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.
*
