A Different Kind of Woman (Mansfield Trilogy Book 3)

by Lona Manning

  Sam could not restrain a broad smile at the sight of his hero; he stepped forward and called, “Good day, sir,” and Mr. Hunt spun around and looked at him.

  “You there! How came you to lose your arm? At whose mill did you suffer this accident?”

  Sam realized, with surprise and mortification, that Mr. Hunt did not appear to remember him.

  He pulled his cap off his head. “It was at no mill, sir,” he answered respectfully.

  “How then?” Mr. Hunt persisted.

  “I was in the Navy, sir,” said Sam. “In Bristol, I—”

  “I have just had an idea which will do very well,” said Mr. Hunt, turning to one of his companions, then returning his attention to Sam. “Tell me young man, do you have employment?”

  “No, sir,” said Sam, “not at present, though you once—”

  “Excellent,” said Hunt. “Stay with me. I can use you today.”

  “To do what, sir?”

  One of Mr. Hunt’s companions looked at Sam as though he were a simpleton. “Do you not know who this gentleman is? This is Mr. Hunt.”

  “Yes, sir, I do know, sir—” Sam began to reply, but Mr. Hunt continued: “You will accompany us to the meeting today. You, my good man, will serve as an example of the sufferings and the wrongs I will be unfolding in my address.”

  “But what am I to do, sir?” repeated Sam.

  “I desire you to do nothing,” said Mr. Hunt. “It is simplicity itself. You are to do nothing and you are to say nothing. You will climb up on the platform when I summon you so that everyone can see you. And you will leave the platform when I dismiss you. Can you do that?”

  Sam felt uneasy at the thought of being put on display. He hesitated.

  The other man leaned forward and said, “Where do you live? In what street? Do you have any little children to provide for? Is your family in want? I will tell your story in the Observer.”

  “I am from Portsmouth, sir,” Sam protested. “If you need a Northern man, I must beg you to look elsewhere.”

  Mr. Hunt laughed. “Mr. Saxton, if you can find me another one-armed lad before the meeting commences, I would be obliged. If not, I will make do with this one, although I would prefer a local man, injured in some mill accident.”

  “Why not just say that he was,” said Mr. Saxton, gesturing at Sam.

  Mr. Hunt clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Come to think of it, you will do as you are.” He looked about him and declaimed, “Now, here is a lad who bid farewell to his family, his loving mother, his adoring sisters, who left his sweetheart behind to weep for him, and he went to sea, a lad who braved the boundless deep, the slash of the cutlass, the raking horrors of cannon and grapeshot. Oh, yes, our masters are only too pleased to send the flower of our manhood to die for their own selfish financial interests—but as for allowing this brave man to vote for his representative in Parliament? No! ‘Heaven forbid that it should be so,’ says our betters at Whitehall.” His voice dropped to a normal level. “There, something to that effect.”

  “You can spin gold from straw, so you can, Mr. Hunt,” said Mr. Saxton with satisfaction. “And I could find you another one-armed man, but look how comely this lad is—the girls will need their handkerchiefs, I doubt not.”

  Mr. Hunt pointed to the corner of the street where a small group of women, clad all in white, were assembled, evidently waiting for the signal to proceed to St. Peter’s field. “Go over there, and march in after the women. Wait by the platform until I summon you.”

  Sam struggled with himself. He was strongly impelled to do whatever Mr. Hunt asked of him, but in this instance, it came at the sacrifice of his pride and dignity. As miserable and angry as he had been since his return to England, he did not wish to parade his own sorrows before a class of people who had not even enough bread to eat. He walked slowly over to where the women stood talking amongst themselves.

  “Hello,” he said to the nearest of them, who also appeared to be the youngest. “Are you all going to be on the platform as well?”

  “Not I,” the girl answered. She indicated an older woman who clutched a handful of notes. “Our president is, and then she’s giving our banner to Mr. Hunt.” The girl proudly held up a heavy blue banner which read “Manchester Female Reform Society,” and she smiled, hopping from foot to foot in her excitement. “Can you imagine? I should be too frightened to say a word. We heard what Mr. Hunt was saying about you. About how your sweetheart wept for you.”

