by Don Jacobson
The cooler air outside of the stifling coach hit Collins’ face with blessed relief. He stepped between the bodywork and the wall, all the while sliding toward St. Peters’ Field. As he reached the rear of the vehicle, he suddenly stopped in his tracks. There, not one hundred feet from where he stood, was that bitch Mary Bennet!
She was talking with two men—one he did not know, but the other was Lady Catherine’s esteemed nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Surely, he was part of her mission to save England! He was out of uniform, so he must be working undercover. But why was the Bennet woman there with a stranger? And standing so close to the Colonel?
She must be part of the radical plot to destroy the established order. She always read too much and favored revolutionaries like Rousseau and Wollstonecraft. And she changed after those weddings. Became high and mighty, always wanting to speak out against what she called injustice when it was simply people being made aware that they needed to stay in their places.
The Fitzwilliams and de Bourghs are assuredly taking matters seriously if they are personally seeing to things. I must find a way to keep Mary Bennet from thwarting the plan. She is a sly one. Always being demure and quiet. Then she strikes. She uses magic to ensorcell men. She is a witch and must be stopped before she acts.
He turned and set the box on the boot platform. Rifling through his valise, he found the old pistol he had secreted away. That would put paid to Mary Bennet! He began to move toward her through the milling crowd.
The coach pulled slowly away heading away from the field, leaving Collins behind.
A disturbance on the far side of the field attracted everybody’s attention. Murmurs flashed through the crowd. It is Hunt! Hunt is here!
Richard pulled his pocket watch. Nearly one o-clock! Out of the corner of his eye, he spied a uniformed rider heading onto Bedford Street. Some sort of messenger, his military mind reasoned. While everybody was focused on Hunt’s carriage making its way through the crowd, the General’s trained eye was looking for anything that might suggest trouble.
He found it. Actually, he sighted two problems.
One—someone who looked strangely familiar was skulking toward the Lambton group. Two—he saw the head of a cavalry column turn onto Bedford Street and start to advance on the crowd. The second immediately washed away any attention to the first.
Fitzwilliam immediately turned back to Mary and Edward and ordered in his best parade ground voice, “Gather everybody together and bunch up. We may not be able to form a true infantry square, but we’ll do what we can. Women on the inside. Women will kneel—except you, Mrs. Benton, and you, Mrs. Wickham. We’ll have to make do with our four men outside on the cardinal points.
“Mrs. Wickham—you take one side of the banner. Mrs. Benton, you go to the other side of the group and grab the other pole. Hold the banner so it stretches over our heads. Maybe those idiots in the Yeomanry will see us as too big an obstacle to go through.”
The Lambton women scrambled at the sound of his voice and obeyed his commands. The rest of the crowd looking toward Hunt, though, did nothing.
As the cavalry streamed off Portland onto Bedford and thence into St. Peter’s Field, the men drove their horses into a canter heading toward a point on the edge of the crowd about twenty yards away from where Richard stood. Richard could hear the snorting as the beasts were driven harder. The flared nostrils and whites around the animals’ eyes told the old campaigner that the hussars were digging their rowels deeply into equine flesh. Only moments separated the lead animals from the backs of the unsuspecting audience.
Lady Catherine’s coach slowed as it met the horsemen on Portland Street. She banged her stick on the roof and ordered a halt. Eventually the cavalry flowed away, leaving the chaise alone on the thoroughfare.
She reached into her reticule and pulled out a man’s pocket watch. It had been her husband’s.
Now there was a true British aristocrat. He possessed great property but paid no attention to it except to milk it for income to support his gaming, drinking, and whoring. And like all good gentlemen, he ignored his wife except to service me enough to ensure an heir. Luckily for me, Rosings was not entailed away from the female line, so after birthing Anne, I never had to “enjoy” Sir Lewis de Bourgh again.
She clicked it open. Four minutes gone…just one more.
