Taking some solace in her glad smile, he made his farewells and left the dining room.
“Miss Watson, wake up! ’Tis time to march!” The urgency in Bettie’s voice roused Prudence from uneasy slumber. Like the other worsted mill laborers who had walked to Manchester from Otley, she had slept the remainder of the night on a rough wool blanket. And she had rested poorly—roused often by carousers bent on making the rally an opportunity to drink too much, by groups of men bursting into song, by babies crying, by her own troubled heart.
“Drink this,” Bettie ordered, handing Prudence a mug of hot water sprinkled with a few tea leaves. “Mr. Walker says the rain is just over the hill and coming at us quickly. We must roll up our blankets and hurry to St. Peter’s Fields.”
With a sigh of despair, Prudence sat up and took a sip of the weak brew. Frowning at its bitter taste, she set the mug aside and began tucking wayward curls into her muslin mobcap. During the night, a pale gray mist had rolled across the moors, blanketing the gathered crowd in a cool and murky cloak. As she stood, the first droplets began to fall.
“At least I may take some hope that this rain will put an end to the march,” Prudence told Bettie as she rolled her blanket. “How long did I talk at the meeting yesterday? It felt like hours—and all for naught.”
“Take no worry about it, Miss Watson,” Bettie said. “No one wanted to listen to warnings of disaster while setting out on a journey of hope.”
Prudence shook her head. From the moment she had arrived back in Otley two days before, she had done her best to discourage people from joining the march to Manchester. Though the worsted mill workers had seemed pleased at her return, she soon realized they would not heed her admonitions.
She had warned them that the authorities in Manchester would never permit the moving assembly of such a great crowd. The journey from Manchester to London was long, she reminded the mill workers, and they could not carry enough food and water to sustain them. The cold and damp would likely cause sickness, she pointed out more than once. People already weakened by hunger and exhaustion might even perish during such a difficult expedition. But all her cautions fell on deaf ears.
Bettie felt that she must join the marchers to avoid the shame of failing to support her friends, and Walker would not let her go without his protection. Prudence decided she had no choice but to go too and continue in her effort to turn back the surging tide of dissenters.
“No one along the way will welcome us,” she muttered. “Certainly we shall be neither fed nor sheltered. Why would people risk supporting a mob marching to London with petitions for the king?”
A deep voice entered the conversation. “It is not the lack of encouragement and help that worries me.” Walker joined the women in rolling blankets. He had slept at some distance from them, but now he helped gather up the few supplies they had brought. “I fear some might join the march who are not reformers. Among us there may already be men bent on evil.”
“I hold John Johnson, John Bagguley, and Samuel Drummond to blame in this,” Prudence said, naming the three men who had rallied the opposition to the Gag Acts and organized the Manchester march. “I fear they have led us like lambs to the slaughter.”
The planners had urged protesters to carry wool or cotton blankets with them on the journey—as a symbol of their craft as well as a means of keeping warm. Whispered from man to woman to child, the journey had quickly come to be known as the March of the Blanketeers.
“I wonder now if the mill owners may have anticipated this undertaking,” Walker was saying. “Perhaps they hired false supporters to bring the marchers and their cause into disgrace.”
“What mischief could they do that has not been done already?” Prudence asked. “The mills are abandoned, the fields are trampled, the roadways are spread with vagabonds, and soon the town of Manchester will swarm with people bent on a reckless quest.”
“If scoundrels planted in the crowd begin to plunder cottages and farms along the road, the punishment and disgrace will fall on all of us.”
Prudence clutched her blanket to her empty stomach as she joined the others on the muddy track. “If immorality and wickedness ensue, it will hardly matter who is at fault, for we shall all be denounced as robbers and miscreants. I should not be the least surprised if an armed force comes to cut us down or take us prisoner. Oh, what can I say to stop this nightmare? I am beyond despair.”
“You should go back, Miss Watson,” Bettie told her gently. “Go back to Otley and take refuge at the great manor house. Neither you nor Mr. Sherbourne can stop the march now, but he would welcome you into his home and put you back to your rightful place.”