  “I went to sea when I was eleven,” Sam answered shortly. “I didn’t have a sweetheart.”

  “Oh! But the other parts—the cutlass and the grapeshot. I suppose that is true.” And her gaze flickered down to his empty jacket sleeve and back to his face.

  “True enough,” was all Sam could trust himself to say. He shuffled restlessly and looked away.

  “Are you uneasy about appearing in public?” the girl asked in a softer tone.

  “Yes, I suppose I am, a little,” answered Sam.

  “I cannot believe you,” the girl returned, “for, if you fought in the war, you must be ever so brave. What is your name? Mine is Annabel Wheeler.”

  Her candour and friendliness overcame Sam’s natural reserve and he found himself unbending and returning her smiles. “I’m Sam Price.”

  “Are you a radical, Sam Price?” asked Annabel.

  “I think I must be,” said Sam. “That is, I love my country, but I hate this government.”

  “Me too,” said Annabel. “I think it’s very noble of you, to show everyone that you’re a true patriot, and how you have been treated so ill in return.”

  The other women crowded around Sam and made much of him, and he became much better reconciled to being a human exhibit for Mr. Hunt’s address.

  * * * * * * *

  Manchester August 16, 1819, 11:30 am

  The sun was reaching its zenith. Fortunately, although it was a day in August, it was not an excessively hot one.

  Fanny wandered across the wide expanse of St. Peter’s field, gazing earnestly about her. She had crossed and re-crossed the field several times, looking this way and that. She had tried standing in one place and slowly turning in a circle. Her confident expectation that she would find her brothers was shaken, and she was tired and thirsty.

  She was astonished at the numbers already assembled, with more people pouring in, some singly, some in small groups and some in organised columns. Even in London she had never seen anything to compare with it. While Fanny could calculate at a glance how many yards of fabric had been used to make a gown, it was beyond her powers to place a figure on the number of men, women and children who were there.

  Whenever a large contingent arrived, marching proudly, with banners at the head of their columns, the crowd cheered and clapped. The banner-carriers took some of their flags to the speakers’ platform. The banners were displayed on tall staves, emblazoned with legends such as “Unite and be Free!” and one which made Fanny feel rather uncomfortable, “Equal Representation or Death!”

  The crowd grew ever thicker, Fanny was buffeted a few times, and someone trod on her foot. She began to feel the hopelessness of her errand, at least at that time. She looked about for a more elevated spot from which she might better survey the crowd.

  On the north side of the expanse there were several large piles of loose lumber lying on the ground, but she did not want to risk climbing up on them. She crossed to the north-west corner, to a brick wall rather taller than she was, which might cast some shade during the long afternoon hours. At the base of the wall there was a curb, and there were already several people taking possession of it. They were very far away from the hustings, and would hardly be able to see Mr. Hunt, let alone hear him, but this didn’t matter to Fanny. She was there to find her brothers.

  Next to Fanny stood a woman whose dress and accent pronounced her to be of the labouring class. She looked at Fanny with some surprise; Fanny returned an awkward smile.

  At least she had obtained
a slightly better vantage point. She watched in mounting astonishment as more people poured into the square from all corners. About fifty paces to her right, the brick wall opened into a yard, and this area had apparently been selected by the men as a convenient place to pass water; men were strolling casually into the yard unbuttoning their trouser fronts, and laughing and jesting as they did so. She looked away, embarrassed; her neighbour saw her confusion, and laughed.

  “That there house, Miss, is where the magistrates are a-watching us,” she said, pointing up to a third-storey window. “That is why our men are watering Mr. Buxton’s garden for him.”

  Fanny’s eyes followed the direction of the woman’s outstretched arm, and saw a cluster of men leaning out the window. From the distance, she could not make out their countenances but they appeared to wear the garb of gentlemen.

  She felt she must say something, so she offered, “The magistrates must be able to view the entire gathering from that window.”

