A Different Kind of Woman (Mansfield Trilogy Book 3)

by Lona Manning

  “I see. I will collect him and fetch him to you,” Mr. Gibson said decisively, and he turned on his heel and went striding back into the crowd, before Fanny could even thank him or bid him goodbye. He was still in sight when he just as suddenly stopped, turned and came back to her. “Fanny—I was so taken aback, I forgot my manners. How are you?”

  “I am well, Mr. Gibson,” said Fanny, a smile breaking out across her face. “And how are you?”

  Her smile was returned. “Much better than I was a moment ago.”

  His voice, his eyes, the kindness with which he addressed her—what a blessed relief it was to Fanny, for she had imagined, all these years, that should such a meeting as this occur, Mr. Gibson would have frowned and turned away, out of resentment or indifference. But now, he was gazing at her with a heart-felt look of satisfaction and pleasure.

  “Well,” he said at last. “I had better go look for Charles. Stay here, Fanny. Pray, do not leave this spot. I do not expect any danger from this assembly, but I should rather you were exceedingly cautious.”

  She nodded. “I won’t. I mean—I will. I mean, I will be careful.” The two stood, looking at each other, for what to Fanny was a heavenly moment.

  At last, Mr. Gibson appeared to collect his thoughts, and turned again to leave.

  This time, he managed to struggle only a few feet away before he returned.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “Perhaps a better spot for us to rendezvous would be the Quaker meeting house.” He pointed to the north side of the square. “Over there, beyond those piles of lumber.”

  Fanny nodded. “Yes—I see it. I shall go there, then.”

  “Very well. I shall bring Charles there after I find him.”

  “Oh!” said Fanny, recollecting. “I believe my brother Sam is here as well.”

  “I have never met Sam. I do not know what he looks like.”

  “Sam has but one arm and is three-and-twenty. He is a handsome fellow—rather like William, but with darker hair. Sam and Charles will probably be found together, but I am not certain. And Charles—will you recognise Charles? He is no longer a little boy.”

  “I fancy I will, and I think he will remember me. I trust I am not so altered with the passage of the years.”

  “No, no, you are not,” said Fanny warmly.

  Mr. Gibson’s smile in return told her that she was still as lovely as he remembered.

  Fanny placed a hand upon his arm.

  “Thank you, Mr. Gibson. I cannot thank you enough.”

  “Be careful, Fanny. I shall look for you after I find your brothers.”

  Then he was gone for good, pushing his way forcefully through the crowd, most of whom gave way out of habit, for his clothing proclaimed him to be a gentleman, but a few of the younger men snarled at him, and one called out, “the day is coming for folk like you.”

  Fanny watched him until he was out of her sight. He was gone—had he even been there? The entire encounter had been brief, but Fanny’s pounding heart was longer in subsiding, and she revolved the brief exchange again and again in her mind—his tone of voice, the expression of his countenance. How readily he had offered his assistance! He might have refused, pleading the necessity of reserving all his attention for chronicling the scene, for surely he was there in his capacity as a writer. The one thing she had most feared, most dreaded, had not come to pass. She was forgiven! A thrill of pleasure stole over her—a joy which had nothing to do with the prospect of finding her brothers. He would seek her out again. They would meet and speak again.

  Mr. Gibson was also absorbed in contemplating the amazing and unlooked-for occurrence. Fanny was there—she had greeted him—she had smiled, she needed his help. He sensed no coolness, no resentment on her part, for his having rashly got himself imprisoned on the eve of their intended wedding. He was forgiven. Could he also hope, that she still cared for him?

  His original object in coming to the meeting was forgotten. He no longer was asking himself: ‘which of these men harbour intentions of revolution?’ He was asking only, ‘which of these men has only one arm?’

  Manchester, August 16, 1819, 1:30 pm.

  It was almost one-thirty when at last the great man took his seat in the barouche. Mrs. Fildes, the president of the Female Reformers, received the seat of honour next to him. They rode into the throng. The carriage was pulled not by horses, but by some of his admirers. Whereas on the west side of the platform, the people had muttered and jostled at the double line of constables in their midst, in contrast, everyone on the east side parted joyfully to let Mr. Hunt through. He was followed by the white-garbed women, marching in step, and last of all came Sam.

