There was a long silence, during which Jem, Maggie, Anne Kellaway, and Maisie pushed out of the house so that they might see and hear what was happening. Anne Kellaway joined her husband, while the others crept to the end of the path.
Maggie and Jem were stunned by how big the crowd had grown, filling the street completely. There were torches and lanterns dotted about, and the street lamps had been lit, but still most of the faces were in shadow and looked unfamiliar and frightening, even though they were probably neighbors Jem and Maggie knew, and there out of curiosity rather than meaning to cause trouble. Nonetheless, there was a tension among the people that threatened to erupt into violence.
“Oh, Jem, what we going to do?” Maggie whispered.
“I dunno.”
“Is Mr. Blake in trouble?” Maisie asked.
“Yes.”
“Then we must help him.” She said it so firmly that Jem felt ashamed.
Maggie frowned. “C’mon,” she said finally, and, taking Jem’s hand, she opened Miss Pelham’s gate and slipped into the crowd. Maisie took his other hand, and the three snaked through the onlookers, pushing their way closer to Mr. Blake’s front gate. There they discovered a gap in those gathered. The men, women, and children on the street were simply watching, while on the other side of the Blakes’ fence a smaller group had bunched together in the front garden, all of them men, most recognizable from the Cumberland Gardens meeting. To Maggie’s astonishment, Charlie Butterfield was among them, though standing on the edge of the group, as if he were a hanger-on not yet completely accepted by the others. “That bastard! What’s he doing there?” Maggie muttered. “We have to distract ’em,” she whispered to Jem. She looked around. “I’ve an idea. This way!” She plunged into the crowd, pulling Jem after her.
“Maisie, go back to Ma and Pa,” Jem called. “You shouldn’t be out here.”
Maisie did not answer him; she may not even have heard him. She was watching Mr. Blake, who stood silent in his doorway, not answering any of the questions John Roberts was putting to him: “You are a printer, Mr. Blake. What sort of things do you print? Do you write about the French revolution, Mr. Blake? You have worn the bonnet rouge, have you not, Mr. Blake? Have you read Thomas Paine, Mr. Blake? Do you own copies of his works? Have you met him? In your writing, do you question the sovereignty of our King, Mr. Blake? Are you or aren’t you going to sign this declaration, Mr. Blake?”
Throughout this interrogation, Mr. Blake maintained an impassive expression, his eyes set on the horizon. Though he appeared to be listening, he did not seem to feel that he must answer, or indeed even that the questions were directed at him.
His silence riled John Roberts more than anything he said would have. “Are you going to answer, or are you going to hide your guilt behind silence?” he roared. “Or will we have to smoke it out of you?” With those words he threw the torch he’d been holding into Mr. Blake’s front garden. The dramatic gesture turned into a slightly less dramatic smolder as bits of dry grass and leaves caught alight and then died away into thin streams of smoke.
Thomas Kellaway’s eyes followed the smoke from next door as it unfurled above them into the evening sky. It decided him. He had seen what could happen to a family when its livelihood burnt to the ground. Whatever the different sides of the argument, no man had the right to set light to another’s property. That much he was clear about. He turned to the humpback man, who was still holding out the ledger. “I won’t sign anything,” he announced.
6
Maisie, still standing in the street just across the gap from the Association men, also looked above her into the sky, now darkened into an inky blue. It was the time of night when the first stars appeared. She found one burning bright directly above her. Then she began to recite:
I wander through each chartered street
Near where the chartered Thames does flow
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
Though she had spent much of the past two months in bed or sitting by the fire, her voice was strong, and carried through the crowd in the street, who stepped back from her so that she was now standing alone. Her voice carried to the group gathered at Mr. Blake’s door, among them Charlie Butterfield, who started when he saw who was speaking. It carried to her parents in the garden next door, and to Miss Pelham, quivering with nerves on her doorstep. It carried to Mr. Blake, who set his eyes on Maisie’s face like a benediction and gave a tiny nod, which encouraged her to take a deep breath and begin the second verse:
In every cry of every man
In every infant’s cry of fear
In every voice, in every ban
The mind-forged manacles I hear.
