“Nothing important. They’re forming up. Shall we take our places?”
“I wish we had a sign,” she answered as we took up a position on the right flank.
“That would be nice, but we can be just as proud wearing only our sashes,” I answered, pushing the worry over Griffin from my mind. I wouldn’t be able to resolve anything on that front until I had proof either way, and the march was an important act, my first true protest. I was determined to enjoy every moment of it.
Horses, carriages, and motorcars moved out of our way when we marched as a group down the middle of the street. The usual taunting and slurs were tossed at us as we passed, but we ignored them. Several women were singing a new suffrage song, and although I did not know the lyrics, I kept a smile on my face as I hummed along with the others. In no time we were stopped in front of Parliament.
Unfortunately, so were the local police.
Several ranks of constables had formed a blockade across the front of Parliament. When the deputation of three women approached the constables, showing them the petitions and asking for admission, they were rudely pushed back and summarily refused.
“Oh, dear. This looks somewhat ominous,” I told Helena as we exchanged glances, our hearts sinking. “This many policemen…perhaps I was a little hasty in dismissing Griffin’s warning. These men looked as if they would have little mercy.”
“What warning?”
“You know Griffin, he’s always warning us away from protests.” It was a feeble explanation at best, but Helena was too distracted to examine it closely. We stood together, watching silently as the deputation continued to plead with the police. My thoughts were dark as a crowd began to gather.
“Surely they cannot arrest us for simply marching down the street?” I asked Helena. “We have committed no violent acts, nor performed any illegal act.”
Her face was pale as she watched the Union officers arguing with the constables. “I can’t see how they could arrest us. We are being peaceable and orderly.”
“Oh, no!” Suddenly a cheer went up from the gathering crowd. Their arms pinned behind them, the three members of the deputation were pushed through the crowd toward a row of police conveyances. Cries of concern and distress broke out in our group, and several members rushed forward to help. Without warning, Helena and I found ourselves pushed from behind up against the wall of constables.
Details about the brutal treatment we suffered that day at the hands of the police are common knowledge, but I am ashamed and sickened to say that I saw English policemen attacking English gentlewomen in a manner more suitable to common thugs. Although we used no violence, and were peaceable and open to reason, we were treated to savage and inhuman acts of violence.
A constable grabbed me as the pressure from behind flung me up against him. He wrenched my arms backwards, and hauled me toward the police vans. Helena struggled with another constable, and although I tried to tell her to not fight him, the shrieks and screams from the other women were too great to allow me to be heard.
To my great horror, we were placed in the police vans. I was rather proud to see the way some women fought, although I knew they were the ones who would suffer the most. Other women, such as Mrs. Heywood and the petition deputation, retained their natural dignity and allowed themselves to be led away without a struggle.
“Are you all right?” I asked as I crawled over a woman’s legs to get to where Helena had been thrown into my van. Her hair was tumbled down about her shoulders, her gown torn. She sobbed my name and scrambled over two other suffragettes to reach me. “Are you hurt? Did he do anything to harm you?”
“No,” she sobbed, her face streaked and dirty. “I’m fine. Are you well?”
I had the ridiculous urge to laugh at her question, but fought down both it and the hysteria that threatened to follow. “I’m not hurt either. I tried to tell you not to fight, but I don’t think you heard me.”
She shook her head, her frail body trembling violently against me as two more women were hurled into the van. The doors slammed shut and we were left in darkness, the only sounds audible were that of gentle sobbing.
“Cassandra, what are we going to do?” Helena asked me softly.
“I wish I knew,” I answered. “We’ll just have to see what we are charged with.”
We were driven to the local police station where our pitiful group was herded into a room. Helena held fast to me as we were escorted into the police station, then brought forward to be interviewed.
“Name?” A burly constable asked.
“Cassandra Whitney.”
“Address?”
I gave him Mabel’s address.
“Husband’s name?”
“I’m not married.”
The constable dismissed me without a second glance and turned his attention to Helena. I was herded off before she was interviewed, but was surprised by her unexpected inner strength. When she rejoined our group, she was not in tears as I had assumed she would be, and in fact, did her best to reassure me.
The police facility was overwhelmed with our numbers, and I later found out that many women had been sent to other districts. Our group of ten was sent to share a hideous room with six wooden cots, no blankets, and I suspect a great many vermin. After the noise of the march and subsequent arrest, the women in our cell were quiet—stunned, like myself, by the unexpected and unwarranted treatment. Most of the women had scratches and bruises but were not hurt seriously. A few shared a bed; others sat on the floor, the very pictures of dejection.
Two hours after the march began, Helena and I sat on a bed together, comforting one another as best we could. I had fully expected that she would become hysterical under such tortuous treatment, but once again she surprised me.
“Don’t worry, dearest Cassandra,” she said, attempting to comfort me. “Griffin will have us out in no time. I told that police constable who interviewed us who I was, and to contact Griffin for our release.”
