A Different Kind of Woman (Mansfield Trilogy Book 3)

by Lona Manning

  “Have at their flags!” shouted one of the riders, waving his sabre around above his head. “Take their damned banners!”

  Suddenly, the cavalrymen moved on anyone near the platform who was carrying a banner. They hacked at the staves with their sabres, and slashed at anyone who resisted, or who could not get out of their way. An angry roar arose from the crowd.

  The line of constables began to waver, and then melt.

  As the crowd surged through and broke the constables’ cordon, the cavalry also found themselves surrounded with pushing, yelling, screaming spectators. Some of the horsemen turned away from the platform and pushed and trampled their way into the crowd.

  Cries of “for pity’s sake, give way!” “Give way!” arose as the people turned and began to push back against the crowd, anxious to get away.

  “Look to your children!” Mr. Gibson shouted. “Remove yourselves!”

  This advice, called out on all sides by Mr. Gibson and others, was easier to wish than accomplish. The field was packed with spectators and surrounded on three sides with buildings. Only several narrow streets offered an avenue of escape. Women cried, men exclaimed, as they attempted to move away. The jubilant mood, the feeling of triumph, was completely erased now, replaced now by fear and alarm.

  There were also scattered shouts of anger, particularly at the western side of the field where the special constables were tussling with the men trying to prevent Mr. Hunt being dragged away, his white hat dented from a blow from a cudgel.

  In the press, Charles was jostled almost off his feet. He looked about him. Constables were raising their cudgels, beating people back in all directions. He saw Jemmy bring his pole down hard on the hindquarters of the nearest horse. The horse reared, the cavalry man turned and slashed at Jemmy, who went down. The men around him screamed their defiance. Charles tried to judge where the crowd was thinnest, intending to clear out of there, for he had no intention of trying conclusions with a cudgel or a sabre. If he ran south or west, he would have to dodge the constables. If he went in the opposite direction, across the entire width of St. Peter’s field, he would be exposed to the cavalry.

  “Where are you going? Fun’s just beginning,” said Benjamin, and to Charles’ dismay, he shrugged his rucksack off his shoulders, opened it, and pulled out a large piece of paving-stone. Charles froze in disbelief as Benjamin took aim and flung his projectile at the nearest rider, a young man resplendent in white and blue. The stone hit the man squarely in the face—he fell off the back of his saddle and landed with a thud on the ground.

  A small gaggle of enraged men fell upon the fallen rider, kicking, stomping and striking him. A woman screamed. The horse, panicked and hemmed in on all sides, continued to kick and rear, injuring everyone in its path.

  Benjamin laughed. “Good shot, if I say so myself! Here, Charlie, now is your chance!” And he pulled out another piece of paving stone and handed it to the boy. “Pretend it’s your master, back in Northampton, and let him have it,” he said, pointing to another rider who was beating back the panicked spectators with the flat of his sabre.

  Charles’s fingers curled around the brick. He watched as the rider’s sabre came down, again and again, across the shoulders of men and even women who were pushing, clawing, struggling to get out of the way. A woman screamed as the edge of the sabre struck her shoulder, the blood bright against her white gown. He thought of Mr. Smith’s leather strap and how it felt coming down on his back. If Mr. Smith had been there, perhaps Charles would have flung the stone.

  “No-one will see you,” urged Benjamin, “in this multitude. Go on. I know you are man enough to do it. Give them what they deserve.”

  “Are you out of your senses?” shouted Charles. “Do you think you can defeat them with a few rocks?”

  “Give it back, then,” said Benjamin.

  Now, Charles only wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and his new companion. There was a narrow opening between the buildings, at the south-west corner of the field. Charles hoped it was a street and not a dead end. He stumbled and pushed and struggled toward it with hundreds of others, men calling for their wives, women clutching their children.

  Suddenly, a regiment of cavalry appeared before them, filling the narrow gap. They pulled up, formed a line, and charged directly at them, their swords drawn. The crowd turned as one and ran the other way, shouting in alarm. People fell and were trampled underfoot. An elbow hit Charles hard in the nose, and he saw stars. Blood gushed from his nose, but he kept pressing onward, this time to the north side of the field, with the soldiers behind him.

