by Rosie Harris
There was no sign of any of the Chartist prisoners reported to be inside the Westgate Hotel, or of the sixty special constables that were supposed to be guarding them, or the infantrymen from the 45th Regiment, under the command of Lieutenant Gray.
Kate climbed back into the cart to get away from the melee. From where she sat the crowd appeared as a colourful patchwork. The coal-grimed drabness of those who had joined the march straight from their shifts made a sombre background to those men who had dressed up in their brightest gear with caps and bowler hats set at a jaunty angle, as though they were setting out for a day at the fair or the hiring market.
The scuffling of feet, and the deep-toned medley of voices that rose and fell, filled the air as the men waited.
Although spirits were lighter now the rain had ceased, most of them were still cold, wet and tired from their long trudge through the savage, storm-swept night. Their one common bond was their burning sense of injustice and their determination to see that the People’s Charter was made law.
A black dog roamed, nostrils flaring as it sniffed the unfamiliar scents. A young boy, without hat or jacket, his shirt-tails flapping, ran into the square after him. The animal sought refuge underneath the cart, cowering there, snarling with fright.
‘What’s his name?’ asked Kate, jumping down from the cart to try and help entice the dog out into the open.
‘Gelert,’ the boy called, then began to sob noisily.
‘Shush! You’ll never get him to come out if you make that noise.’
Calming the boy, Kate encouraged him to call the dog by name. When the animal finally responded, Kate grabbed it by the scruff of the neck and dragged it out.
The boy’s mother, clutching a green cloak around her shoulders, her auburn hair streaming in the wind, came running across the square. With a hurried word of thanks to Kate she escorted both child and dog back home, scolding them both as she went.
A special constable appeared in the doorway of the Westgate Hotel, a burly figure, arms akimbo, face set.
A murmured chant that became a chorus rose on the morning air.
‘Give us up the prisoners. Give us up the prisoners.’
Bracing his shoulders to prove his authority, the special constable shouted back. ‘No, never!’
Incensed, a small group broke rank and rushed forward. There was the sound of a gun going off. Pandemonium broke out.
Chartists stormed the doorway. A few of them managed to get inside. Kate recognized some of the regulars from the Bull amongst them. The broad shoulders of John the Roller from Nantyglo, the white shock of hair of Abraham Thomas, a collier from Coalbrookvale, Paddy Donovan, an Irish labourer.
She held her breath as she saw young Ianto Davies from Brynmawr pushing his way forward with the verve and agility of youth, and guessed from his eagerness that his father, David Davies, must already be inside.
A movement at one of the side windows, as one of the shutters was pulled back, caught Kate’s attention. She screamed out a warning as the soldiers concealed there began to fire.
In helpless horror, she watched them file past the window in rapid succession, firing in sequence at the crowd. They didn’t even stop to take aim, simply fired straight into the mass of men outside.
The Chartists were packed into the square so tightly that there was no chance for them to retreat or take cover.
When the soldiers trained their muskets on to those who had managed to penetrate inside the doorway, Kate clapped her hands over her ears to shut out the screams as men were mown down in the passageway. There was a crashing of windows, as men still in the square tried to reach those inside and those inside tried to make their escape. The groans of the dying clamoured for attention as the 45th Regiment filled the air with lead and smoke.
The battle lasted a mere twenty-five minutes.
Before ten o’clock the fighting was over. The passages were ankle-deep in gore. Men who’d planned the uprising with such dedication and fervour for so many months scattered. Men who’d led the march, steadfastly declaring how invulnerable they were, left their followers bewildered. The weapons that had been secretly amassed over the previous months lay abandoned, littering the square.
Under the portico of the mayor’s house, one of the Chartists lay dying, pleading for help. Pushing aside Shonti Jenkins’ restraining hand, Kate made her way to the man’s side. As she bent down to comfort the groaning, blood-stained figure, the butt end of a rifle caught her sharply across the shoulders as a soldier pushed her to one side.