  “I hope the smell reaches them as well,” her neighbour laughed.

  * * * * * * *

  Manchester, August 16, 1819, 12:00 pm

  There was delay, and further delay, as more people arrived at the field, and then some workmen came with broad planks, to strengthen and enlarge the platform, a task that might better have been both anticipated and performed before the multitudes arrived.

  Then a body of men commenced to form themselves into a barrier around the platform to preserve an open space all around it, pressing back against the constant flow of people into the field. “Leave a space for the women,” a red-faced man cried. “Mr. Hunt wants all the women around the platform, and the musicians as well. Step back, step back.”

  Mr. Gibson saw that he would have to be aggressive if he were to maintain a place convenient to the platform, and he did not wish to push and jostle. He had heard Mr. Hunt speak before, in London—but he had never witnessed a gathering of this size. He decided he would turn his attention to observing the crowd, rather than contend with the thousands of people vying to be nearest the platform.

  He became aware, as well, that he was feeling anxious—could this be foreboding? Were the magistrates correct? Was all of the military-style marching a precursor to some organized assault? Were the long heavy staves which carried the banners intended for weapons? Or, was he a man who had missed his breakfast, who was trapped in the middle of a huge, surging, throng of humanity, whose senses were overwhelmed?

  Mr. Gibson could observe no hostility in the crowd around him. Everyone was scrubbed up and wearing their best attire; women carried food wrapped in handkerchiefs, as though attending a picnic. Families walked together, grandparents, fathers, mothers, children. No-one brings children and babies to a riot, he thought to himself.

  Were they all loyal Englishmen and women who only wanted to earn enough wages to feed their children, or were they incipient revolutionists, preparing to unleash rivers of blood and terror in the streets? From what Mr. Gibson could observe, they were the former.

  The magistrates have misjudged this situation. He looked up to the window where he could see the magistrates watching. That fellow who was urging caution at the inn, I hope he persuades the others.

  But there were the young men too, marching in file, clutching their stout flag staffs, and flaunting their red caps of Liberty, the sign of the revolution that had brought a king and his queen to the guillotine and resulted in anarchy and horror. There went a black banner embroidered with “Liberty or Death.” At least some of these men conceived this to be a conflict between the powerful and the powerless which might—perhaps should—culminate in violence.

  Mr. Gibson continued pushing away from the platform, but he pushed against the tide— for all were pressing forward, forward, to the hustings. He saw a brick wall at the north-west corner of the field, which might, once the sun had moved a little further in its transit, throw some welcome shade. He made for the wall, and felt again for his little notebook in his jacket pocket.

  * * * * * * *

  Manchester, August 16, 1819, 1:00 pm

  Charles shuffled restlessly from one foot to another as he waited in the very midst of the great crowd, about fifty paces from the speakers’ platform. He had been travelling for days, and he was tired, hungry and thirsty. He was also disappointed that he had not readily found his brother.

  His new friend Benjamin was by his side, excited and alert, his eyes moving everywhere. He nudged Charles in the arm, and pointed to their left. “See over there, that line of men filing out in a double line? Special constables.”

  “I’d rather they were waiters,” grumbled Charles. “I am that hungry. When does Mr. Hunt appear? They said he was to start the meeting at noon.”

  A tall rangy man next to Charles, who was carrying a spike surmounted with a red cap of liberty, cried with disgust in his voice, “Just look at them bastards. Nadin gave them all cudgels. And we was told, “bring no arms except… except…” he trailed off, confused.

  “‘Bring no weapons save for a self-approving conscience,’” one of his comrades reminded him.

  “So we’ve nowt to fight with, when those clubs start cracking down on our skulls.”

  “Tha has got a self-approving conscience, Jemmy. That’s another way of saying tha hast no brains in your head, I reckon.”

  Benjamin joined in the laughter, and then asked, “Pray, fellows, who is this Nadin? He looks to be a thief-catcher, or else a thief himself.”

  “Aye, he is the top constable in these parts, and a wicked, lazy, lying, fat bastard he is,” answered Jemmy. “Lining his pockets and putting honest folk in jail.”