  * * * * * * *

  Sam, meanwhile, was pushing his way through a solid writhing mass of people to get to the barouche. The women of the Female Reform Society were all screaming, except for Annabel, who appeared to be shouting insults at the Yeomanry. He tried to reach her, when he heard a female voice crying in panic behind him. He turned back and saw Mrs. Fildes hanging off the edge of the platform, her skirt caught on a nail or some other projection, trying vainly to escape. Quickly he ran to her and then thought—how can I carry her with only one arm?

  The answer presented itself instantly. He caught her eye, then turned around, and offered her his back as though she were a child wanting a piggy-back ride. She wrapped her arms tightly round his neck, and he ripped her skirt away from the platform. He stumbled forward through crowd, carrying her to the barouche.

  “Let’s get out of here!” He shouted at Annabel.

  “Where?” Annabel shouted back. “How?” For there was such a press of panicked people surging all around them, such a solid mass of humanity, pushing and shoving in all directions, that flight appeared impossible. And no fewer than three of the Yeomanry were active around them, slashing indiscriminately with their sabres and pushing through the crowd with their horses.

  Sam turned to the rest of the women in the barouche. “Get out! Crawl under the carriage! Get under the carriage!” he shouted over the din. Mrs. Fildes slipped off his back and Sam sprang forward, pulling the nearest female out of the barouche and then shoving her underneath. He assisted the next, and the next, all the while the Yeoman cavalry were struggling closer.

  The last to grasp his hand was Annabel. By then, the barouche was rocking violently back and forth owing to the press of people surging all about them. Annabel lost her balance and fell backward into the well of the carriage. Sam jumped in to help her. They managed to get back on their feet, clinging tightly together.

  Still standing in the well of the barouche, they watched in horror as one of the riders brought his sabre down on a man who was defiantly holding his banner emblazoned with “Liberty or Death” —perhaps the rider meant to cut the banner down, but instead, the blade continued its arc and sliced the man’s nose off his face. The man let out a scream, and blood gushed down his face onto his shirt.

  “Murderers! You bastards!” screamed Annabel, and the same rider, his face contorted with rage, wheeled his horse about and bore down upon her, his bloody sabre held aloft.

  Sam stepped forward, shoved Annabel down into the well behind him, and raised his arm.

  St. Peter’s field, August 16, 1819, 1:45 pm

  When the Yeomanry began to push through the crowd, hacking and slashing, Fanny had at first been frozen in place by sheer horror, unable to credit what she was seeing. Then as the screaming crowd turned and broke in all directions, she could not move forward to join the exodus, for the mass of persons attempting to leave the field pushed and surged and pressed her and dozens of others back against the wall. No-one was trying to harm her, but everyone was trying to flee. She was caught against the brick wall, held there and buffeted by the people pressing by. She began to sink, people stepped on her skirt, elbows jabbed into her chest, she could scarcely breathe.

  “Fanny!”

  She heard his voice. It was Mr. Gibson.

  “Mr. Gibson! I am here!”

  Mr. Gibson tore his way through the crowd. “Fa
nny!”

  He reached her, just as she was in danger of being pushed underfoot. With all his strength, he clawed his way to her, pulled her up and held her against the wall, then shielded her with his body.

  Half-fainting, Fanny clung to him.

  “Fanny, I fear we will be crushed if we remain here. I am going to lift you over this wall—do you understand?”

  Fanny nodded, dimly wondering what might be on the other side of the wall, but looking around her, she could see other people climbing over one another, and clambering over the wall, to escape being crushed.

  “One, two, three—up!”

  Fanny felt herself flying up, and then she was straddled across the wall, and she obtained, for the first time, a complete view of the scene around her. She saw the flashing blades of the sabres in the hands of the yeomanry, coming down upon the heads and limbs of shrieking men, women and children, she saw an officer on horseback, his face contorted with horror, shouting, “Put up your swords! Put them up, damn you! Are you mad?”

  “Jump, Fanny!” She heard Mr. Gibson shout, and she rolled off the top of the wall and fell six feet onto a soft garden bed on the other side.

