As disconcerting as the scene was, her fears faded quickly. The people jostled her, sure, but only in their eagerness to get into the square to join their fellow marchers, who met them with smiles and hearty slaps on the back. They did not frown at her, a stranger, but did not jump to welcome her, either. At last, the hubbub resolved itself. Men were forming up into the sort of contingents she’d seen rehearsing on the hill. Older folk and younger lined the road, looking on, the smaller children running in and out of the columns, practicing for their own parade. The women were forming themselves up farther down the road. She pressed her hands down, smoothing her apron and settling the butterflies in her stomach, and hurried alongside the columns to join them. Though the roadway here was cobbled, it smelled of fresh-turned earth after rain.
After a half-hearted attempt to dissuade her, Deacon had agreed to store her things until she sorted out where she would be living next. He suggested it be the castle, and she remain Mrs. Quinn, if in name only, but Maddie retorted that as he himself had paid his brother to take her off his hands, he shouldn’t expect her to believe he wanted her to live with him now. He protested that his feelings about her had changed. Well so had her feelings about him—about all the Quinns.
It hurt to wrench herself away from the castle, from everything, in the dawn-dark of early morning. Maddie knew this track would take her, finally, to her true family, but this first step was not solid, more a footfall on a swaying bridge, with Kitty and her father on the far side.
A bugle blast at her shoulder made her jump. Mr. Bamford stood at the musician’s side, waiting for his tune to quiet the crowd. As all faces turned expectantly toward him, Maddie saw Kitty, only a few yards away. Her sister waved her over.
“Cut it a bit fine, didn’t you? Should have stayed the night like I said. We sang and talked till dawn.” She held a slip of green cloth.
“That’s your banner?”
Kitty unrolled it. Gold lettering on silk, Suffrage Universal on one side, Parliaments Annual on the other. “Made it ourselves, didn’t we? My words is in the speech, the prockle.”
“Proclamation?”
“Our president, Mrs. Fildes, is to give it to Hunt on the hustings, and he’ll read it out to the crowd. ‘May our flag never be unfurled but in the cause of peace and reform. And may a female’s curse pursue the coward who deserts the standard.’ I suggested the curse bit.”
“Will he really read it aloud?”
“He did at Blackburn, didn’t he? And Mrs. Fildes is to stand up with him, and we might as well. To hold the banner.”
Maddie’s breath caught in her throat. Stand before all these people? Her gaze darted from head to head. Far too many to count. The bugle shocked her into attention again, and Bamford started to speak.
“We are here assembled to attend the most important meeting that has ever been held for Parliamentary Reform, and we will show the steadiness and seriousness befitting the occasion. In our Sunday best, in step with the music, we will cast shame on our opponents, on those who call us a mob, who call us a rabble, who say we don’t deserve justice. They will see their error today. They will see in us a mirror of themselves, true patriots.”
The crowd roared and stamped, their sounding a tattoo on the cobbles. Maddie wondered if what he said could come true. The committee men she’d met seemed far from recognizing working folk as human, much less mirrors of themselves.
Bamford waved his arm, and the crowed quickly quieted.
The gesture was familiar. Deacon had used the same pat-on-the-head motion last night during supper. “Nash is a fool to give you up,” he’d said.
“He doesn’t want me. He wants another biddable worker.”
“I don’t believe that for a second. Something is wrong, and as you’re sitting here mope-faced, I lay the blame at his door. I truly thought he was getting better, you were serving as good influence, but obviously he’s more truculent than even I could imagine. Cutting you loose is by far the stupidest thing he’s ever done, and the sooner he realizes that and makes it up to you, the better.”
The pain behind her ribs tightened. She was also to blame for their troubles, no matter how Deacon saw it. Their marriage was a casualty of Nash’s ambition, Maddie’s accident of birth, and Manchester itself.
