a sudden, chaotic exodus, they dispersed into the night, slipping into the countryside in small groups. Once clear of the soldiers, they regrouped, becoming a dark, restless mass on the horizon, safe from the reach of military retribution.

A blood-curdling cry erupted from the swelling mob: "Down with Sir Ferdinand Lazarus—slay him! Burn his house! Death to all vampyres!" With a frenzied roar, the crowd surged towards the mansion of their perceived enemy, their torches flickering like malevolent fireflies in the night.

But let us turn our gaze from this throng of wrathful zealots and focus on those trapped within the inn, who now faced a dire and uncertain fate. The small group of individuals holed up in the dimly lit, ancient building found themselves in grave peril. Outnumbered and unarmed, their only chance of survival might have been to surrender—if not for the frenzied, intoxicated rioters who would never have accepted such a capitulation.

In this darkened retreat, where the flickering light of a few weak candles cast eerie shadows on the walls, the soldiers' approach was both anticipated and dreaded. The rioters, fortified in their temporary stronghold, prepared for a fierce resistance. Their barricade was constructed from dusty old furniture and broken boxes—remnants of forgotten years now turned into makeshift defenses.

The narrow, steep staircase leading to the attic was their last line of defense. Here, among the clutter of abandoned furniture and rotting boxes, they had created an obstacle course of sorts. Their desperation made them fierce, if somewhat disorganized. The dim light from the candles barely illuminated their grim faces, now set in grim determination.

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As the soldiers began their assault, the staircase was alive with the sounds of clattering boxes and frantic shouts. The soldiers, numbering only seventeen or eighteen, had a grim resolve as they faced down more than forty rioters. The soldiers advanced up the narrow staircase, their boots thudding heavily against the worn wood. They knew that the task at hand required more than just force; it demanded precision and determination.

At the command "Advance!" the soldiers moved with grim efficiency. The leader, undeterred by the narrow confines, pressed forward. As he attempted to scale the treacherous stairs, a heavy chest—an artifact of the rioters’ hasty preparations—tumbled down, striking him and sending him sprawling onto the hard floor below.

“Fire!” barked the officer, his voice cutting through the chaos. The sound of a carbine shot erupted, followed by the acrid smell of gunpowder. The second soldier, stepping over his fallen comrade, fired his weapon. The third followed suit, scrambling over both men as they continued their relentless ascent.

The rioters, caught off guard by the sudden and brutal escalation, were paralyzed with terror. The crack of gunfire and the acrid scent of smoke filled the cramped space, shattering any illusions of safety they had clung to. The once-bold barricaders now found themselves scrambling in panic, their bravado evaporating like mist in the morning sun.

In a frenzy, they scrambled over one another, desperately trying to escape the infernal danger that seemed to be closing in from all sides. The narrow attic, once their sanctuary, became a nightmarish trap as they fled from the advancing soldiers, who pressed their advantage with unrelenting determination.

The scene in the inn, illuminated only by the feeble light of flickering candles and the occasional flash of gunfire, was one of utter chaos. The rioters’ desperate attempts to defend their position or flee were futile against the disciplined advance of the soldiers, who were driven by a fierce resolve to restore order to the madness that had overtaken the town.

The air was thick with dread, the kind that grips the heart and twists it painfully, when the soldiers finally secured the inn's attic, their victory a dark triumph over the once-defiant rioters. The terror that gripped the barricaders was so profound that each man believed he had been struck down, the overwhelming fear rendering them almost powerless. The soldiers, having achieved their objective with chilling efficiency, had already subdued the so-called citadel of the inn before the rioters' shattered nerves allowed them to grasp the extent of their defeat.

Despite the apparent severity of the attack, the soldiers had used only blank cartridges. There was no desire nor necessity to shed blood; the goal was to disarm and detain, not to destroy. The true damage had been wrought by the sudden and relentless nature of the soldiers’ assault. The rioters, thrown into disarray by the thunderous sound of gunfire, found themselves quickly subdued, their bold resistance collapsing like a house of cards.

One by one, the captured rioters were handed down the narrow, dimly lit staircase, their faces pale and eyes wide with a mix of fear and embarrassment. Each man, once so brimming with bravado, was now nothing more than a prisoner being passed from the soldiers to the waiting constables. The constables, though few in number, acted with grim efficiency. Handcuffs clicked around the wrists of those who had resisted most fiercely, while the rest, cowed and broken, followed meekly.

Outside, the clamor of the onlookers reached a fever pitch. The women, huddled together in the cold night air, raised a cacophony of wails and anxious cries. The distant crack of gunfire had sent them into a frenzy of fear, each woman dreading the worst—a massacre of their loved ones.

One non-commissioned officer, visibly annoyed by the commotion, shouted down at the gathering crowd. "Silence! What are you wailing for? Do you think we’ve nothing better to do than waste bullets on a bunch of scoundrels who aren’t worth the powder in them?"

"But we heard the shots!" protested a trembling woman, clutching her shawl tightly.

"Of course you did," the officer snapped, his voice dripping with scorn. "It’s the powder that makes the noise, not the bullets. You’ll see your men brought out safe and sound."

His words, though brusque, carried a ring of truth that gradually quelled the crowd's hysteria. The women, their fears slightly assuaged, watched with a mix of relief and embarrassment as their husbands, fathers, and brothers—disarmed and shackled—were led down the stairs. The sight of their men, subdued by nothing more than a handful of blank cartridges, left them both relieved and dismayed.

As the prisoners were marched off to the town gaol under the watchful guard of the soldiers, the night seemed to settle into a weary calm. The soldiers, believing their grim duty completed, began to relax, unaware that their troubles were far from over. The deceptive stillness was soon shattered by the arrival of stragglers from the countryside, their faces etched with panic as they cried out, "Fire! Fire!" The dull red glare that now smudged the southern sky hinted at a new and ominous threat, signaling that the night’s ordeal was far from finished.