  She was breathless, and would have preferred to lie there, but the thought that someone else might come over the wall and land on her, caused her to scramble to her feet and lurch forward.

  She was in a walled garden, and there was an opening on the other side; some persons had already forced the gate open, and were fleeing through it; Fanny followed, then hesitated beside the gate. She did not wish to be lost in the fleeing throng before she found Mr. Gibson again.

  She recalled that Mr. Gibson had named the Quaker meeting house, but to get there, she would have to beat against the tide of fleeing humanity streaming down Peter Street, and that was impossible. The street was thronged with shouting, weeping, people, all hastening away, being followed, senselessly, by constables who were beating them with cudgels and shouting, “Disperse! Disperse! In the King’s name!”

  “Fanny, wait for me!” She heard Mr. Gibson behind her—he too had managed to climb over the wall. She turned and flung herself into his arms, shaking with fear, horror, and gratitude.

  “Thank you! Thank you for saving me!”

  Mr. Gibson looked at her carefully, taking in her dirtied and torn skirt, her mangled bonnet, and the bruise forming on her forehead. “Are you all right?” Without waiting for an answer, he swept her up in his arms.

  Fanny only wanted to hide her head in his chest, and close her eyes, until the entire scene around them dissolved away, and they were both safe. They were being buffeted by the fleeing crowds; she opened her eyes briefly and saw a man staggering past, with blood spurting from a great slash in his forehead. She closed her eyes again and shuddered.

  “I saw Charles, Fanny,” said Mr. Gibson. “I saw Charles. I told him to follow me. He was behind me, but we were separated. I’m sure he will come through all right.”

  Fanny nodded, her cheek against his shoulder.

  “Once I have you safely out of here, I will go back and look for him—and Sam.”

  Mr. Gibson pushed his way through the gate and they continued down Peter Street. Mr. Gibson thought the crowds, though still numerous, were beginning to thin and the tumult to subside, with every step he put between them and the field.

  Fanny began to weep softly and Mr. Gibson tightened his hold on her.

  “There, there, my love. It’s all right. You’re safe now.”

  They had reached St. Peter’s church but the steps were already covered with people, who clung to the columns lining the front of the building as though they would be swept away if they let go. Dozens more were pushing and hammering on the door to gain entrance, but because panic had seized them, they did not realise the doors opened outward, not inward.

  Mr. Gibson looked around. The nearby shops were all locked and shuttered.

  “I think we must keep going,” he said.

  “Mr. Gibson!”

  Mr. Gibson swung around to see Charles, almost swept off his feet, carried along with the hordes of people pushing and shoving to escape.

  “Charles! With us!”

  Charles managed to extricate himself from the tide of people, to join Mr. Gibson and Fanny. Fanny was exceedingly alarmed on his behalf for a moment, seeing blood all over his face and on his shirt, and he rather impatiently answered her anxious enquiries as they hurried along.

  Charles was extremely cast down at the inglorious end of his adventure. He was shocked at the attempts of his false friend Benjamin to use him, to enrol him in acts which were not only disagreeable, but could have sent him to prison or worse. He was overjoyed when he had seen Mr. Gibson in the crowd, surprised at learning Fanny had followed him to Manchester, and inexpressively relieved to be away from the melee, but now he felt like an escaped prisoner who had been recaptured.

  Miraculously, they had only to hurry on for a few more minutes to put sufficient distance between themselves and the tumult behind them. Mr. Gibson called a halt to their flight, to allow them to stop and take stock of themselves. He set Fanny down and ascertained that she had suffered no injury, apart from some bruises. Charles was limping, for his foot and leg had been trodden upon during his escape. Both men had lost their hats.

  Fanny was looking steadfastly at Mr. Gibson, still marvelling at the fact of his presence. “Mr. Gibson, you have saved my life.”

  A slow smile crossed Mr. Gibson’s face. “It was my pleasure.”

  Fanny removed her bonnet and attempted to arrange her tangled hair. She looked at her brother.

  “Charles, are you still bleeding?” said Fanny. “Do you have a handkerchief?”