The woman in the bed next to ours lifted her head. Helena gasped in surprise at her face, the bruised jaw and a small trickle of dried blood gave the appearance of a battle-weary warrior. I recognized the woman as Maureen Worrit, a particularly devoted suffragette who had been arrested a year ago for attacking a policeman.
“Release you?” Maureen’s voice pierced the room. “You can’t ask for release—it’s our duty to serve the sentence, for it is only through our martyrdom that we will achieve our goal. This is our chance to protest through deed, not through mere words! Imprisonment is a fact that cannot be disputed or wiped from the record!”
I will admit that my spirits dropped even lower at those words. We could not, in good faith, abandon our sisters now and expect to be welcomed back at our convenience. I slid a glance toward Helena, convinced she would never hold up under such a strain as prison would afford, and also worried about what my family would say. Mabel was due to arrive home the following day…how would she take the news that her sister had been sent to prison for participation in a suffrage march? My stomach lurched at the thought of it.
There was very little talking during the day and night that followed; when there was talk, it was mainly by the women who had first-hand knowledge of imprisonment.
“Your sisters before you have all committed themselves to a hunger strike. They have sworn a solemn oath that they will not eat until they are released from their unjust imprisonment.”
“I’ve heard a rumor that hunger strikers are horribly abused,” Helena whispered to me, her face as pale as ivory.
I heard the fear in her voice, and felt it echoed in my heart.
“The Union is fighting to have our sisters labeled as political prisoners rather than common criminals, but the government refuses to listen to reason,” Maureen added. “You see now why it is so important that we continue our protests whether jailed or free.”
The warders brought in the evening meal, a repulsive gray stew that we all refused. Even if I had not adopted the policy o
f a hunger strike, I would have never eaten such unhealthy food.
How Helena and I made it through that long night, I can’t honestly say. We cried, hugged each other for support, and slept very little. The other women were in similar situations, worried about their families and friends who would in turn be horrified at their imprisonment. Uppermost in our minds, however, was what would happen when we were brought before the magistrate.
Morning came at last, and we were taken, unwashed and bedraggled, before the Thames Police Court, where we were charged with the crime of assault upon a policeman. I stared around the court as suffragette after suffragette was brought before the bench, charged, interviewed briefly, then sentenced.
“Courage,” I whispered to Helena as she held my hand tightly. She squeezed my fingers in response.
When my turn before the magistrate came, I stood with dignity and pled not guilty, but was not allowed to make any statement or ask any questions. I received the standard fine of half a crown. Acting in accordance with my fellow suffrage workers, I refused to pay the fine, and was sentenced to three days in jail. The jailers took me away before I could see Helena brought up, but later she told me her experience had been similar.
Those of us who had not been arrested before were sent back to the foul cell from which we had emerged, while the other women—the ones who had been arrested before in the service of the cause—were sent on to prison for longer sentences.
“If you behave yourselves, I’ll let you keep your clothing,” the wardress told our motley group. Two of the women struggled and refused to comply with her demand we return to our cell—they were taken to separate cells where they were stripped of their dresses and left to sit in their chemises.
“We can be devoted to the cause and still maintain our dignity,” I told Helena when she looked at me with wild eyes as the two were dragged away screaming and kicking. “We will cooperate with the officials.”
And we did. The wardress allowed us to stay together in our cell, where we were later joined by two other women who were also scared, worried, and did not wish to precipitate any further trouble.
Our thoughts that day were understandably dark. Mine were particularly so, for I carried the additional burden of having involved an innocent girl in a situation with grave ramifications. Sick with worry as to what my family and Helena’s would go through when they learned we were imprisoned, I’m not ashamed to admit my fleeting doubts about involvement with the cause rose.
“It looks fine on paper,” I said quietly to Helena. “But when you find yourself sitting on a filthy wooden plank, sharing a chamber pot with three other women, with no hope of release for two more days, no food, and no water to wash yourself, your perspective changes.”
Helena was curled up at the bottom of my cot, trying to comb her disheveled hair with her fingers. She glanced at the other two women, but they appeared to be sleeping. “Do you think we should give up the cause?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, aware of the lines of strain around her mouth. I had the feeling Helena was maintaining a very tight control of herself, and only just keeping from indulging in a fit of hysterics. “I still believe in the right of women to vote, I still believe in the Women’s Suffrage Union, but this…well, I just cannot see how being dirty and miserable for three days is going to further the cause. The police and public won’t respect us any more for it, will they?”
“I think they might. If they knew how we were abused, that is. Perhaps we could interest a newspaper in our experiences?”
I shook my head, too tired, confused, and scared to try to reason it out.
By afternoon, I was also exceedingly hungry, and bored with my own dark thoughts. Helena and one of the other women were sleeping, and conversation with our remaining cellmate had proved disappointing. I was mentally writing a strongly worded letter to The Times about our treatment at the hands of the police when the wardress opened our cell.
“St. John and Whitney, you are to come with me to the Inspector’s office.”