Now her voice carried to Jem and Maggie, who had detached themselves from the crowd and were squatting behind the hedge on the other side of the road from no. 13 Hercules Buildings. Maggie popped up to look. “Damn! What’s she doing?”
Jem joined her and peered at his sister. “God help her,” he muttered.
“What’s this? Quiet, girl! Someone stop her!” John Roberts shouted.
“Leave her be!” a man countered.
“Quick,” Maggie whispered. “We’d better do it now. Careful who you hit, and be ready to run.” She reached to the ground and fumbled about until she found a chunk of frozen horse dung—street sweepers often dumped their findings over the hedge there. She aimed carefully, then flung it hard so that it flew over the heads of the crowd, over Maisie, and landed in the group of men surrounding Mr. Blake.
“Ow!” one of them cried. A chuckle rose from the crowd watching.
Jem threw another clod, hitting one of the men in the back.
“Hey! Who’s doing that?”
Though they couldn’t see the men’s faces, they knew they’d had some effect, for there was a rippling out of the group as they turned away from Mr. Blake and peered into the dark. They threw more dung, and gnarled carrots, but these fell short, into the gap between the men and the street, while a bit of dung thrown too hard hit the Blakes’ window, though it didn’t break. “Careful!” Jem hissed.
Now Mr. Blake began to speak, taking over from Maisie in a sonorous voice that froze the men at his door:
How the chimney sweeper’s cry
Every blackening church appals
And the hapless soldier’s sigh
Runs in blood down palace walls.
But most through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot’s curse
Blasts the new-born infant’s tear
And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.
Maggie struck lucky, heaving a half-rotted cabbage that hit John Roberts in the head just as Mr. Blake finished the last line. Guffaws and shouts of “Huzzah!” arose from the crowd at the sight. John Roberts staggered from the blow, shouting, “Get them!”
A group detached itself from the Assocation men and began pushing through the crowd toward the hedge. Others, however, mistook where the missiles were coming from and attacked the crowd itself. Charlie Butterfield, for instance, grabbed one of the balls of frozen dung and threw it at a bald, heavyset man in the street, who roared joyously in response and crashed through the Blakes’ front fence, kicking it over as if it were made of straw. Choosing John Roberts as the most vocal and therefore likeliest foe, he promptly head-butted him. This was the signal to all those who had gathered in the hope of a free-for-all to begin throwing whatever they could find—their fists, if nothing else. Soon the Blakes’ windows were smashed, as well as those of their neighbors, John Astley and Miss Pelham, and men were shouting and tussling in the street.
In the midst of the mêlée Maisie stood, swaying from fear and dizziness. She sank to her knees just as Charlie Butterfield reached her. He put an arm around her and half-lifted, half-dragged her to the Blakes’ door, where Mr. Blake still stood watching the riot, which had at least moved out of his garden. Maisie smiled weakly. “Thank’ee, Charlie,” she m
urmured. Charlie nodded, embarrassed, then crept away, cursing himself for his weakness.
When Maggie saw the group of men approaching the hedge, she grabbed Jem’s arm. “Run!” she hissed. “Follow me!” She bolted across the black field behind them, stumbling over frozen clods and furrows, across old vegetable patches, thrashing through dead nettles and brambles, stubbing her toes on bricks, tripping over netting meant to keep out birds and rabbits. She could hear Jem panting behind her and, farther back, the shouts of the rioters. Maggie was laughing and crying at the same time. “We got ’em, didn’t we?” she whispered to Jem. “We got ’em.”
“Yes, but they mustn’t get us!” Jem had caught up with her and grabbed her hand to pull her forward.
They reached Carlisle House, the mansion at the edge of the field surrounded by an iron fence, and skirted it, coming out to the lane that passed in front of it and led to Royal Row, with its houses and the Canterbury Arms casting faint lights.