  “What?” said Charles. “What the devil, Fanny—”

  “Let me see—yes—I do,” Mr. Gibson, and as he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, his notebook and pencil came out with it and fell to the ground.

  “Oh, Mr. Gibson!” said Fanny remorsefully. “You came here to report on this meeting, and instead—”

  “That does not matter now,” he answered.

  “Yes, it does!” Fanny exclaimed. “It does matter. You must write of this—you must tell what has happened here. The public must be informed.”

  “I will not leave you here, Fanny!” he exclaimed. “The soldiers are still roaming the streets, and we have no acquaintance in this city with which to seek shelter.”

  “Charles will stay with me,” said Fanny. “Charles and I shall go to the White Lion on the Stockport road.”

  Mr. Gibson looked at Charles and Charles nodded, but with some reluctance.

  Mr. Gibson gently caressed Fanny’s cheek, and saw the bruise swelling above her eye would turn purple soon.

  “Are you quite certain, Fanny?” asked Mr. Gibson.

  “Yes, I am, Mr. Gibson,” she replied firmly. “You have something you must do, and no-one can do it so well as you, and it would be wrong and selfish of me to restrain you.”

  Her eyes threatened to fill with tears, for she wondered if she would ever see him again. No doubt he would return to London immediately, to publish his report of the disaster.

  A thrill of hope arose when he next said, “Very well—the White Lion on the Stockport Road. Please, please wait for me there. I shall return so soon as I can, and I shall find Sam also. Charles,” he added. “Take care of your sister. Get her safely out of here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well then,” he said, gathering up his notebook. “I shall go back now.”

  Fanny smiled up at him, with a look full of confidence and pride, and he could not resist. Cupping her face in both his hands, he kissed her gently on her forehead.

  “Fanny,” he whispered. “Do you trust me?”

  “I do, absolutely.” she murmured.

  * * * * * * *

  Fanny and Charles had run here and there through the streets of Manchester, ducking into doorways and alleys to avoid the soldiers on horseback who were chasing the fleeing remnants of
the crowd. They observed some people shouting and smashing shop windows but most of the spectators from St. Peter’s field melted away, or sat quietly on the steps in front of some of the buildings, weeping, wordless, some of them badly injured. Fanny wanted to stop and comfort them but Charles pulled her along. “You can’t help them, Fanny,” he said. “We do not know where the infirmary is in this town, we’ve no bandages or water, there’s nothing we can do.”

  They reached the outskirts of town. The road to Stockport was filled with persons engulfed in misery, fear and anger, hurrying back to their homes, the same homes they had left that morning with such high hopes.

  Fanny was astonished that it was not even sunset when they reached the coaching inn. So much had happened since she arose twelve hours ago.

  At the inn, their dirty, bedraggled appearance proclaimed them to have been at St. Peter’s field, but Fanny’s genteel speech and manners convinced the inn-keeper’s wife that she must have been an innocent bystander caught up in the commotion.

  Fanny paid handsomely for the privilege of being able to wash up and drink a cup of tea. Her travelling dress was stained and torn but she was too exhausted to care. She and Charles sat together, barely speaking, utterly spent. Fanny observed that Charles’ hand shook as he picked up his tankard of ale. Now was not the time to scold him for running away, and Fanny’s thoughts were all with Mr. Gibson and Sam.

  Other stragglers brought word of fighting in the streets and soldiers everywhere. The inn-keeper’s wife was growing distracted with worry for her husband, who had gone with the Cheshire militia. Exhausted as Fanny was, the dreadful anticipation kept her watching and waiting in the common room as darkness fell.

  At last Mr. Gibson returned, looking weary and sad. He attempted, without success, to pull Charles aside for a private word, but his face bore his news and Fanny, completely alert, exclaimed: “What of Sam! For pity’s sake, Mr. Gibson, please tell me!”

  Mr. Gibson sighed and slowly took a seat beside her, and took her hand in his. “Fanny,” he said, speaking low. “I’m so sorry. I found him, near the platform. There was a girl with him, weeping and cradling his head in her lap. It was she who told me his name was Sam Price. They will take his body—I will look after—”