  A small band of drummers and trumpeters played a ragged version of See, the Conqu’ring Hero Comes. Mr. Hunt raised himself out of his seat, pulled off his hat and waved it in all directions. The ovation which greeted him shook the very heavens and echoed off the buildings around the field, and Sam and Annabel both gasped when they took in the extent and size of the gathering.

  The procession reached the hustings, upon which a dozen men were already waiting. The platform was merely two carts lashed together with some planking on top. The human barricade of men which surrounded the platform opened to admit Mr. Hunt, Mr. Saxton and Mrs. Fildes. Sam ran forward to help Mrs. Fildes with her banner, but other hands reached her first, and lifted her safely up to the platform.

  Once on the platform, which was only slightly higher than a man’s height, Mr. Hunt looked around him and frowned.

  “By heaven, this has been a poorly managed business! Scarcely room enough to stand! And you have placed the hustings so that I must speak into the wind!” Turning round, he added, “Get these drums and horns off the stage! I must have some room! Unless I previously informed you that you were to address this assembly, get off— get out— all of you!”

  “What about we reporters, Mr. Hunt?” asked a man with a notebook.

  “You may stay. But the rest of you—begone!”

  Everyone leaped to obey the great man.

  Mr. Hunt strode back and forth on the newly-cleared platform, as though doubtful whether it would not collapse, and then cleared his throat a few times in preparation for the heroic effort he must soon make. The people who were lucky enough to secure places near the platform began to say ‘hush, hush’ to each other, in anticipation. “Don’t call for silence,” Mr. Hunt shouted at them brusquely. “It never helps, and you just make more noise.”

  Annabel was still chattering, quietly but happily, to Sam. Sam heard Mr. Hunt exclaim: “Where are the women? Why are you hiding the women?”

  “We are not hiding them, Mr. Hunt,” Mr. Saxton protested. “The men are here to form a barrier around the platform to preserve a space for the women.”

  “Well, obviously no-one will be able to see the women if men are standing in front of them!” Mr. Hunt roared. “Tell the women to climb into the barouche, so that they may be seen! At once! And where is that one-armed man?” He looked around impatiently.

  “Here, sir,” called Sam.

  “Good. Stay close, stay near the ladder, so that you may climb up when I call upon you, do you hear?” Sam nodded, then he helped Annabel and the other ladies take their seats in the carriage. Annabel, in high glee, climbed on to the driver’s box and motioned Sam to climb up beside her. He shook his head. “I should wait by the platform. But I will help you get safely home after all this is over, Miss Wheeler.”

  During all of these preliminaries, the murmurs of the crowd, rolling across the field in waves, grew fainter, like an ebb tide.

  “Very well, very well,” said Mr. Hunt, swinging his arms and moving his shoulders as though preparing himself for a wrestling match. “All right, then, Mr. Johnson, you may introduce me. Be brief, sir, for pity’s sake, please be brief.”

  Sam decided to step up on the first few rungs of the ladder, so that he might peer across the platform and obtain a view of the entire field. The sight was breath-taking. Thousands and tho
usands of people were collected together, all in good order. So many people assembled to ask for their rights. It would be impossible for the authorities to ignore them, or to dismiss them as a common rabble. They had marched into the field with dignity, proudly carrying their banners. He could see the expressions of pride, the excitement, the anticipation on the faces of those nearest to him. He glanced over at Annabel, sitting on her perch. She was radiant with happiness, drinking in the scene and the moment just as he was. Surely this was the beginning of a new day in England.

  Farther away, Fanny watched as the man holding the white hat stepped forward on the platform. He spoke, but she could not distinguish his words.

  “My good friends!” Mr. Hunt brayed, “I must entreat that you will be peaceable and quiet! Every person who wishes to hear, must keep order! We will endeavour to make ourselves heard by you!”

  Charles and Benjamin were better placed to hear the great man as he warmed to his task, but Benjamin was not even looking at Mr. Hunt; he was glaring at the special constables, and refused to look away.