“Mustn’t go there—people will see us,” Maggie panted. She looked both ways, then scrambled over the hedge, cursing at the scratches and pricks from the hawthorn and bramble. She and Jem pitched across the road and dived over the opposite hedge. They could hear the huffs and shouts of the men following them, closer now, which spurred them on to run faster again through the new field, which was larger, and darker, with no Carlisle House to light the way—indeed, nothing but field all the way down to the warehouses by the river.
They slowed down now, trying not to crash about but instead to pick their way silently so that the men could not hear them. Above them, stars were pricking more and more holes in the blueblack sky. Jem breathed in the icy air and felt it draw like a knife across the back of his throat. If he weren’t so terrified of the mob behind them, he would have appreciated more the beauty of the sky at this time of the evening.
Maggie was in the lead again, but was going more and more slowly. When she stopped suddenly, Jem bumped into her. “What is’t? Where are we?”
Maggie swallowed, the click in her throat loud in the night air. “Near Cut-Throat Lane. I’m lookin’ for something.”
“What?”
She hesitated, then said in a low voice, “There’s an old kiln somewhere round here, what they use to make bricks. We could hide in it. I’ve—it’s a good hiding place. Here.” They bumped against a squat structure built with rough brick into a kind of waist-high rectangular box, crumbling at one end.
“C’mon—we can both squeeze in.” Maggie ducked down and crawled into the dark hole made by the bricks.
Jem squatted, but didn’t follow her. “What if they find us here? We’ll be cornered like a fox in a hole. If we stay out here at least we can run.”
“They’ll catch us if we run—they’re bigger and there are more of them.”
In the end the sound of the men crashing across the field decided Jem. He scuttled into the small, dark space left to him and pressed up next to Maggie. The hole smelled of clay and smoke, and of the faint vinegar of Maggie’s skin.
They huddled together in the cold, trying to calm their breathing. After a minute they grew quieter, their breathing naturally synchronized into an even rhythm.
“I hope Maisie be all right,” Jem said softly.
“Mr. Blake won’t let anything happen to her.”
“What do you think they’ll do to us if they catch us?”
“They won’t.”
They listened. In fact, the men sounded farther off, as if they had veered away and were heading toward Lambeth Palace.
Maggie giggled. “The cabbage.”
“Yes.” Jem smiled. “That were a good aim.”
“Thanks, Dorset boy.” Maggie pulled her shawl closer about her, pressing against Jem as she did so. He could feel her shivering.
“Here, get close so I can warm you.” He put his arm around her; as he pulled her to him she reached up and grasped his other shoulder so that they were encircling each other, and buried her face in his neck. Jem yelped. “Your nose be frozen!”
Maggie pulled her face back and laughed. As she looked up at him Jem caught the gleam of her teeth. Then their lips came together, and with that warm, soft touch all of the cold terror of the evening receded.
7
The kiss did not last as long as either wanted or expected, for suddenly a flaming torch was thrust toward them and a face loomed in from the darkness. Maggie screamed, but managed to cut it short so that it didn’t carry more than a few yards.
“Thought I’d find you two here, gettin’ cozy.” Charlie Butterfield squatted on his heels and contemplated them.
“Charlie, you scared the shit from me!” Maggie cried, at the same time pulling away from Jem.
Charlie noted every move they made—their closeness, their pulling apart, their shame. “Got yourself a hidey-hole, have you?”
“What you doin’ here, Charlie?”
“Lookin’ for you, little sister. As is everyone.”
“What were you doin’ with those men at Mr. Blake’s, anyway? You’re not interested in any o’ that. And why were you botherin’ Mr. Blake? He’s done nothing to you.” Maggie had recovered herself quickly and was working hard to gain the upper hand over her brother.
Charlie ignored her questions, and gave up no ground, returning to the subject he knew made her the most uncomfortable. “Come back here, have you, Miss Cut-Throat? Funny place to bring your sweetheart—back to the scene of the crime. But then, this did used to be called Lovers’ Lane, didn’t it? Before you went and changed it!”
Maggie flinched. “Shut your bone box!” she cried.