By this time, Collins must be deep in the crowd. The bomb will do maximum destruction and outrage the country. The government will have to find scapegoats. And, I have just the two for you. Westminster will not be able to hang them quickly enough, praying that the nation will calm itself once the culprits swing. And, there will be no evidence of any plot beyond Collins, Fitzwilliam, and Benton.
She smiled with satisfaction, recalling that revenge is a dish best served cold.
Collins lurked in the masses about twenty feet from Mary. The Colonel’s actions confused him. He seemed to oversee the group that included the Bennet woman, Wickham’s wife, and the others. The line of cavalry was aimed toward the heart of the crowd, but not directly at the Colonel’s coterie.
Good enough. Nobody will see me until it is too late. I will do her and that will free up the Colonel to get the rest of the radicals.
He made sure his pistol was cocked. Holding it down by his leg, he advanced slowly on Mary. When he was but five feet away he raised the weapon. Understanding that his hand was not the steadiest after his years in Bedlam, he pointed the weapon at her torso knowing that the damage caused by a body wound from a half-inch lead ball fired at close range would be mortal.
He pulled the trigger. The flint sparked. The charge ignited. The pistol discharged with a cloud of greasy black smoke.
Collins saw Mary drop to the ground as if slapped by a giant hand.
Richard’s head jerked around at the sound of the pistol’s report. His trained ear realized that the shot had been a squib—probably old wet powder. Wherever it was aimed, the target stood a better chance of survival because the force of the bullet would be minimized. Then he saw the Lambton banner collapse on Mary’s side.
Edward started when he heard the shot. Standing just a few feet behind Mary, he watched her bend sideways at an impossible angle as her feet left the ground and her hands released the banner’s upright. She spun down like a child’s toy top, falling in a pile at his feet. He dropped to his knees falling across her prostrate form, his heart in his throat.
Mary never saw Collins. She felt a massive blow to her right side, so powerful she thought she would be torn in half. Then she heard a dull boom at the edge of her senses. All her breath left her as the force of the impact squeezed her lungs. Her sight tunneled down to grayness. For one moment she felt like she was flying: the next, St. Peter’s Field rushed up to meet her face.
Collins exulted as he saw his quarry on the ground before him, her gown ripped by the bullet and the crimson staining her white sash quickly seeping onto the ground. He felt a curious wet stickiness in his crotch as his loins released. He had never felt so satisfied, so alive! Every fiber in his being screamed out for more—more! He started to dance and threw his arms over his head.
The lance corporal at the head of the cavalry heard the gunshot, saw the smoke to his left and observed a largish round man waving his arms over his head. In one hand, he held a pistol. The corporal hauled his mount’s head hard over and lowered his lance. His charge pulled several of the following horse in his wake, all of them streaking toward the little group with a green silk banner draped atop it.
30…29…28…27…26…Lady Catherine counted off the seconds of the last minute.
Her excitement began to increase as the final moments approached. How wonderful would be her victory. She could attend the trials that would be fueled by her forged evidence. She would not deign to weep or look concerned over the fate of traitors. The whole natio
n would mourn the loss of her family’s name with Fitzwilliam’s conviction, but they would also salute her loyalty to the Government. Why, I might even testify against them! With Richard out of the way, I would be guardian for Anne’s babe—and I could then follow the same path I did with Anne.
20…19…18…17…Her “Collins’ Problem” would soon be ended. One part of her mind wondered just how many would die when the bomb exploded. With the way the mob was packed in that square, it could be dozens. She pushed that thought to the side as these people were of no consequence to her.
As often had been the case with Lady Catherine’s estimations about her earlier schemes, the people who would die today would be of some consequence to her—at least one of them. And there would only be two deaths by explosives this day.
13…12…11…10…9…
She heard a gun bang nearby. Immediately a huge force slammed into her back accompanied by a horrible ripping agony. She felt squeezed like a grape.
Her last thought before oblivion took her was delivered at light speed and it noted that the watch like its former owner was too slow.