Bamford raised his arms. “Stay in your forms; follow your leaders. There may be those among us who would take advantage of our numbers by causing a riot. Do not follow them. Our hatbands sport sprigs of laurel, emblem of purity and peace. Offer insult to no one; on this day, suffer insult if you must to keep the peace, but know this. The first man who picks up a stick or a rock, the first man who raises a shiv or a cudgel against his fellow Englishman, that man ruins all. For that man will have proved to the nobs that we are nothing more than the rabble they believe us to be. It may be I am arrested, or others. We will offer no resistance, and do not you offer resistance on my behalf. I prefer to appeal to the laws of my country rather than to force. Is that not the very reason we meet today?”
The crowd’s cheering forced him to pause again. “Now, my country sisters and brothers, let us carry our banners, made with pride by our own hands. Let the band lead us. And let us bring our festive ways into the heart of this Puritanical town of strangers. A reformer’s wake, with us the rushcarts. For Reform!”
Another roar of cheers swelled past Maddie and down the road. As it subsided, line leaders called for order, and the band struck up “God Save the King”. She lined herself up just behind Kitty, who held one edge of the banner at the front of the first row. From the bonnet on her head to the high hem of her white skirt, Maddie matched the others. But her sturdy boots stood out. She hadn’t thought to obtain clogs.
There must be one hundred women, a lake of white against the blues and browns of the men following. Their husbands, sons, lovers. Of those Maddie now had none, but today they were all her brothers.
The heaviness lifted from her lungs. She was part of something bigger than herself, something hopeful and good and true. With more spirit than she’d felt in months, she joined her voice to the others in praising “our gracious king.”
* * * *
At the north edge of town, near the gate entering on Shude Hill, Nash and Trefford stood by their horses as they watched workers march past by the thousands.
Trefford’s blue-and-white yeoman’s uniform drew quite a few looks, but no one missed a step or a note of song. As he was alone on the hill with Nash, he must not be considered much of a threat, despite the nasty truncheon tied to his belt. His hands were busy with his flask at the moment.
Row after neat row of singing or smiling, Sunday-best men and wives filed past. Nash could see a few breaks in the column as it swept down Cheetham Hill Road, but he did not see a tail end as yet. Just as the drumbeat and fiddle sound of one group faded, that of the next could be heard.
The people held banners rather than pulling wakes carts, and they were clearly more sober than at wakes, but he felt the same sense of holiday as during those jubilant parades. Today’s purpose might be serious, but their aspect, at least on this long march south to St. Peter’s fields, was boisterous and gay.
He couldn’t help grinning. “It’s wakes, or an overgrown Sunday school scholars’ parade, isn’t it?”
Trefford did not share their enthusiasm.
Nash pressed him. “Look at their organization. Even their arms swing in step.”
“These rebels are taking orders, all right, but from whom? Shades of the Jacobins.” Trefford spit, hitting too close to his horse, which shied off. Nash’s rented gelding didn’t flick an ear.
“Nonsense. Take another look. Not one has a weapon. They’ve brought their children, for god’s sake. Who would start a riot with their children on the field?”
“Men who carry banners like that.” Trefford pointed to a large black banner, white letters spelling Equal Representation or Death. Beneath the dire words was another, Love, and an image of two hands clasping over a heart.
> Nash’s eyebrows arched. “I do prefer the blue one: Unity and Strength, Liberty and Brotherhood.”
“See that green one, No Corn Laws, Annual Parliaments. Precious little chance of that. Just look at those women.” Trefford whistled.
A new regiment was following, at least four score women in the lead, their white bonnets tied at the same jaunty angle. But their banner, a beautiful green and red silk, carried a slogan oddly dour: Let us DIE like men and not be SOLD as slaves.
Trefford pursed his lips, and then quickly glanced at his horse. “Jezebels all, and dressed to match the French mob.”
“Or the vestal virgins.”
Trefford snorted. “If they wish to act like men, by god we’ll treat them as men. Into the New Bailey with the lot of them.”
“You can’t jail a man without cause, nor a woman, either.” They’d done it before, though. The thought chilled Nash to the marrow. What had Maddie gotten herself into? She should be at his side, watching, a silent witness or even a cheering one. Instead he’d let her fly into the fray.
