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