The musket balls that turned Lady Catherine and the coachman into red ribbons also shredded the leather portfolio. The remains of the driver were blown onto a third-floor balcony about thirty yards down Portland Street. His flayed body left a red smear where it hit high on the wall before dropping to the flags on the terrace below. What little that was left of the former Mistress of Rosings and her forged documents were incinerated in the blaze that consumed the shattered remnants of the carriage.
The roar of the explosion stirred the crowd on St. Peter’s Field. Turning toward the sound, they observed a huge cloud rising from Lady Catherine’s funeral pyre on Portland Street. They also saw the troop of horsemen advancing on them. Collins froze with his arms over his head. Richard spread his arms protectively onto the women kneeling behind him as he saw the lance corporal flying toward a point just off to the right. Edward clasped a bleeding but still breathing Mary to his chest. Time seemed to freeze. Then…
The Captain of the hussars screamed for the charge. The hussars pulled their sabers and slashed into the crowd.
The lance corporal added explosion and gun, made his threat assessment, and completed his turn toward Collins. In the process, his charger’s right flank slammed into Richard and threw him to the ground.
The finely-honed lance tip caught Collins just under his breastbone. His mouth, previously formed in an O of jubilation, geysered a fountain of frothy blood. The point’s razored edges sliced clear through his body, severing his spine. His lights went out, dropping his toad like consciousness into a darkness that faded away. Vernichtung.[lxxiv]
The remaining riders following the corporal executed the unexpected turning maneuver with varying degrees of success. Most missed the small knot of Lambton women. One horse skidded to a stop, his front hooves barely avoiding Richard. However, the rider was thrown from his saddle. He landed right on top of Mary and Edward. Edward pushed him away and cradled Mary in his arms.
She drew in a deep, racking breath, tears flowing from her eyes as intense pain shot through her. A coppery taste invaded her mouth as she tried to speak.
“Edward…love you. Love Bridget, Rory…tell them…Oh-Oh…be the Keeper…Sweet Jesus…the pain…carry me home.” Her head lolled to the side, and her husband could do no more than hold her as she fainted in the middle of the Peterloo Massacre.
The trooper’s fellows, convinced that he would be ripped to shreds by the revolutionary forces of the Lambton shop girls, started to circle the little bunch looking for an opening. They were unable to reach low enough with their sabers to skewer any targets lying on the ground. However, they continued to menace the Derbyshire folk.
Richard moaned on the ground. He was stunned, unable to make sense of where he was. Or when he was. It sounded and felt like Mont St. Jean. But that was over four years back and many of the screams would have been in French as well as English. Now it was just English—curses, cries for mercy, yelps of pain. Out of the corner of his eye he could discern something, no, someone, wrapped in green and screaming like a banshee.
With the explosion, something inside Lydia gave way. The snap of gunfire, the screams of the injured and frightened, the splatter of offal hitting the ground, and the smell of shit as bowels relaxed in death echoed in her head. For her, this was the Falaise Pocket[lxxv] all over again, playing over and over in her memory like one of Kitty’s records. Her insides churned, and bile rose in her gorge. These were her friends…her loves…her people being threatened.
She yanked her end of the banner tearing the other away from Mary’s pole. Then standing astride Richard’s body she began swinging standard and staff in a wide swath. Decades later, those who had seen her at Peterloo would agree that she looked remarkably like Monsieur Delacroix’s painting Liberty Leading the People.[lxxvi] She poked her silk-draped pikestaff at the circling horsemen, screaming like a berserker in her battle frenzy.
Most of the syllables were unintelligible growls and screams. But at times Richard’s ear could hear her cry out in crystal clear sentences.