Surprised and worried, we followed her through a maze of corridors to the Inspector’s room, Helena in front of me as the wardress stepped aside. She paused in the doorway briefly before flinging herself forward with a glad cry. My vision was blocked by the wardress who entered after her, but I assumed the cause of Helena’s joy to be her brother.
I wondered briefly how Griffin had affected our freedom, and toyed with the idea of refusing to leave before my time was served, but that thought vanished quickly. I had enough of imprisonment and looked forward to going home, even if it meant having to listen to Griffin’s lecture about the folly of ignoring his advice.
Relief flooded me as I peered around the wardress into the room. It was Griffin that Helena was holding so fiercely. I am ashamed to admit that, even in that horrible place, under such excruciating circumstances, I was filled with jealousy as I watched Helena cling to him. I knew just how strong his arms were, and how safe I felt in them. I envied Helena her protector.
“You there!” Blinking back a few tears, I turned toward the strident voice only to see Lady Sherringham being escorted down the hallway. “Who is that woman standing there? She looks familiar.”
I quickly spun around in the other direction and scurried in a most cowardly fashion to a chair a little way down the hall. I had little hope she didn’t recognize me, but at least I could keep out of her way. After a day of imprisonment with little sleep, and suffering the results of a horrible assault, I was in no shape to withstand Lady Sherringham’s venomous attack.
I put my head in my hands, and watched through my fingers as she entered the Inspector’s office, only to reemerge a few seconds later with a reluctant Helena in tow. Helena looked for me, offered a weak smile over her shoulder, and allowed herself to be walked briskly away.
I closed my fingers around my eyes with the thought of what she would have to endure from her sister-in-law, and wondered idly if she would not be better off in prison. My musings were brought to a quick end by the feeling of strong fingers on mine. I took my hands from my eyes and looked up, trying to gauge his mood.
“Hello, Griffin.” He stood like that for a moment, holding my hands in his, looking down at me from what seemed a very distant height. “We thought you might come. Helena was sure of it. I thought perhaps you might like to let us stew for a bit.”
He said nothing, just heaved a big sigh and pulled me to my feet and into his arms. I would like to say I pushed away from this unseemly position in such a public place, but instead I did the opposite. I buried my face into his collar, and clung to him tightly, kissing his neck and his jaw, turning my head until I found his mouth. His lips were gentle, almost tentative as if seeking reassurance. I slid my hands into his hair and opened my mouth to him, my heart beating wildly as he stroked my tongue, building the familiar fire of passion deep within me. His hands were gentle on me, touching my hair, my back, my face. I wanted to stay like that forever—loved, protected, wanted. Instead, he pulled away from me and, with an unreadable expression, marched me out of the building and into a cab.
I sat next to him in the confined space of the cab, his arm around me keeping me pressed firmly up against his side. I tried to think of something to say, but for once I was speechless. I peeked out of the corner of my eye at him. He looked straight ahead with no expression on his face.
As I watched, a muscle in his jaw twitched.
Not a good sign.
I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but he must have heard me inhale in preparation to speaking. His head snapped around. On his face was a look that I did not care to investigate.
I closed my mouth and looked out the window.
It was in this manner that we arrived at my sister’s house. I expected him to blow up at any moment, but in silence he handed me down.
I turned back to thank him, assuming he would get back into the cab, only to find him paying the cabby.
I felt that this, too, was not a good
sign.
Not looking at me, Griffin rang the bell. Mullin opened the door and stared at me in surprise. “Miss Cassandra! It is you! We were worried when you did not return home yesterday—” His words were abruptly cut short when Griffin pushed me past him.
“It’s all right, Mullin,” I said reassuringly, watching Griffin carefully. “It was just a little misunderstanding. Has Mrs. Garner arrived yet?”
“No, miss. There was a wire saying they had docked at Southampton this morning and would arrive this afternoon.”
Griffin pushed me into the library.
“That’s fine,” I said as he closed the doors behind him. “Thank you.”
This last was said to the door, Griffin not waiting until I finished speaking to close them.
Feeling like a guilty schoolchild, I watch with concern as he turned and faced me, his arms crossed over his chest, the expression on his face one of a man struggling to keep control. He continued to look at me, saying nothing. His eyes held mine in a gaze I was unable to break.
Nervously, I spoke. “I would like to thank you for having us released. I don’t know how you accomplished it, but I am sure it must have cost you dearly…”
I watched closely for any change in expression. I watched in vain.
“I offer you my humblest and most grateful thanks.”
He shifted his weight and continued to regard me silently. Only the tension in his jaw gave me a clue to his feelings. It was at that point that I began to babble. “I realize now that you had a valid point when you warned me against participation in this march.”
His amber eyes blazed at me. I decided he had been quiet long enough. “It is a point I shall certainly remember when I next attend such a protest.”
I won’t reproduce his response here except to say that he knew quite a few more oaths than my father’s coachman, who had been my previous source of information on that subject. I badly wanted to make note of a few of the more creative ones, but felt that would have to wait for a more auspicious time. “Ah,” I said once he had worn himself out. “I thought that would encourage you to speak.”
Suffragette in the City Page 15
