In the lamplight Robert had a glimpse of startled faces turned towards him, mouths open in shock and anger. Then the gathered men launched themselves forward. Robert staggered, but managed to keep his balance. It was every man for himself. He pushed and shoved, shouting all the while, “Outside, outside with you!”, while dodging fists and blocking painful kicks.
Above the noise he could hear Sergeant Cummings blowing his whistle and commanding, “This illegal gathering is over. Go home or we’ll have you in front of the magistrates in the morning.”
“We’re ’aving an educational meeting,” came one gibe.
“Yeah,
The sergeant’s reply was lost in the general melee. Robert felt a blow on the back of his head, his reinforced hat saving him from the worst of it. He settled the hat more firmly on his head and looked round for the culprit. At the far end of the room he saw a tall bearded man standing on a makeshift podium made of boxes and planks. He wore a black suit and top hat, his stock was fresh and white at his neck, while two men in working attire stood at his side. He was continuing to declaim, one hand raised above his head, to the struggling mass below. “Stand up, stand up against our oppressors … are we not free men … the right to order our own destiny … we should have the right to vote, not just those with money and power … This is an outrage against justice and natural law …”
Sergeant Cummings had managed to force his way through to the front and was reaching for the ankles of the speaker. The two men beside the speaker sprang into action, hustling him from the makeshift stage and through a door at the back of the room. Cummings did not follow them. His orders were to break up the meeting, with force, and he’d go no further.
Robert began to lay about him again, more in self-defence than attack. He felt rather than heard his truncheon crack here on a shoulder, there on a man’s back. He didn’t put all his strength in it, just enough to send a message. He, Robert, was still in control, unlike some of the others on both sides around him, their faces red and contorted, spittle flying.
But, with the speaker gone, those who had been listening to him were losing their steam and there was a mass exodus for the door. Robert tried to stand back, but, unprepared, received an elbow in his stomach which took his breath away. He doubled over, coughing and retching. It was in that moment that he felt a hand shoved hard inside his tunic then as quickly withdrawn, but when he looked up all he could see were men’s backs and the heels of their boots.
“Will, Will,” Robert called out, catching sight of his friend. He instinctively pushed his own hand into his tunic. “I think I’ve been stabbed!”
Through both of their minds ran the memory of Calthorpe, the policeman killed only a year ago during a similar confrontation. Will hurried to his side; he had lost his hat in the affray, his hair was dishevelled and there was a smear of blood on his cheek. “All right, Rob, my friend, where’s he cut you?” he asked as he supported him.
“In my chest I think. He stuck his hand right in.” With trembling fingers he undid the remaining brass buttons that had not been wrenched off in the fight. “Funny thing is, it doesn’t hurt at all.”
As the last button came undone, a piece of crumpled and folded paper fell to the floor.
“What’s that?” Will asked, bending to pick it up and handing it to Robert.
Robert shook his head. “I don’t know.” He ran his hand over his shirt, then couldn’t help laughing. “I’m not hurt at all. Must’ve been pushing that bit of paper in. I’ve got the wind up me right and proper.”
“You and me both, mate.” Will squeezed his shoulder. “Reckon we deserve some ale after this. Maybe a visit to a chop house. Coming?”
“Good idea.” Robert automatically began unfolding the piece of paper. Why would someone have gone to the trouble of pushing this on him? The same person who elbowed him in the stomach so he couldn’t see their face?
“What the heck’s that?” Will asked, looking over his shoulder. “Looks like a lot of nonsense to me.”
They gazed at a jumble of letters, numbers and pictures. “This here’s Egyptian writing.” Robert pointed to hieroglyphs. “I’ve seen them in the British Museum. I can’t make any sense of it.”
“Did he have mad staring eyes, the man who shoved it on you?”
“Go on.” Robert poked his friend in the ribs. “No more than you do! All the same, I think I’ll pass this on to the Sergeant. It might mean something, though I don’t know what.”
“Another one of your hunches. All right, and then we’re off duty and can go for our supper.”
Robert nodded. Once he’d handed the paper over, it was no longer his responsibility and Sergeant Cummings could decide what to do with it.
Ada stared at her breakfast plate. Half a slice of toast was left. If she cut it in tiny squares and chewed each one as long and as slowly as she could, she would be able to complete the task she’d set herself at the same time as finishing her toast. Why was the 47 times-table such a tricky one? She continued reciting it in her mind. Although she tried to stop them, her lips kept trying to form the numbers, but chewing the toast helped hide that.
Across the table, her mother rustled
Her mother gave another snort of rage, folded the newspaper and tossed it down. It was no good, she’d only reached 47 times 23, and her mother was about to launch into a tirade.
“Yet another one of these meetings by those uncouth ruffians usurping the name of Robert Owen for their own ends. When are the government going to put a stop to it? That’s what I want to know. The Police Force had to go in and break it up when they should have been out on the streets catching thieves and murderers. And it’s my taxes that pay for that. It will give the Co-operative movement a bad name, and set back all the good work of Owen, and Feargus O’Connor with his Northern Star newspaper.” She thumped the pink tablecloth for emphasis, making the silver spoons rattle in their delicate Crown Derby porcelain saucers. Ada sensed the footman wincing as he feared for the whole breakfast service.
“Their meeting place, some tavern or other, was set fire to; only the quick thinking of the Metropolitan Police managed to put it out. Irish malcontents or extreme radicals, that’s what they were. You’d think that the example set by what happened to those farm-workers in Dorset would have been enough to deter them, whether you think their fate was the right thing or not, but, oh no — ”
“Tolpuddle. They were from Tolpuddle, Dorset. Twenty men sentenced to transportation to Australia for seven years’ apiece. In March this year,” Ada said.
“Yes, yes, I know all that. Don’t interrupt me.” Her mother settled her lace cap more firmly on her dark hair, then fixed her fierce eyes on Ada. “The point I’m making, Ada dear, is that some unscrupulous men, pretending to be allied to O’Connor and Owen and Cobbett, with their talk of combining into unions, are instead using the common man for their own ends, not for his good. Their purpose is to destabilize the government and bring down the monarchy. They want to incite the mobs into a rabble running through the streets of London, burning and pillaging. Why, they’re nothing but … but Republicans!”
The word hung dangerously in the air. This was the spectre her mother hated and feared the most. Would England become infected by the Revolutions of 1830?
“I believe they only talk of rights and wages and conditions, Mama, not of — of that,” Ada said. “Especially as the Reform Act has not extended suffrage very much.”
“And what right do they have to question the natural order of things? The men who run the factories and mines bring prosperity, jobs and advance for everyone. They should be praised, not attacked.”
Ada pushed her plate away, abandoning the last two small squares of toast. She would not complete her task now. “They create wealth through their knowledge and daring, and invention. They carry the risk with their own money. Without them there would be no jobs, and starving families. A logical equation, it seems.” This was what her tutors taught her, even though the words sometimes had a hollow ring. Her mother espoused the Co-operative Movement, yet still feared what she called the “ungoverned elements”.
