as the people turned and began to push back against the crowd, anxious to get away.

“Look to your children!” Mr. Gibson shouted. “Remove yourselves!”

This advice, called out on all sides by Mr. Gibson and others, was easier to wish than accomplish. The field was packed with spectators and surrounded on three sides with buildings. Only several narrow streets offered an avenue of escape. Women cried, men exclaimed, as they attempted to move away. The jubilant mood, the feeling of triumph, was completely erased now, replaced now by fear and alarm.

There were also scattered shouts of anger, particularly at the western side of the field where the special constables were tussling with the men trying to prevent Mr. Hunt being dragged away, his white hat dented from a blow from a cudgel.

In the press, Charles was jostled almost off his feet. He looked about him. Constables were raising their cudgels, beating people back in all directions. He saw Jemmy bring his pole down hard on the hindquarters of the nearest horse. The horse reared, the cavalry man turned and slashed at Jemmy, who went down. The men around him screamed their defiance. Charles tried to judge where the crowd was thinnest, intending to clear out of there, for he had no intention of trying conclusions with a cudgel or a sabre. If he ran south or west, he would have to dodge the constables. If he went in the opposite direction, across the entire width of St. Peter’s field, he would be exposed to the cavalry.

“Where are you going? Fun’s just beginning,” said Benjamin, and to Charles’ dismay, he shrugged his rucksack off his shoulders, opened it, and pulled out a large piece of paving-stone. Charles froze in disbelief as Benjamin took aim and flung his projectile at the nearest rider, a young man resplendent in white and blue. The stone hit the man squarely in the face—he fell off the back of his saddle and landed with a thud on the ground.

A small gaggle of enraged men fell upon the fallen rider, kicking, stomping and striking him. A woman screamed. The horse, panicked and hemmed in on all sides, continued to kick and rear, injuring everyone in its path.

Benjamin laughed. “Good shot, if I say so myself! Here, Charlie, now is your chance!” And he pulled out another piece of paving stone and handed it to the boy. “Pretend it’s your master, back in Northampton, and let him have it,” he said, pointing to another rider who was beating back the panicked spectators with the flat of his sabre.

Charles’s fingers curled around the brick. He watched as the rider’s sabre came down, again and again, across the shoulders of men and even women who were pushing, clawing, struggling to get out of the way. A woman screamed as the edge of the sabre struck her shoulder, the blood bright against her white gown. He thought of Mr. Smith’s leather strap and how it felt coming down on his back. If Mr. Smith had been there, perhaps Charles would have flung the stone.

“No-one will see you,” urged Benjamin, “in this multitude. Go on. I know you are man enough to do it. Give them what they deserve.”

“Are you out of your senses?” shouted Charles. “Do you think you can defeat them with a few rocks?”

“Give it back, then,” said Benjamin.

Now, Charles only wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and his new companion. There was a narrow opening between the buildings, at the south-west corner of the field. Charles hoped it was a street and not a dead end. He stumbled and pushed and struggled toward it with hundreds of others, men calling for their wives, women clutching their children.

Suddenly, a regiment of cavalry appeared before them, filling the narrow gap. They pulled up, formed a line, and charged directly at them, their swords drawn. The crowd turned as one and ran the other way, shouting in alarm. People fell and were trampled underfoot. An elbow hit Charles hard in the nose, and he saw stars. Blood gushed from his nose, but he kept pressing onward, this time to the north side of the field, with the soldiers behind him.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *

Sam, meanwhile, was pushing his way through a solid writhing mass of people to get to the barouche. The women of the Female Reform Society were all screaming, except for Annabel, who appeared to be shouting insults at the Yeomanry. He tried to reach her, when he heard a female voice crying in panic behind him. He turned back and saw Mrs. Fildes hanging off the edge of the platform, her skirt caught on a nail or some other projection, trying vainly to escape. Quickly he ran to her and then thought—how can I carry her with only one arm?

The answer presented itself instantly. He caught her eye, then turned around, and offered her his back as though she were a child wanting a piggy-back ride. She wrapped her arms tightly round his neck, and he ripped her skirt away from the platform. He stumbled forward through crowd, carrying her to the barouche.

“Let’s get out of here!” He shouted at Annabel.

“Where?” Annabel shouted back. “How?” For there was such a press of panicked people surging all around them, such a solid mass of humanity, pushing and shoving in all directions, that flight appeared impossible. And no fewer than three of the Yeomanry were active around them, slashing indiscriminately with their sabres and pushing through the crowd with their horses.

Sam turned to the rest of the women in the barouche. “Get out! Crawl under the carriage! Get under the carriage!” he shouted over the din. Mrs. Fildes slipped off his back and Sam sprang forward, pulling the nearest female out of the barouche and then shoving her underneath. He assisted the next, and the next,

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