  “I congratulate you all!” bellowed Mr. Hunt. “Our meeting, which was to have taken place one week ago, and was adjudged to be illegal—” Hunt flapped his hat in a dismissive fashion at the house where the magistrates could be seen— “by the same men who are watching us today! Those men expected to have triumphed over us when they suppressed our meeting last week. But see for yourselves what they have wrought—see what has come to pass—we stand here today, with two-fold the numbers!”

  Loud cheers and laughter engulfed his words, and some moments passed before he could resume: “My good friends, you are all aware that a placard, which no one could read or understand, has been posted up in all parts of the town, advising all the citizens to be wary—”

  Of all this, Fanny could still hear nothing, although she could hear the cheering and see the excited faces on the people straining and pushing forward. She could not have cared less about Mr. Hunt—her thoughts now were all for Mr. Gibson, her reflections were directed inward, rather than upon the interesting scene before her.

  Simply the sight of Mr. Gibson, the exchange of a dozen words, had awakened the conviction in her heart that she could not give her hand to her cousin Edmund, no matter how much she esteemed him. She had rather be single for the rest of her days than be married to one, while owning her preference for another. She could not imagine what expressions, what blushes, what starts and smiles, were passing in succession across her countenance. Luckily for Fanny, the attention of the cheering multitude around her was all fixed on the distant figure of Mr. Hunt, orating to the utmost extent of his lung power at the other end of the field.

  After a few moments of restless agitation, of struggling with a happiness, a relief so full that she wanted to cry, Fanny recollected herself and resolved to cross over to the Quaker meeting house, as Mr. Gibson had suggested. She would see him again there—and soon. He had promised her.

  She stepped down from the curb and timidly, with muttered apologies, pushed her way through the crowd to arrive at the corner of the street. She had just reached Peter Street when she heard the sound of horses’ hooves. Around the corner, almost crashing into her, came a uniformed man on a horse. She jumped back out of the way, just in time. Another rider rounded the corner at a canter, and Fanny saw with horror that a woman holding a baby in her arms stood directly in his path.

  “Watch out!” cried Fanny, and she dashed forward and pushed the woman violently out of the way, falling herself as she did so, expecting every instant to feel the animal’s hooves on her back or her legs.

  By a miracle, the horse passed over her without crushing her into the ground.

  “Are you all right?” Fanny cried to the woman, who had also fallen. The baby had been knocked out of her arms, and it lay in the dust, crying. The mother sprang up and snatched the child, clutching it to her chest. Unknown hands pulled Fanny to her feet, and hurried her out of the street, just as more horsemen arrived, all wearing blue and white uniforms. The riders trotted along the west side of the field, and assembled in front of Mr. Buxton’s house, their horses wheeling and fidgeting.

  Unnerved by her near brush with death, Fanny retreated back to her old position, and pressed up against the brick wall, so at least nothing could come at her from behind. She shook the dust off her skirts, and wished she had some water to drink.

  The horsemen, with their tall feathers in their shako caps, could be seen from everywhere in the field. The feeling of the gathering changed, as though a dark cloud had obscured a sunny day.

  Mr. Hunt was yelling something but his voice scarcely reached Charles and Benjamin, who were halfway between the platform and Mr. Buxton’s house with the men from Oldham.

  “What’s happening?” Charles asked Benjamin. “First constables, now soldiers—what is happening?”

  “Soldiers!” scoffed Jemmy in reply. “Those aren’t soldiers. T’is only the Yeomanry. Local merchants and farmers. Stupid boobies. Men playing at dress-up.”

  Charles had grown up in Portsmouth during a time of war. He had seen many men in uniform, and had seen them in all states of readiness and discipline as well. He pointed to one of the riders, swaying in his saddle. “Look at that ‘un,” he laughed. “I do believe he had some Dutch courage. And that one—that’s the fattest cavalryman I have ever seen.”

  Further away, Mr. Gibson looked from the Yeomanry to the hustings and back again. Mr. Hunt had paused in his speech and was talking to the other men on the platform.