No, he’d pushed her into it. He knew she wouldn’t find herself at the hands of Trefford and his lot, but what other mischief could accost her?
His grip tightened on the lead, tugging the horse closer. Patting her calm helped restore his temper.
A man stood to the edge of the paraders. Nash recognized Bamford, even under that ancient hat, and beckoned to him. The weaver waved and hiked up the short hill, his bugler in tow. Nash shook his hand, and turned to introduce Trefford, who quickly stepped aside to avoid the introduction. Nash spoke loudly, to rise over the din of the marchers and ensure Trefford heard every word.
“A right fine turnout, Mr. Bamford. I trust you still intend no harm?”
“None at all, Mr. Quinn. I would pledge my life for their entire peaceableness.” He turned and swept his hand across the line. “Do they look like persons wishing to outrage the law? Are they not, clearly, heads of decent working households, and their kin?”
“Much like.” Nash’s gaze flicked to Trefford, obviously listening though pretending to see to his horse’s bridle.
“Just so. If any wrong or violence take play, they will be committed by men of a different stamp than these.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I did think we might be stopped at the toll-gates, but no trouble there. Does that mean the meeting won’t be prevented?”
“The meeting is on.”
“Then all will be well.” He touched the sprig in his cap and led his man back to the tail end of a column. They led the band in “Cherry Ripe.”
“So, Trefford, what will you report? I don’t see a massed army surrounding the town, ready to invade.”
The yeoman used a downed log to hoist himself onto his horse.
“Then you’re blind. Are wives arm-in-arm with their husbands? Hand-in-hand with their children? No. They are regimented up just like the men, and in the front, like cannon fodder. This is no family meeting.” He kicked his horse into a fast walk, then a trot.
Nash had to scramble onto his own horse and fly down the side track to catch up. Trefford’s report best not be the only one the sitting magistrates heard.
* * * *
Maddie was glad to march behind the banner that read Liberty and Fraternity. Brothers, sisters, and freedom. It seemed positively English, and increasingly possible, as judged from the center of thousands of marchers stepping lively on a bright-blue summer morning. Even the weather, dry if a shade warm, favored them.
At the last resting stop, Mr. Bamford had spoken of their possibly being detained outside the city, but as they passed the gate, they saw only one of the yeomanry standing among the onlookers. No one was going to stop them. A three-part cheer rose from behind her, and then the singing started up again, “Cherry Ripe.” But Maddie’s voice jammed in her throat. Nash stood next to that official.
Did he see her? She stepped closer to the woman beside her, hanging in her faint shadow. Surely he was too far away to distinguish her from the others.
Why had he come? Of course. He was an official, too. A pig-tailed gentry, a know-nothing, a dangerous fool. She’d heard all three epithets, plus more she couldn’t quite understand, hurled at the magistrates and their committee by the marchers. Were they wrong? Not if one based judgment on the actions of others. Yes, if one based judgment on empathy, or understanding.
For a moment, amid all these bodies and their melodic shouting, Maddie felt alone, singled out, even as she knew she was invisible. How was it that only she could see both sides of the argument, that only she could see how the antipathy between the people and their masters only hurt them both? She didn’t want this special sight, if that was what it was. She wanted to be as straight and sure as Kitty, or as Mr. Malbanks, or anyone else, really. It was easy to stay in one’s place when one knew what one’s place was.
As they neared the town, more and more spectators lined the roads, as well as white-smocked weavers, spinners, and other workers forming into their own contingents. They were entering the narrower streets now, and their party split, one taking the high road. The second, with the women’s contingent, dropped down the lane to Smedley Cottage, to lead Mr. Hunt’s carriage to the fields.
“We need a fiddler or three,” Kitty called out. Bamford waved the closest two, a woman and her daughter, to keep their time.
The sound of music and cheering seemed to come from every direction, though they could only see themselves in the narrow street. Finally they reached the cottage, where stood a carriage with no horses but young men to pull it. Hunt was handing a well-dressed working woman into the coach.