“Lass ihn in Ruhe , ihr Bastarde.”[lxxvii]
“Watch out , Hans , sie kommen wieder für einen anderen Pass!.”[lxxviii]
« Je suis ici Hans, tenir le coup."[lxxix]
Richard grabbed her ankle. He began to haul himself up just as one of the horsemen raised his saber, glinting in the early afternoon sun. As it reached the top of its arc and began to descend, Fitzwilliam could see that it was to be his death stroke.
Until Lydia thrust her staff above his head. The sword hit the post and skidded down, delivering its entire force onto Lydia’s left forearm.
Her blood blinded Richard, but he had been on enough battlefields to immediately pull her to the ground and clamp his hand over the gushing wound. The horsemen rode away looking for fresher and more interesting targets.
The sounds of battle receded, but two sisters lay motionless on the turf of Peterloo.
Chapter XLV
Kympton Parsonage, August 27, 1819
She clawed her way toward the light, toward Edward’s voice, resonating through the clouds keeping them apart.
1O God, thou art my God; early will I seek thee: my soul thirsteth for thee, my flesh longeth for thee in a dry and thirsty land, where no water is;
2 To see thy power and thy glory, so as I have seen thee in the sanctuary.
3 Because thy loving kindness is better than life, my lips shall praise thee.
4 Thus will I bless thee while I live: I will lift up my hands in thy name.[lxxx]
Slowly her eyes opened, and their room came into focus. She lay on her left side. Her back and chest hurt so mightily that she gasped in shock as she tried to breathe. The sound halted Edward who leapt from his chair and hovered over her face. His brown eyes searched hers. His hand cradled her cheek.
“Mary, oh my darling. Are you back? Are you awake?” he quizzed.
She tried to speak, but all she could offer was a few croaks, her mouth was so dry.
Edward sat by her head and, after lifting her gently, held a tumbler to her lips so she could sip some water. Its coolness soothed her parched throat. She ran her tongue around her cracked lips. Edward’s face was worn from lack of sleep. He clearly had not shaved in several days. His normally pristine collar was limp and wrinkled. She reached up and ran her fingers along his bristly cheek.
“Hmmm…Parson Benton…seems like you let yourself go when left to your own devices,” she hoarsely whispered, “How long has it been?”
Edward visibly relaxed and smiled at her teasing. “Dearest, you have come through quite a trial. You have been senseless for over a week. We despaired of your recovery after a wicked fever set in two days after we got you home. For three days and nights you stood at a crossroads. Darcy had his men digging in the deepest corners of the icehouse to find chunks and bits to cool you.
; “I thank God that you decided to turn back to us. Your fever broke early yesterday. Dr. Campbell actually smiled when he stopped by this morning.”
Mary settled deeper into the nest of pillows supporting her arms and head. She dug into her memory, trying to recall anything of her time of trial. So little rose to the surface. Just an awareness that there were reasons she did not go with Papa when he beckoned to her. I have more to do before I rest.
“Edward, I heard you praying. Your voice rang through the clouds and storms that beset my dreams. I also remember Lizzy and Jane talking to me. Were they reading? —I cannot tell you what—but their voices were soothing. Did the children visit, too?”
“Of course, although they could not understand why their Mama was always sleeping.” He rummaged around under the bedside table and pulled up a very worn stuffed dog as well as a sheaf of papers covered with childish drawings. “Rory wanted to be sure that Robbie was here to protect you and Bridgie spent hours sitting on the chair by the fireplace drawing for you.”
Mary gripped the plush toy and smiled at the artwork as Edward leafed through the folio. So much of the world had turned while she fought the demons. She asked about how he had been managing.
Edward leaned back and stretched his arms and back. “Oh, I have not been your only nurse here at the Kympton Parsonage Infirmary. You have been the center of attention not just here, but also at Pemberley, Thornhill, and Lambton. Everybody has been in and out of this room for eight days. You had all of us very worried.
“Dr. Campbell finally had to send Marty Smithvale over to Thornhill where Jane could keep an eye on her. She never left Lydia’s side, ate like a sparrow, and even refused sleep for the first few days,” Edward reported.