‘Let me help him… please!’
‘Clear off.’
‘But he’s dying…’
Despite her pleas, the soldier chased her away.
‘I’ll shoot if you try to come back,’ he warned.
Helpless, she withdrew.
An hour and a half passed before the injured man finally stopped crying for help and breathed his last.
In that time, Kate counted ten other bodies being dragged away to the hotel stables. Voices on all sides cried out piteously for help.
She had no idea how many had been shot down in the hotel passageway. Hundreds seemed to have been wounded in the massacre. They pushed past her, blood soaking their sleeves, jackets and trousers. Men with bloodshot eyes, parts of their faces blown away, being supported by their comrades, dragged half unconscious from Westgate Square to a place of safety.
Now that the danger of battle was over, local people began to appear. Mayor Thomas Phillips, a tall, slim figure in his white breeches, short black jacket with shining brass buttons and a red cloak lined with white silk, came out on to the steps of the Westgate Hotel.
Flanked by officers of the 45th Regiment, he stood there proudly, arrogant in the knowledge of their victory.
Mayor Phillips had received a wound in his right hip and a bullet in his left arm. When he was confident that he had the crowd’s attention, he threw back his red cloak so that all could see that his arm was supported by a leather strap slung around his neck.
Kate felt dismayed by the turn of events. The faces of the men nearest her bore the marks of shock and defeat. Bemused, she watched as they began making their way up Stow Hill, heading back to their homes in the Valleys.
She looked round in vain for the Chartist leaders, but John Frost, Zephaniah Williams and Henry Vincent were nowhere to be seen.
All around her the defeated Chartists were leaving, anxious to be on their way back to the Valleys. Soldiers and special constables chased after them, arresting them and dragging them off into town. Once or twice she thought she saw a face she recognized, but when she drew closer she was always disappointed.
Disillusioned, she made her way to the corner of the square where Shonti Jenkins had hitched the cart.
It wasn’t there.
She thought for a moment that she must have made a mistake. It looked to be the right place. The house had wrought-iron railings and a portico and faced the Westgate Hotel.
She stared round her in bewilderment. As she did so she saw someone staring down at her from one of the windows and recognized her as the woman who earlier that morning, just before the fighting had started, had crossed the square with a young girl and gone inside.
Kate found it hard to believe that Shonti Jenkins had driven off and left her stranded. She elbowed her way through the surging throng, intent on walking right round the square in case he had driven to some other spot and was helping move some of the injured.
The hopelessness of her situation washed over her.
Defeated and exhausted, Kate sank down on a doorstep, buried her face in her hands and wept.
When a hand descended on her shoulder, Kate shrank back in terror, thinking she was being arrested. Instead, she found herself looking into a pair of green eyes that dominated a small heart-shaped face, framed by auburn hair, partly concealed under the hood of a green cloak. Instantly, she recognized the mother of the child who owned the black dog, Gelert.
‘Come on, quickly
now!’
Kate felt the woman’s hand under her elbow, forcing her to her feet, half dragging her towards an open doorway a few yards away where the small boy was peering out anxiously.
‘Inside with you, Dafydd,’ the woman scolded. She glanced nervously over her shoulder before slamming the door shut and guiding Kate into a comfortably furnished room.
‘Sit there and warm yourself, you look half-frozen,’ she said, indicating a comfortable armchair drawn up in front of a glowing fire.
The blood sang in Kate’s ears as she sank back in it. She knew the woman was still speaking but the pounding inside her head obliterated what was being said. She shook her head from side to side, trying to clear the mist from in front of her eyes. She felt hot, choking. Then blackness descended.
When she came to she was lying on a couch and someone was bathing her brow with a cool cloth. She struggled to sit up but a firm hand pressed her gently back against the cushions.
‘Wait. Lie still and I’ll fetch you a drink.’
