Dear God, no, he prayed quickly, and for the moment could find no respite from his fears. The best he could do now was to live with the anxiety and make certain inevitable preparations.
To this end, he turned back into the room, where standing by the door he saw a very pale Elizabeth, her face mirroring all his apprehensions.
"Please, sit," he invited, motioning to the chair opposite the desk.
As she obliged, he heard her say quietly, "So, it's to be today."
"Yes," he confirmed. "Is John at work?" he asked abruptly, drawing comfort from the thought of his son at his studies.
She nodded, and held his glance a moment. Then she seemed to straighten in her chair as though to move away from a dangerous line of thought. "What did you want to see me about?" she asked quietly.
He looked at her and saw the worried look on her face and abruptly changed his approach. He smiled broadly. "I only wanted to remind you of the celebration tonight," he said. "We'll be coming back here, many of us. I just wanted to be sure that there's food for all."
"All will be ready," she promised. "Cook has been working for days. You should see the pantry."
There was a pause. She looked questioningly up at him. "And that's all?"
"What else?"
She stood then in a lighter mood. "Then I must tend to a hundred others matters," she said and started toward the door.
He almost let her go, but at the last moment stopped her. "Elizabeth-"
Hurriedly he went to the desk and lifted a heavy envelope. "This is for you," he said. "Put it in a safe place among your things and there's no need even to look at it unless—"
He'd explained nothing of the letter's contents. "In the event," he began, choosing his words carefully, "that the celebration has been ill-
planned, I must ask one last favor of you, that you take my son back to Eden Point. Will you do that for me?"
She was eyeing the envelope now. "There's money there," he said, "more than enough for both of you, and instructions to my brother that you too be allowed to stay in the castle, if you wish."
Quickly she shook her head. "I don't belong there," she murmured. "But I'll see to John," she promised.
"Then it's settled," he concluded, coming around from behind the desk. "Here," he said, placing the envelope in her hands at last. There was nothing more to stay for, though still she waited. He wanted nothing more in the world than to erase that look of gloom from her face.
To that end, he took her by the shoulders, then enclosed her in his arms and felt the envelope being crushed between them. He'd intended to hold her only a moment. But as he relaxed his arms, he was aware of her hand moving around his neck in a reciprocal embrace.
With his eyes closed, he rested his cheek atop her head and wondered, which was the greater force? Those half a million men gathering on Kennington Common, ready to remake the world, or that one small hand, offering comfort?
Shortly after they had left the house on Oxford Street, they began to see an increase in government troops. A strangely subdued Feargus O'Conner commented on them. "They want blood shed," he muttered.
"I think not," Edward said, looking out at the same scene. He saw soldiers everywhere to be sure, but they were relaxed-appearing, chatting on street corners, camping in parks with the same men they shortly would be facing on Kennington Common.
As they made their way through the city toward the river, Edward noticed an increase in traffic. From the carriage window he could see officers hurriedly drinking tea and eating breakfast, other soldiers munching biscuits, stamping their feet rhythmically while they gathered about the fires, warming themselves in the chill morning.
The officers and adjutants in command got on their horses and gave final orders to the men who remained behind and the monotonous thud of thousands of feet began. Edward saw the columns moving through the smoke and fog, an awesome sight, as though it were the government's intention to match every demonstrator with a soldier.
They were passing Westminster Bridge now. Kennington was not too far. Along the pavement outside the window, he saw the crowds increasing, the workers for whom this massive demonstration had been
planned. Interspersed among them he saw uniforms, special constables who had been pressed into service, and many spectators.
"We've gathered quite an audience," Edward commented to O'Conner, slumped in the seaL
O'Conner pulled himself upright and gazed timidly through his window, his face flushed as he surveyed the chaotic scene on all sides. "If they are with us, they are welcomed," he muttered.