“That’s Mrs. Mary Fildes, with young George Swift. They’re going to speak to the whole crowd. Who says women can’t do what the men can do?” Kitty gave a loud huzzah.
The sound turned Hunt’s head. He waved them over to join them in the coach. Kitty clambered on eagerly, the banner with her, but Maddie shook her head. The carriage smacked of her old life. She needed to walk to get to her new one.
Then she spied her father, among the men pulling the coach. She pushed over to him.
“Hie on up to the coach with you.”
She shook her head “Can I help you?”
“No, but take this.” He pulled a tambourine out from under his shirt. It was warm from his body and scented of him. “Lead us. You’ll need to make a lot of noise to get anyone’s attention.” He nodded at her.
She took the tambourine and gave it a shake. Joy filled her heart so fast she thought it might burst. This is where she belonged.
Despite the jostle and general hubbub, the chariot finally set off, Kitty sitting beside the driver, and Mrs. Fildes, who truly was as pretty as everyone said, beside the Orator. The young man sat post.
The convoy set off at a pace almost as slow as a funeral. It took an hour just to carry on down Deansgate. All Maddie could see, though, was her father, pulling with a dozen other men, smiling if he couldn’t sing. He looked a different man when he smiled.
All was giddy excitement as they made the last turning and could see the fields beside St. Peter’s church. And the more than sixty thousand faces looking for them.
Her father must have heard the stutter in her rhythm at the shock of the sight. Their gazes locked, and he grinned at her. She grinned right back. Even as the din threatened to burst her eardrums, she felt as if he were the only other person there.
{ 39 }
“Hunt! Hunt! Huzzah!”
The roar of the gathered crowd carried the force of an ocean wave, pushing Maddie back on her heels. She turned to see Mr. Hunt standing in the carriage, a stern smile on his lips, his legs braced by his fellow passengers.
The bands took up the refrain to “See the Conquering Hero Come” as the women and carriage pushed into the crowd. Though the path from Mount Street to the speakers’ platform was lined by special constables, the carriage could not easily make its way down the street to reach it. Maddie and the other w
omen made no headway against the thickening tide of people. Each contingent on the field had clumped together around its banner, leaving barely the width of one person between. The Middleton contingent was forced to press ever closer together.
Her father, in the lead of the cart, called for the women to fall back. Maddie and the others gratefully stepped to the side to let the barouche pass. Even Mr. Hunt, sitting straight in the seat, and taller in his signature white top hat, looked a bit taken aback by the size of the crowd. Mrs. Fildes beside him waved a small flag. Kitty waved her larger one side to side, her arms pumping as if there were a great wind. Her grin rivaled the sun, bright and high at one o’clock.
Maddie fell in behind the carriage, its wheels kicking up dust even on ground as hard-packed at St. Peter’s field in high summer. There would be no shelter from the sun—not the smallest cloud marred the blue of the sky. She began to wish she’d had more than a few sips of water at the last stop.
After they breached the first of the two single rows of constables, protecting a path from lower Mount Street to the speaker’s platform, it was only a minute’s work to reach it. Two flat wagons lashed together, a short stair between them, formed the platform, or what the country folk called hustings. The men pulled the barouche to the side, and Hunt jumped to the ground, then handed Mrs. Fildes and Kitty down. Other women took up places in the carriage for a bit of rest. One looked as if she might give birth at any moment.
Kitty was the first up the steps, joining some two dozen others already on the platform. She took a place on the far right, away from the constables, seating herself on a large drum. She held the banner out so all could see the image: Justice, an elegant woman dressed in pale blue, carrying scales in one hand and treading the serpent of corruption under her boot.
Maddie didn’t recognize the handful of other women on the stand, nor the many men. Mr. Bamford was not there; he must have remained with their contingent. Kitty’s head swiveled side to side, her smile dimming. Was she looking for her?
An Untitled Lady: A Novel Page 30