Still feeling light-headed, Kate closed her eyes. Her limbs felt as if they were floating. Then an arm was slid under her shoulders, raising her up and supporting her. A glass was held to her lips.
The liquid felt cool and smooth as she sipped it, then set her mouth on fire, burning her throat as she swallowed. She gulped for air, choking until tears sprang to her eyes.
The mist cleared as if a curtain had been drawn aside and she felt the strength returning to her arms and legs. When she tried to speak she was shushed to silence and the glass was held once more to her lips.
This time she sipped more cautiously.
‘Feeling better?’
‘Yes! I’m fine now. You’ve been very kind.’
‘So were you earlier today,’ smiled the woman. ‘I hate to think what would have happened to Dafydd if he had still been out there when the soldiers started firing. Terrible it’s been and there could be more trouble to come.’
‘I think it is over now, leastways the fighting is,’ Kate sighed. ‘Most of the Chartists have made off for home.’
‘Not many of them will reach there. The soldiers and constables are out after them. The magistrates won’t rest until the leaders have been caught.’
‘What will happen to them?’
‘They’ll charge them with high treason and sentence them to be hanged and quartered!’
‘That’s terrible!’
‘Indeed, yes. Any others they manage to capture will probably be transported. Well, imprisoned at least.’ Her green eyes narrowed. ‘I shouldn’t be talking like this to you really. I don’t even know your name…’
‘Kate Stacey.’
‘My name is Morag Lewis. When my husband heard early this morning that the Chartists had set off from the Valleys, he made me promise to stay indoors. He vowed there’d be trouble once they reached Newport.’ Her green eyes widened. ‘I never even knew the dog was out until Dafydd saw him from the window. Before I could stop him he was out of the door after him. I can’t bear to think what Iestyn would have said if anything had happened to Dafydd. It was good of you to help the boy.’
‘I’ve been a children’s nanny, so I suppose I acted instinctively,’ Kate smiled. Her glance rested on Dafydd, who lay on the hearthrug, playing with the black dog that had caused all the upset.
‘It was still kind,’ Morag insisted. ‘I’ve been watching you from the window ever since. I saw the cart drive away and I wondered why you weren’t on it. Fancy them going without you!’
‘Yes, it means I’m stranded,’ Kate agreed ruefully.
‘Whatever will you do?’
‘I don’t really know… I’d better start walking.’
‘There’s some hot broth on the hob, have a bowlful of that first,’ Morag said quickly. ‘I bet you’ve not had anything to eat all day.’
‘Not since we set out from Blaenafon,’ smiled Kate.
‘Ahh! So you are from up the Valleys,’ Morag exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Though your voice is different, softer, like.’
‘I’m not Welsh. I believe in what they are trying to achieve, though. Is your husband a Chartist supporter?’
‘Not openly!’ Morag placed a finger against her lips. ‘Iestyn works for John Partridge, the printer who’s a friend of John Frost. He knows all that is going on because they usually print the broadsheets. Iestyn took me once to hear Henry Vincent speak. Handsome he was. And so eloquent! He roused his audience to fever pitch. First time I ever heard any man say that women, as well as men, should have the vote. Fine voice he had. He ended the meeting by breaking into song and there wasn’t a dry eye in the place.’
‘The only Chartist leader I’ve seen is Zephaniah Williams, landlord of the Royal Oak, in Blaina,’ Kate told her.
‘I can never tell the difference between him and William Jones. They’re about the same age, both dark-haired and they dress alike. John Frost, of course, had a drapery business in the High Street, here in Newport. In fact, about four years ago he was mayor of Newport!’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘I don’t know what Wales is coming to, all this bickering and fighting. If they’d just share money out a bit more fairly, so that everyone had enough for food and to provide a roof over their heads, the men would be contented. Well, that’s what my Iestyn says, and he understands these things.’
‘I’m sure he’s right.’
‘Why don’t you stay and meet Iestyn,’ invited Morag, her face lighting up. ‘He is bound to know someone willing to give you a lift back to Blaenafon.’