“What is my rightful place, Bettie? I am the one who caused this folly. I have no choice but to walk alongside these people and keep trying to dissuade them from their foolhardy crusade.”
“No offense, Miss Watson,” the small woman offered, “but your place is with them that God saw fit to make well-off and easy. Leave us be. We’ll take our grievances to the king, and if any good comes of it, we’ll rejoice. If not, we can only pray that Mr. Sherbourne will hire us back at his mill. Let that be your mission, madam, if you must have one. Soften his heart to us.”
“That task would be ten times more difficult than stopping this march.” Prudence paused, reflecting on the past before bringing herself to speak again. “Mr. Sherbourne, I have learned, has no heart.”
At that, all in the group fell silent. Slogging through the mud, Prudence heard only the sound of shoes sucking and sloshing. Rain that had begun as a mist and then a dribble soon fell in sheets. Prudence draped her blanket over her shoulders for protection, but the wool quickly grew so heavy with water that she could barely put one foot in front of the other.
“We approach Manchester,” Walker said at length, pointing to the left of the roadway at a steepled building and the outlined roofs of a small town. “There is the church. You can see houses along Windmill Street and Peter Street. St. Peter’s Fields lie just beyond.”
“Dear God, help us,” Prudence prayed aloud as she witnessed the mass of people coming from every direction to gather in the open meadow. The rain had eased, and the size of the multitude stunned her. “How many can there be?”
“Five thousand at least,” Walker muttered. “Perhaps closer to ten. The men reported to me last night that Johnson has told the weavers if the leaders can get them as far as Birmingham, all their aims will be accomplished. By then, Johnson said, the crowd will be grown to a hundred thousand, and it will be impossible for anyone to resist them.”
“Blanketeers!” someone cried out from a distance. “Begin the March of the Blanketeers!”
“Hail the Blanketeers!” Another voice took up the cry. Soon the chant swelled across the field. “The March of the Blanketeers! The March of the Blanketeers! Begin the March of the Blanketeers!”
“Look,” Bettie said. “They’ve set up a platform near that horse chestnut tree. Who is talking?”
“’Tis Samuel Drummond,” an elderly, gap-toothed man told Walker’s group as they pressed closer in an attempt to hear the discourse over the patter of rain. “Drummond says we’re to behave with decorum. Whatever that is!”
“Decorum means respectability,” Prudence informed him. “Good manners. Mr. Drummond is urging us to be polite.”
His attention riveted to the speaker on the dais, the man paid her little heed. But in a moment, he turned to address Walker. “Johnson was arrested yesterday. Did ye know?”
Walker shook his head. “What became of him?”
“Tossed into gaol.”
“Are the other leaders here?”
“John Bagguley stands just there beneath the tree. Afore Drummond spoke, Bagguley warned that if any of us causes trouble, he’ll be handed over to the magistrates.”
“Exactly as it should be,” Prudence tried again. “Indeed, the best thing would be for everyone to go home and put this nonsense out of—”
A cry cut short he
r words as uniformed men on horseback rode through the crowd, dismounted, and swarmed onto the platform. At once Prudence recognized their uniform of red coats, white trousers, and plumed black helmets.
“It is the King’s Dragoon Guards!” she told the others.
Within moments the dragoons had apprehended Drummond and Bagguley. With the crowd shouting and hissing at them, the soldiers seized the most aggressive among the throng and dragged them away.
Amid the chaos, a magistrate in a wig and black robe mounted the stage and opened a large book. Protected by armed dragoons, he began to read.
“‘The Riot Act,’” he called out. “‘An act for preventing tumults and riotous assemblies, and for the more speedy and effectual punishing the rioters.’”
“What’s he talking about?” the gap-toothed man asked Prudence. “I don’t take no meaning from it.”
But the magistrate continued: “‘Our sovereign Lord the King chargeth and commandeth all persons, being assembled, immediately to disperse themselves, and peaceably to depart to their habitations, or to their lawful business, upon the pains contained in the act made in the first year of King George, for preventing tumults and riotous assemblies. God save the King!’”