  “There’s Tommy Holmes,” Mr. Gibson heard a woman mutter. “Old man Holmes’s son. The wicked old bastard cut our pay and now sends his son to threaten us.”

  Mr. Hunt waved his hat to regain the attention of the throng and raised his voice again. “This is a mere trick to interrupt our proceedings, good people. Stand firm! Be not alarmed! Stand firm! We are many, they are few. You see they are in disorder already. Let us greet them with three cheers!”

  He led the salute, and whether it was intended in a spirit of respect or mockery, Mr. Gibson could not say, but the cheer was returned by the Yeomanry, some of whom pulled out their sabres and waved them about.

  The third cheer faded away, succeeded by an uneasy silence. Fanny watched anxiously. From her vantage point, she could form no distinct idea of what was occurring, but the gathering, which had been so cheerful, even triumphant, now appeared agitated. The crowd moved and flowed like a field of wheat in a heavy wind.

  Annabel had a better view from her box seat. The special constables, who until now had maintained a narrow corridor of space with their double line, began pushing back against the crowd on either side, widening the open space between them.

  Annabel and the women in the barouche exclaimed in dismay and some stood up, the better to see what was happening. The working men in the crowd tried to push back against the constables, to push the two lines back together.

  “Do not oppose them!” Mr. Hunt called over the growing clamour. “Do not oppose them!”

  Charles heard Mr. Hunt shouting but could not make out what he was saying. “What was that?” he asked Benjamin. “What did he say?”

  But Benjamin and his new friends were engaged in staring down the constables and resisting the order to step back.

  A broadly-built, muscular man entered the open space made by the constables and walked quickly toward the platform. Jemmy groaned. “It’s Nadin! Nadin! He’s coming to take Mr. Hunt!” He brandished his stave like a spear, shaking it angrily. “Here’s for you, Nadin, you bastard!”

  “Allow them to pass!” Mr. Hunt bellowed from the platform, “They are the representatives of the law!” But few heard him over the jeers and insults of the crowd. Hunt pointed to Benjamin and the angry men from Oldham who were pushing violently against the constables. “If those fellows there will not keep the peace, you must put them down and keep them down!”

  A bugle sounded. Mr. Gibson turned toward the sound. He saw the men of the Yeomanr
y collect their reins in one hand, and pull out their sabres with the other.

  “Oh good lord, no,” he murmured.

  St. Peter’s Field, Manchester, August 16, 1819, 1:40 pm

  The Yeomanry advanced quickly through the wavering corridor created by the constables, and overtook Nadin and his assistants.

  “I will surrender myself to the magistrates!” Mr. Hunt called. “I will not be taken by the soldiers! I will surrender to the civil power, and the civil power alone!”

  More men ran to join the solid wall of men formed up in front of the hustings, facing the advancing cavalry. They pushed and struggled so hard that the carts beneath the platform lurched. Mr. Hunt and Mrs. Fildes grabbed at each other to prevent themselves from falling.

  Charles watched in horror as Benjamin came up behind one of the constables and, just before a horse rode past, shoved him hard with his shoulder. The constable sprawled forward and was trampled under the hooves of the horse. The rider kept going. The constable shuddered in the dust, face down, then lay still.

  “What are you doing?!” Charles exclaimed in horror.

  “Don’t we have a right to defend ourselves?” Benjamin demanded fiercely. “Don’t just stand there, lad. What did you come here for, if not to strike a blow for liberty?”

  Meanwhile, the Yeoman cavalry slashed and hacked at the men protecting the hustings, who ducked and fled to avoid the slashing blades. At last, Mr. Nadin reached the ladder. He glared at Sam, who stepped away, obeying Mr. Hunt’s shouted commands. “Do not oppose them! Do not oppose them!”

  Nadin pulled his bulky frame up the ladder and seized Mr. Hunt. Another man clambered up after him and reached for the banner carried by Mrs. Fildes—she resisted and struggled with him, the pole swung back and knocked her on the forehead. She staggered. He laughed. “Well done, woman, you are quite an Amazon!” With a vicious wrench, he grasped it from her hands and she turned to escape him, jumping off the platform. The man waved his captured banner in triumph and some of the Yeomanry cheered.