  “Oh aye,” said Benjamin, “I know the type,” and Charles observed that Benjamin had changed his manner of speaking to match the tones of their new companions. “Lads,” Benjamin added, in a friendly fashion, as though he was proposing a game of skittles, “don’t tha think we should go over there, and keep a watch on them constables? If they give us trouble, we’ll give them trouble right back.”

  “Wait, wait, we were told to keep our ranks,” protested the man who had made fun of Jemmy, but he was ignored, and Benjamin’s new recruits began pushing their way toward the constables, who had now managed to create a corridor through the thick of the crowd, extending from Mr. Buxton’s house to the hustings. Charles followed, unwilling to lose sight of the one person he knew in the throng.

  Benjamin questioned their new acquaintance as they went: “Where are you boys from?”

  “Oldham.”

  “What are your trades?”

  “Cotton spinners.”

  “I’m Benjamin. What shall I call you?”

  * * * * * * *

  For Sam, the time passed more agreeably, unexpectedly detained as he was on Peter Street, in attendance on the members of the Manchester Female Reform Union, and Annabel in particular.

  Men bearing messages from St. Peter’s Field came to Mr. Hunt, some calling for dispatch, some calling for delay, and then two messengers arrived, greatly alarmed, to announce that a double row of constables had forced their way through the crowd.

  “All the magistrates are watching from an upstairs window,” cried one. “And that bastard Nadin is there, prowling back and forth,” exclaimed the other.

  “It is nothing less than I would expect,” said Mr. Hunt. “They are entirely predictable. They have cleared a path for Mr. Nadin, so that if one word of sedition falls from my lips, he may come through the crowd and arrest me. They will, of course, be disappointed.”

  “All the same, perhaps you should leave off, Mr. Hunt.”

  The great orator shook his head. “I will proceed. Remember, I called upon the magistrates last week, and offered myself up, and told them to arrest me, if they thought I was guilty of calling an illegal assembly. But they didn’t lift a finger against me. They accused you all of being a drunken, disorderly rabble. You have shown them how you can collect together in good order. If they arrest me now, they will make a martyr of me.�
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  * * * * * * *

  Fanny, still keeping her position in the shelter of the brick wall, stood on her tip toes, but there were now such numbers flocking into the field she could not see over the heads and shoulders of the men in front of her. In particular her view was blocked by a very tall man wearing a top hat, making notes with a pencil in a small notebook.

  “Sir—sir,” she said timidly, reaching up to tap him on his shoulder. “I wonder, if you could kindly step up to the curb here beside me, we might both obtain a better view—”

  The man turned, and looked down at her.

  She gasped. He started.

  “Fanny!”

  “Mr. Gibson!”

  Fanny recovered from her surprise perhaps a little sooner than her friend, for, where else should Mr. Gibson be, but at such a well-publicised political gathering? It was only a wonder that the possibility had not occurred to her before.

  But Mr. Gibson doubted the evidence of his eyes. What was Fanny Price doing here, of all places, was the first question which occurred to him. The second was, how many years had it been? Five? Six? His gaze took her in—yes, she was older, a woman and not a girl, but his heart did a revolution in his chest at the sight of her sweet face.

  Fanny was at the same time taking in Mr. Gibson’s appearance. The dark hair at his temples was now touched with grey, some faint creases lined his forehead, but the passage of the years had only lent him a greater air of distinction.

  All of this mutual wonder consumed a few moments, and then Mr. Gibson said, “Fanny, what in the name of heaven are you doing here?”

  “I am looking for my brother Charles. You remember him, I am sure. He ran away from his indentures.” Fanny wrung her hands. “But I cannot find him in this immense crowd.” The unreality of the situation, the moment, was almost overpowering to her. She was speaking to Mr. Gibson! Talking to him, as though they had last spoken a fortnight ago. They were two persons amidst a multitude, but could anyone, of all the people who there, possibly be more confounded, amazed and secretly elated, than Fanny?