Prudence strained to hear through the grumbling of the crowd and the drumming of rain. “‘Unlawfully, riotously, and tumultuously assembled together . . . ,’” the magistrate cried out. “Offenders therein shall be adjudged felons . . . shall suffer death . . . without benefit of clergy.’”
“He is reading the Riot Act,” Prudence told the others. “Any group of more than twelve people unlawfully assembled is to disperse or face punitive action.”
“Disperse?” Bettie asked. “What is that?”
“Twelve?” the other man said. “We’ve got more than that here, don’t we?”
Prudence shook her head in frustration. “Indeed there are many more than twelve. I assure you—”
Her words were drowned as another cry arose. “Begin the march! Blanketeers—march!”
At that, the crowd heaved and swelled, moving like molten honey across the field in the direction of Lancashire Hill and the town of Stockport. Swept along with the mass, Prudence saw Bettie stumble and go down. As Prudence screamed for Walker, she realized she had lost sight of him.
While she struggled to keep her own footing in the thick mud, the dragoons waded into the marchers with sabres drawn and muskets at the ready. Shrieks of terror rose. A bolt of lightning flashed across the gray sky. Thunder boomed over the moors, echoing and drowning the cries of mayhem in the crowd.
Pushed along, Prudence searched for a way through the panicked throng. Behind her, a shot rang out. Another sounded nearby. The scent of black powder drifted in the air. Horses whinnied and sabres hissed. People began to run—as much to begin the march as to escape the dragoons. Gasping for air, Prudence could do nothing but move forward with the surge.
Now the rain rushed down in chilly cascades. A woman running near Prudence slipped in the mud and tumbled onto the road. Prudence reached for the woman but missed the open hand as the crowd pushed her onward.
Forever, it seemed, she ran. Up Lancashire Hill and down again toward Stockport. Now the clot of people loosened and began to break apart. But a scream from the rear sent them into a mad dash once again.
“Dragoons! Dragoons! Run for your lives!”
Prudence picked up the pace again. Looking over her shoulder, she saw a white horse bearing down. The soldier’s eyes fastened on her. His saber cut through the rain as he dismounted. A hand grasped her shoulder, an arm hooked around her waist. She cried out as he dragged her across the muddy road and out onto the wet bracken.
Brushing rain from her eyes, she struggled to stand. But a dark cloak fell across her face, blocking the light. Screaming for help, she fought and scratched the dragoon as he bundled the cloak around her head. Then he rolled her into the cloak so tightly that her arms could no longer move. She felt herself heaved into the air and tossed across something so hard it crushed every last breath from her lungs.
Stars sparkled before her eyes. Pain in her stomach made her gag. The object across which she lay began to move, rocking her and jarring her spine. A horse! Her senses reeled with the smell of damp woolen blanket and polished leather saddle.
Choking out a sob, she laid her cheek against the horse’s flank. Trying to pray, she fought the fears of what might lie ahead. “Offenders therein shall be adjudged felons . . . ,” the Riot Act declared, “shall suffer death.” Her future might hold nothing more than a dark prison cell, a trial before a magistrate, or worse.
Even now, her peril was great, for the dragoon had her in custody. She could do little to protect herself against him.
Forcing herself to think of other things—Sarah and Mary, tea at Delacroix House, Miss Pickworth’s silly alliterations in The Tattler—Prudence was unprepared when the horse suddenly halted. A rough hand grasped the cloak that covered her head and gave a yank.
She looked up into the face of the man who had captured her. It was the face of William Sherbourne.
Sixteen
“William?” Prudence gasped. “But what are you doing here?”
“I might ask the same.” Though boiling with anger at the woman’s trickery and deception, William was shocked at her appearance. Prudence’s face had gone pasty white. Her hair was a sodden tangle, her boots and skirt up to the knees in mud.
