Sam decided to step up on the first few rungs of the ladder, so that he might peer across the platform and obtain a view of the entire field. The sight was breath-taking. Thousands and thousands of people were collected together, all in good order. So many people assembled to ask for their rights. It would be impossible for the authorities to ignore them, or to dismiss them as a common rabble. They had marched into the field with dignity, proudly carrying their banners. He could see the expressions of pride, the excitement, the anticipation on the faces of those nearest to him. He glanced over at Annabel, sitting on her perch. She was radiant with happiness, drinking in the scene and the moment just as he was. Surely this was the beginning of a new day in England.
Farther away, Fanny watched as the man holding the white hat stepped forward on the platform. He spoke, but she could not distinguish his words.
“My good friends!” Mr. Hunt brayed, “I must entreat that you will be peaceable and quiet! Every person who wishes to hear, must keep order! We will endeavour to make ourselves heard by you!”
Charles and Benjamin were better placed to hear the great man as he warmed to his task, but Benjamin was not even looking at Mr. Hunt; he was glaring at the special constables, and refused to look away.
“I congratulate you all!” bellowed Mr. Hunt. “Our meeting, which was to have taken place one week ago, and was adjudged to be illegal—” Hunt flapped his hat in a dismissive fashion at the house where the magistrates could be seen— “by the same men who are watching us today! Those men expected to have triumphed over us when they suppressed our meeting last week. But see for yourselves what they have wrought—see what has come to pass—we stand here today, with two-fold the numbers!”
Loud cheers and laughter engulfed his words, and some moments passed before he could resume: “My good friends, you are all aware that a placard, which no one could read or understand, has been posted up in all parts of the town, advising all the citizens to be wary—”
Of all this, Fanny could still hear nothing, although she could hear the cheering and see the excited faces on the people straining and pushing forward. She could not have cared less about Mr. Hunt—her thoughts now were all for Mr. Gibson, her reflections were directed inward, rather than upon the interesting scene before her.
Simply the sight of Mr. Gibson, the exchange of a dozen words, had awakened the conviction in her heart that she could not give her hand to her cousin Edmund, no matter how much she esteemed him. She had rather be single for the rest of her days than be married to one, while owning her preference for another. She could not imagine what expressions, what blushes, what starts and smiles, were passing in succession across her countenance. Luckily for Fanny, the attention of the cheering multitude around her was all fixed on the distant figure of Mr. Hunt, orating to the utmost extent of his lung power at the other end of the field.
After a few moments of restless agitation, of struggling with a happiness, a relief so full that she wanted to cry, Fanny recollected herself and resolved to cross over to the Quaker meeting house, as Mr. Gibson had suggested. She would see him again there—and soon. He had promised her.
She stepped down from the curb and timidly, with muttered apologies, pushed her way through the crowd to arrive at the corner of the street. She had just reached Peter Street when she heard the sound of horses’ hooves. Around the corner, almost crashing into her, came a uniformed man on a horse. She jumped back out of the way, just in time. Another rider rounded the corner at a canter, and Fanny saw with horror that a woman holding a baby in her arms stood directly in his path.
“Watch out!” cried Fanny, and she dashed forward and pushed the woman violently out of the way, falling herself as she did so, expecting every instant to feel the animal’s hooves on her back or her legs.
By a miracle, the horse passed over her without crushing her into the ground.
“Are you all right?” Fanny cried to the woman, who had also fallen. The baby had been knocked out of her arms, and it lay in the dust, crying. The mother sprang up and snatched the child, clutching it to her chest. Unknown hands pulled Fanny to her feet, and hurried her out of the street, just as more horsemen arrived, all wearing blue and white uniforms. The riders trotted along the west side of the field, and assembled in front of Mr. Buxton’s house, their horses wheeling and fidgeting.
Unnerved by her near brush with death, Fanny retreated back to her old position, and pressed up against the brick wall, so at least nothing could come at her from behind. She shook the dust off her skirts, and wished she had some water to drink.
The horsemen, with their tall feathers in their shako caps, could be seen from everywhere in the field. The feeling of the gathering changed, as though a dark cloud had obscured a sunny day.
Mr. Hunt was yelling something but his voice scarcely reached Charles and Benjamin, who were halfway between the platform and Mr. Buxton’s house with the men from Oldham.
“What’s happening?” Charles asked Benjamin. “First constables, now soldiers—what is happening?”
“Soldiers!” scoffed Jemmy in reply. “Those aren’t soldiers. T’is only the Yeomanry. Local merchants and farmers. Stupid boobies. Men playing at dress-up.”
Charles had grown up in Portsmouth during a time of war. He had seen many men in
