“Very well—if you can bring us a dozen merchants who are willing to swear on their oath that they are concerned about their safety and property, we will be in a position to read the Riot Act—if we deem it to be necessary.”
“Where are the 15th Hussars?”
“They will take their position on Windmill Street.”
“Do we have runners, messengers?”
Mr. Gibson felt in his pocket for his notebook and pencil, and went out to the street to scratch a few notes. “Magistrates apprehensive of scenes of violence today.”
Manchester, August 16, 1819, 11:00 am
Sam walked along a broad thoroughfare, which, even if he had not known it to be called Peter Street, he would have understood to be the route to St. Peter’s field on account of all the labouring men walking and marching in one direction with greater energy and enjoyment than one might suppose they regularly displayed when reporting to work. They had not come to Manchester to shop or to dawdle, but to get to the meeting-place and take up an advantageous position from which to hear Mr. Hunt.
Sam paused to examine a large poster affixed to a wall: “The Boroughreeves and Constables of Manchester most earnestly recommend the peaceable and well-disposed citizens of this town to remain in their own houses the whole of this day and to keep their children and servants within doors.”
Indeed, many businesses were closed that morning; the shutters remained fastened across their windows and there were no signs of commerce in the streets.
Sam was just passing the Flying Horse tavern when, by great good fortune, he spied Mr. Hunt emerge, in company with some others. Mr. Hunt was wearing his usual white hat, with a bright green waistcoat and cream-coloured trousers. He was head and shoulders taller than the working men standing around him. He was clean and pink; they were grimy and grey, men of the North from the mills and factories.
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