Then suddenly Edward heard O'Conner shout a triumphant "Look!" and leaning out the window, Edward followed the direction of his hand and glanced ahead toward the Common, and saw, not the Common, but a sea of men which seemed to grow larger even as he was watching it, perhaps not half a million men, but enough to fill the large area, with many more spilling over onto the pavements and up the embankments, men closing in around the carriage now.
Edward heard a single cry, "It's him! It's O'Conner," and the refrain was taken up by thousands of other voices which in turn relayed the message into the heart of the crowd, and all at once Edward saw a remarkable change come over the man, as though at last he'd found the narcotic which sustained him and gave him strength.
Leaving the carriage, O'Conner strode, head erect, toward the center of the mob and the flat-bed wagon waiting at the heart of the Common. As Edward emerged from the carriage, he saw a battalion of police standing at the edge of the gathering, merely watching, their passivity in peculiar contrast to the wildly shouting men. A Commissioner on horseback detached himself from the battalion and rode slowly a few yards into the crowd.
Edward thought, one man advancing. Hardly a threat. Then he hurried after O'Conner, who was moving down a small path where the men had parted to give him easy passage. Edward saw many of the men reach out to touch O'Conner and, still grasping the petition, the tall man returned their greetings. Truly he was a man fully restored.
A few moments later he'd managed to make his way to the flat-bed wagon and with one easy leap, his black cloak flying, he scaled the small height and stood erect, well above the crowds, and extended his arms as though to embrace them all.
As the roar increased, Edward made his way to the wagon and would have been content with his unobtrusive position except, at that moment, O'Conner looked down and shouted, "Come, Eden, you belong up here as well." As two strong aides grasped him by the arms, Edward felt himself lifted into the air and deposited alongside O'Conner, who suddenly raised one side of his great cloak, draped it about Edward's shoulders, and drew him close.
The gesture, clearly one of affection, was not lost on the crowds. As their voices rose again in a thunderous shout, Edward felt ill at ease, fairly certain that not one man in that mob knew precisely why they were shouting their approval of him.
When the applause and cries showed no signs of diminishing, he looked up to see a misty-eyed Feargus O'Connor, with great circumflex eyebrows, again lift his arms, though he leaned close to Edward with a whisper, "For Daniel," he murmured.
Edward nodded, though in truth he could not see Daniel enjoying this position of exhibition any more than he was. The urgency in Daniel's soul had not been for theatricals such as this, but rather in the steady, quiet, and frequently discouraging assault on human misery.
Engrossed in this special moment, Edward was only vaguely aware of the black cloak leaving his shoulders. Now as he brought himself back to the uproar and the confusion, he saw O'Conner again, standing on the edge of the wagon, his arms raised in the air, clearly signaling for order and quiet.
And when at last the quiet suited him, he slowly lowered his arms and lifted his head and shouted at top voice in an echoing tone which seemed to resound about the quietly waiting men:
"My friends, we have gathered here today to rechart the course of English history!"
As his voice rose, the men once again lifted their fists and fille
d the air with a roar of approval.
Then O'Conner was speaking again. "The condition of England," he went on. "That is our concern today, an England blessed witH unabated bounty, thickly covered with workshops, with industrial implements, with millions of workers conceded to be the strongest, the most capable that the Earth has ever known."
This was greeted by a softer scattering of applause, not that the men disagreed, but rather that they had never thought of themselves in positive terms. Now lifting his eyes, Edward saw, just coming down Kennington Street, a regiment of quickly advancing cavalry. Peculiar, he thought, that all those horses could move silently. Of course they were still a distance away.
If O'Conner saw them he gave no indication of it, clearly caught up in his own rhetoric and the rarified mood of the occasion. "They tell us it is impossible to change the course of history. They say that it was always thus, competent men these are, too, who say these things. The Poor Law, they say, must be observed. Commercial stagnation must be expected."
As O'Conner launched forth into a heated diatribe against the Poor
Law, Edward saw a second regiment of infantry, a thousand soldiers was his guess, dividing themselves into columns as the cavalry had done, half filing in one direction, half in the other, again encircling and taking up positions directly behind their companions on horseback.