“What—d’you mean you haven’t told him, Miss Cut-Throat?” Charlie seemed to take great relish in repeating the nickname.
“Stop it, Charlie!” she shouted, heedless of the men hunting for them.
Jem felt her body shaking in the small space they shared. He said to Charlie, “Why don’t you—”
“Perhaps you should ask your girl what happened out here,” Charlie interrupted. “Go on, ask her.”
“Shut up, Charlie! Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Maggie was screaming by the last repetition. “I could kill you!”
Charlie smiled, the torchlight twisting his face. “I expect you could, dear sister. You already showed me your technique.”
“Shut up,” Jem said.
Charlie laughed. “Oh, now you’re startin’. I tell you what—I’ll leave it to them others to decide what to do with you.” He stood up and called out, “Whoo-wee—over here!”
Before he could think about what he was doing, Jem jumped up, grabbed a loose brick, and clapped it against the side of Charlie’s head. Charlie stared at him. Then the torch in his hand began to dip, and Jem grabbed it just before Charlie himself staggered. As he fell, his head knocked against the side of the kiln, ensuring that when he landed on the ground he did not get up.
Jem stood still, clutching the torch. He licked his lips, cleared his throat, and stamped his feet, hoping Charlie would move. All that moved, however, was a trickle of blood down his forehead. Jem dropped the brick, squatted next to him, and held the torch in his face, fear clutching at his stomach. After a moment he saw in the flickering torch light that Charlie’s chest was rising and falling slightly.
Jem turned around to Maggie. She was crouched in the shallow hole, arms wrapped around her knees, rocked with violent shudders. This time Jem did not get in next to her, but stood holding the torch and looking down at her. “What crime?” he said.
Maggie squeezed her knees tighter, trying to control the spasms that shook her. She kept her eyes fastened on the brick at her brother’s side. “D’you remember when we’d lost Maisie in London and were lookin’ for her, and you asked if I’d seen the man get killed on Cut-Throat Lane?”
Jem nodded.
“Well, you were right. I did. But it wasn’t just that.” Maggie took a deep breath. “It was a year and some ago. I was comin’ back from the river down by Lambeth Palace, where I’d been digg
in’ in the mud at low tide. Found me a funny little silver spoon. I was so excited I didn’t wait for the others I was with to finish. I just set off to find Pa so he could tell me what the spoon was worth. He knows that sort of thing. He was drinking at the Artichoke—you know, the pub on the Lower Marsh what I took you to when we met, where you met Pa and”—she jerked her head at Charlie lying prone—“him. It was foggy that day, but not so bad that you couldn’t see where you was goin’. I took the shortcut up Lovers’ Lane, ’cause it was quicker. I didn’t think anything of it—I’d gone along there lots o’ times. This time, though, I went round the bend, and round that bend there was a—a man. He was walking the same direction as me, but slowly, so slowly that I caught up with him. He wasn’t old or nothing—just a man. I didn’t think to hang back—I just wanted to get to the Artichoke and show Pa the spoon. So I passed by him, hardly looked at him. And he said, ‘What you runnin’ from?’ And I turned and he—he grabbed me, and put a knife to my throat.” Maggie swallowed, as if still feeling the cold metal pressed against the soft skin at the base of her neck.
“First he asked me what I had, and I gave him a penny—all the money I had on me. I didn’t want to give him the spoon, though, as I’d spent so long digging for it in the mud. So I kept it hidden. But he felt in my pockets and found it anyway. And I should have given it to him to begin with—I shouldn’t have hidden it, it was stupid of me, ’cause the hiding made him angry, and that made him—” Maggie paused and swallowed again. “So he dragged me—here.” She patted the crumbled walls of the kiln.
Charlie’s eyelids fluttered, and he moved a hand up to his head and groaned. Jem shifted the torch from one hand to the other, and picked up the brick. He was glad, in fact, for the excuse not to look at Maggie; relieved too that Charlie was not hurt worse. He did not think he would need to hit him again, but clutching the brick made him feel better.
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