Still unwilling to show even the smallest spark of tenderness, William lifted her down from the horse and set her upright. Taking Prudence by the arm, he propelled her through the door of an inn he had noted on his mad dash through the small town.
Though Prudence trailed a long muddy path across the wood floor, William pressed her onward toward the brick fireplace. Coming at last to an empty table, he pulled out a chair and deposited her into it.
“Do not move,” he enunciated firmly. “If you are not here on my return, I shall send the commander of the King’s Dragoons to hunt you down, arrest you, and throw you into the darkest gaol in England. Do you understand?”
Looking at him with luminous green eyes, Prudence nodded. “I am so sorry to have troubled you.”
“Troubled me? Is that how you think of it?” Loath to demean himself by expressing aloud the full measure of his wrath, William turned on his heel and strode back across the room. He beckoned the innkeeper and ordered a meal of thick potato soup, fresh bread, strawberries, and tea. Then he ascended a narrow staircase and knocked on the nearest door.
Walker opened it, emerged into the corridor, and greeted his employer. “Did you find her, sir?” the blacksmith asked in a low voice.
“I did. She sits below.”
“I am relieved.” Walker nodded toward the door. “Come in, if you will. Bettie wishes to thank you for saving her life.”
“I did nothing of the sort,” William retorted. “Tell Bettie if she wishes to thank me, she will recover her good health, return to Otley, and marry you at once.”
Walker’s craggy features softened into a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Sherbourne. You may be sure that is our plan.”
William was not sure at all. Had he not discovered Prudence Watson consorting privately with the blacksmith on two occasions? Clearly, whatever love once existed between the two had not died.
No matter the blacksmith’s plans to marry the little weaver, nor the young lady’s professions of passion for William himself. Truth won out too often, just as it had an hour ago when he rode into town and spotted Walker carrying Bettie—limp and unconscious—in his arms.
The blacksmith had called out, begging William to follow the throng of marchers and rescue Prudence Watson. Even as he rode through the rain, William had struggled to accept the truth. Prudence had lied to him and misled him in every possible way, for Polly Watson the spinner was indeed none other than Prudence Watson.
“I shall cover your expenses here,” William said. “Stay as long as necessary.”
“Thank you, sir
.” Walker rubbed his brow for a moment before continuing. “Mr. Sherbourne, I know you rode to Manchester in the hope of halting disaster. You must understand that Miss Watson accompanied the worsted mill workers for the same reason.”
“She intended to halt the very disaster she provoked? That is nonsense, man.”
“But I speak the truth.”
“I am sorry to inform you that I have lost faith in such an avowal. Truth, it seems, is an elusive and malleable quantity.”
“Whether you believe me or not, I must attempt to assure you that Miss Watson’s aims were pure and her activities innocent.”
“Innocent!” William laughed. “Spare me this discourse, Walker, I pray you.”
Lest the blacksmith make further effort to defend the woman he loved, William held up a hand. Chuckling in bitter disbelief, he turned away and descended the stair.
As he neared the fire, he saw that the meal had been brought and laid out on the table. But Prudence sat huddled inside his sopping cloak, her head bent and eyes closed. Was she asleep? or praying? It hardly mattered.
“Eat,” he commanded, seating himself across from her. “Eat, for the coach I ordered will arrive shortly.”
Her eyes fluttered open and she stared at him. “I am not hungry,” she murmured.
“Yet you will eat.” He lifted the lid on the tureen and dipped a ladleful of soup into her bowl. “I should not like for you to die just yet, Miss Watson. I must return you to Thorne Hall, set you in a carriage for London, and assure myself that you are gone from Yorkshire forever. Then, if you wish, you may perish with my full blessing.”
“You want me to die?”
“Certainly—if that is your aim.”
He stirred sugar and milk into his tea and took a sip. Though the woman’s face had drifted nightly through his dreams, now he found he could not bring himself to look at her. Instead, he took a slice of bread, buttered it, and set it beside his empty bowl.
“I prefer you to die of pneumonia rather than hunger,” he told her. “Then you will be faulted for it and not I.”
The Courteous Cad Page 21
