“No, no, you are not,” said Fanny warmly.
Mr. Gibson’s smile in return told her that she was still as lovely as he remembered.
Fanny placed a hand upon his arm.
“Thank you, Mr. Gibson. I cannot thank you enough.”
“Be careful, Fanny. I shall look for you after I find your brothers.”
Then he was gone for good, pushing his way forcefully through the crowd, most of whom gave way out of habit, for his clothing proclaimed him to be a gentleman, but a few of the younger men snarled at him, and one called out, “the day is coming for folk like you.”
Fanny watched him until he was out of her sight. He was gone—had he even been there? The entire encounter had been brief, but Fanny’s pounding heart was longer in subsiding, and she revolved the brief exchange again and again in her mind—his tone of voice, the expression of his countenance. How readily he had offered his assistance! He might have refused, pleading the necessity of reserving all his attention for chronicling the scene, for surely he was there in his capacity as a writer. The one thing she had most feared, most dreaded, had not come to pass. She was forgiven! A thrill of pleasure stole over her—a joy which had nothing to do with the prospect of finding her brothers. He would seek her out again. They would meet and speak again.
Mr. Gibson was also absorbed in contemplating the amazing and unlooked-for occurrence. Fanny was there—she had greeted him—she had smiled, she needed his help. He sensed no coolness, no resentment on her part, for his having rashly got himself imprisoned on the eve of their intended wedding. He was forgiven. Could he also hope, that she still cared for him?
His original object in coming to the meeting was forgotten. He no longer was asking himself: ‘which of these men harbour intentions of revolution?’ He was asking only, ‘which of these men has only one arm?’
Manchester, August 16, 1819, 1:30 pm.
It was almost one-thirty when at last the great man took his seat in the barouche. Mrs. Fildes, the president of the Female Reformers, received the seat of honour next to him. They rode into the throng. The carriage was pulled not by horses, but by some of his admirers. Whereas on the west side of the platform, the people had muttered and jostled at the double line of constables in their midst, in contrast, everyone on the east side parted joyfully to let Mr. Hunt through. He was followed by the white-garbed women, marching in step, and last of all came Sam.
A small band of drummers and trumpeters played a ragged version of See, the Conqu’ring Hero Comes. Mr. Hunt raised himself out of his seat, pulled off his hat and waved it in all directions. The ovation which greeted him shook the very heavens and echoed off the buildings around the field, and Sam and Annabel both gasped when they took in the extent and size of the gathering.
The procession reached the hustings, upon which a dozen men were already waiting. The platform was merely two carts lashed together with some planking on top. The human barricade of men which surrounded the platform opened to admit Mr. Hunt, Mr. Saxton and Mrs. Fildes. Sam ran forward to help Mrs. Fildes with her banner, but other hands reached her first, and lifted her safely up to the platform.
Once on the platform, which was only slightly higher than a man’s height, Mr. Hunt looked around him and frowned.
“By heaven, this has been a poorly managed business! Scarcely room enough to stand! And you have placed the hustings so that I must speak into the wind!” Turning round, he added, “Get these drums and horns off the stage! I must have some room! Unless I previously informed you that you were to address this assembly, get off— get out— all of you!”
“What about we reporters, Mr. Hunt?” asked a man with a notebook.
“You may stay. But the rest of you—begone!”
Everyone leaped to obey the great man.
Mr. Hunt strode back and forth on the newly-cleared platform, as though doubtful whether it would not collapse, and then cleared his throat a few times in preparation for the heroic effort he must soon make. The people who were lucky enough to secure places near the platform began to say ‘hush, hush’ to each other, in anticipation. “Don’t call for silence,” Mr. Hunt shouted at them brusquely. “It never helps, and you just make more noise.”
Annabel was still chattering, quietly but happily, to Sam. Sam heard Mr. Hunt exclaim: “Where are the women? Why are you hiding the women?”
“We are not hiding them, Mr. Hunt,” Mr. Saxton protested. “The men are here to form a barrier around the platform to preserve a space for the women.”
“Well, obviously no-one will be able to see the women if men are standing in front of them!” Mr. Hunt roared. “Tell the women to climb into the barouche, so that they may be seen! At once! And where is that one-armed man?” He looked around impatiently.
“Here, sir,” called Sam.
“Good. Stay close, stay near the ladder, so that you may climb up when I call upon you, do you hear?” Sam nodded, then he helped Annabel and the other ladies take their seats in the carriage. Annabel, in high glee, climbed on to the driver’s box and motioned Sam to climb up beside her. He shook his head. “I should wait by the platform. But I will help you get safely home after all this is over, Miss Wheeler.”
During all of these preliminaries, the murmurs of the crowd, rolling across the field in waves, grew fainter, like an ebb tide.
“Very well, very well,” said Mr. Hunt, swinging his arms and moving his shoulders as though preparing himself for