As Edward watched, his disquiet increased. Surely they would not march on peacefully assembled men. God, with what ease Kennington Common could be converted into a blood bath.
Again he looked out over the men and, behind them, the troops, the darker blue uniform of the cordon of special constables, silently flanking the Chief Commissioner of Police, who sat astride his horse only a short distance away. Their plan was clear. Let the constables handle it first. If they failed, there were the troops.
Still he heard O'Conner speaking and was grateful. As long as there were words, there would be no call for action, though, as Edward heard now, those words were patently incendiary. "And now in the presence of you all," O'Conner cried, "I call the leaders of this country barbarians."
Although he was pushing his voice to its maximum capacity it showed no signs of breaking. "No blacker gulf of wretchedness," he was crying now, "has ever been created by a government for its people. Why have we been denied those enchantments, produced by the successful industry of England? Has it made us rich?"
In answer to the direct question came a single explosive thunderous "No!"
"Indefensible," he shouted, his arms outstretched. "To whom, then, is this wealth of England truly wealth? Not to us, the men who produce it."
It was clear that the questions were hitting their mark. The workers seemed to be pressing closer to the wagon.
"But we'll not stop here," O'Conner promised them now. "Here are our demands for a portion of that wealth which is justifiably ours." And so saying, he thrust the petition up into the air. "Here it is," he shouted again, "the new map of England where all men function and flower in equality, in a spirit of justice and brotherhood. Let it be said that on the tenth of April, 1848, Englishmen reached out and reshaped their futures and created a new world for themselves, for their sons, and for all mankind."
Then it was over. For a few moments, that vast crowd of men stood motionless, as though stunned by the vision of such a dazzling Utopia. Then it came, a low roar at first, like incoming tide, perhaps a hundred voices in the beginning, then joined by others and still others until at last the sounds of the cheers struck the wagon like an inundating wave.
The men belonged to O'Conner. He could do with them what he pleased, although, at the moment, Edward observed that O'Conner seemed disinclined to do anything with them at all. Rather he stood at the edge of the wagon like a spent saviour, his head bowed, his arms hanging limp at his side, allowing the waves of adoration to roll over him.
Directly ahead of the wagon now, by about fifty yards, Edward saw the Chief Commissioner of Police slowly advancing, one man alone, urging his horse carefully through the crowds.
Still he drew nearer, a rather elderly man, though he sat excessively erect on his handsome sable horse.
Yet closer he came, his eyes fixed on Feargus O'Conner, a mildness in his eyes. The man was less than ten feet now from the edge of the wagon, his face perfectly calm as he pulled up on his horse.
The men in the front ranks of the crowd pushed slowly back as though sensing a confrontation. The shouts and cries were diminishing. O'Conner seemed exhausted, yet alert, his eyes fixed rigidly on the Commissioner.
"Mr. O'Conner," the man said now, in a soft voice. "My compliments," and here incredibly he extended his hand upward across the edge of the wagon and it merely hung there for a moment, unclasped, as all eyes focused on O'Conner, who seemed completely baffled by the cordial gesture.
Around the perimeter of the crowd, Edward saw the troops still waiting. And still the hand was waiting, the morning growing colder and darker. It occurred to Edward that it must be noon or beyond, but it was almost a night sky forming above them, the heavy gray clouds beginning to pitch and roll, already dropping moisture.
At that instant the Commissioner looked up as though to confirm the unpleasantness of nature. "An unfortunate turn," he pronounced, looking truly grieved. Then heartily he insisted, "Come, man, let me take your hand. Never have I heard a more rousing speech. I predict it will be quoted for years to come."
Then at last O'Conner moved. Unfortunately he had to stoop from the height of the wagon to the lower level of the man on horseback. But stoop he did, as slowly, he clasped the still waiting hand. "I thank you, sir," Edward heard him say. Then incredibly he asked in a childlike manner, "Do you really think it will be quoted?"