Chapter 29
It was evening before Iestyn Lewis arrived home from work. By then Morag had grown anxious, unable to understand why he was so late, worried in case it had anything to do with the events of the morning.
She gave Dafydd his supper and undressed him ready for bed, but he had pleaded to be allowed to stay up until his father arrived home.
His constant chattering and questions seemed to distress Morag, so Kate took the boy on to her lap and kept him amused by telling him stories about when she had lived with her grandmother in a cottage in Wiltshire. The black dog, Gelert, lay at her feet, his muzzle resting on his two paws as if he, too, was listening.
She and Morag had talked non-stop all the afternoon, exchanging views and confidences until Kate felt she knew Morag as well as if they were sisters. And yet, for all their deepening friendship, she’d not spoken about David.
Now, as she sat in front of the blazing coal fire nursing Dafydd, Kate wondered why she had held back. They were much the same age and shared the same views on so many things, so surely Morag would understand her predicament.
Deep down, she envied Morag her comfortable home, lovely little boy and a husband she obviously cared for deeply.
Unlike her, Morag had done everything according to tradition. Her parents had approved of Iestyn when he came courting. She’d been married in chapel with her family and friends in attendance. There’d been a grand celebration party afterwards and she’d been showered with gifts when she moved into her new home with Iestyn. Dafydd had been born just over a year later and once again all her family and friends had celebrated and brought her presents.
The more they’d talked, however, the more Kate realized that although Morag was married, with a home and child of her own, she had very little experience of what went on in the outside world. Most of her knowledge had been imparted by Iestyn and Kate suspected that many of the opinions Morag expressed were also Iestyn’s.
Even this Kate found touching, remembering how close she’d felt to David when they had recited the poems of William Barnes together. It was as if exchanging opinions and sharing the same memories melded them so much closer than mere physical contact ever could.
As they waited for Iestyn to come home, Kate sensed that Morag was becoming more and more anxious and whether it was because he was late, or because she was there, Kate was not sure.
Their meal was cooked and waiting: a casserole of lamb stew, thick with vegetables and dumpli
ngs keeping hot in the brick oven alongside the fire. And the apple pie that was to follow was in there as well.
The table, covered with a white linen cloth, had cutlery laid out for each of them. Morag had placed a platter of crusty bread and a dish of creamy yellow butter in the centre, alongside the salt cellar.
Morag had spent a long time tidying herself in readiness for Iestyn’s homecoming, brushing her auburn hair until it shone, then coiling it high on the crown of her head and securing it there with tiny velvet bows. She had also donned a white lace collar, fastening it at the neck of her dark green gown with a small gold brooch.
Gelert sensed Iestyn’s arrival before any of them. Raising his nose from his paws he let out a sharp bark, followed by an eager whine as he bounded towards the door, tail wagging in anticipation.
Dafydd shot off Kate’s lap to race after him. Morag, too, hurried to the door and Kate sensed the warmth of their greeting from the tone of their voices, even though she couldn’t hear what they were saying. They came into the room all talking together. Iestyn, a tall dark man of about thirty, dressed in a dark blue frock coat, black fitted trousers and a large-brimmed top hat, swept Dafydd up into his arms, patted the dog’s head as it jumped up excitedly, and then pulled Morag close and kissed her tenderly.
Only then did he notice Kate.
He stood there, an imposing figure with curly hair, handsome features and a lean jawline. His keen dark eyes locked with Kate’s as Morag introduced her. He listened in silence as Morag explained that Kate had come into Newport with the Chartist supporters from Blaenafon and then been left stranded when the cart had gone off without her.
‘I think we should take Dafydd upstairs to bed before he either falls asleep or gets over-excited,’ Iestyn said cautiously, his mobile mouth becoming a tight line.
Kate felt a tenseness in the atmosphere as they left her on her own and for a moment was tempted to leave before they came back downstairs again.