"I'm certain of it," the Police Commissioner smiled. "I'll do the quoting myself, I will. Needs to be said, every last word of it."
The words of encouragement seemed to fall like healing balm on O'Conner's ears. He shook the man's hand with increasing gratitude,
although at that moment he too was clearly aware of the increasing rain, many of the men pulling hoods and hats over their heads and seeming to press closer for shelter.
At last the Police Commissioner withdrew his hand and pulled the visor of his cap down over his head, his manner still sympathetic. "A bad turn," he cursed, raising his head directly into the rain. "Rotten luck, really." Then he looked at O'Conner as though a brilliant idea had just occurred to him. "TTza/ must be kept dry," he warned, pointing to the petition in O'Conner's hand. "Let me summon, for your convenience, several taxis. If you walk the distance from here to Westminster, the petition, as well as yourself and your men, will be drenched. A sodden committee is not a very effective one."
Edward listened closely, unable to believe his ears. The increasing rain seemed to be effortlessly quenching the revolutionary spirit.
"Come," the Commissioner coaxed. "Three taxis. I can summon them within the moment." He held out a hand as though to test the falling moisture. "It's a chill rain, and I'm afraid it's set in for the day." There was a clever combination of concern and compassion on his old face, as though he knew very well what he was doing.
But most incredible of all was O'Conner, who in turn glanced up at the spilling heavens, who looked around at his rapidly scattering men, and who at last gave the Commissioner a pleasant nod and murmured, "I'd be most grateful, for the taxis, I mean."
And with what remarkable and miraculous speed did those three conveyances appear, three black rain-soaked carriages, drawn by three black horses, all making their way through the dwindling crowd as everyone was running hurriedly for the nearest shelter.
"This way," the Commissioner shouted, leading the carriages in a circular pattern to the edge of the wagon. Within the instant the brave aides who'd taken shelter beneath the wagon scrambled out and pushed into the waiting taxis. O'Conner himself continued to stand for a moment in the now driving rain, on his face an expression of bewilderment, as though he knew that at some point he'd lost contro
l, but was totally unable to say when or how.
He looked over his shoulder at Edward. "Eden?" he inquired. "Are you coming?"
But Edward, who had carefully charted the entire spectacle and who still couldn't believe what he had seen, did well to shake his head. He had no desire to approach Parliament in the back of a cab, and less desire to continue to associate himself with the twitching, befuddled Feargus O'Conner.
"You go on," he said quietly. "Don't keep the Commissioner waiting."
As he heard his name mentioned, the Police Commissioner looked toward Edward and lifted his hand to the visor of his hat in a small salute. "There's room for all," he shouted cordially. "No need catching an unnecessary chill."
But again Edward declined. He had conjured up many conclusions to this day. But in his wildest imagination, he had never thought of this one.
Standing alone on the wagon, Edward watched as Feargus O'Conner bent low and climbed into the lead carriage. The Police Commissioner himself, like a dutiful steward, closed the door after the "dangerous revolutionary," and with a wave of his hand and a faint smile on his old face, he gave the driver orders to proceed, at the last minute taking the lead himself in the spirit of an honor guard. As the procession passed by the waiting constables, Edward saw the Commissioner slowly shake his head, as though to inform his men that, with the help of nature, England's revolutionary fires had successfully been extinguished.
At that moment, in the distance, Edward heard sounds of the regiments disbanding. The orders came rapidly along the whole drawn-out line of columns. The calvary took the lead in columns of fours, the infantry falling in behind. In a remarkably short time, they had disappeared behind a sheet of solidly falling rain, leaving not a trace.
Less than half an hour after the conclusion of O'Conner's rousing speech, Edward found himself standing alone on the wagon, in a drenching rain, looking out over deserted Kennington Common, which only moments before had contained the efforts of four years and the revoluntionary hope of all of England.
The prince of Eden Page 59
