The last to grasp his hand was Annabel. By then, the barouche was rocking violently back and forth owing to the press of people surging all about them. Annabel lost her balance and fell backward into the well of the carriage. Sam jumped in to help her. They managed to get back on their feet, clinging tightly together.
Still standing in the well of the barouche, they watched in horror as one of the riders brought his sabre down on a man who was defiantly holding his banner emblazoned with “Liberty or Death” —perhaps the rider meant to cut the banner down, but instead, the blade continued its arc and sliced the man’s nose off his face. The man let out a scream, and blood gushed down his face onto his shirt.
“Murderers! You bastards!” screamed Annabel, and the same rider, his face contorted with rage, wheeled his horse about and bore down upon her, his bloody sabre held aloft.
Sam stepped forward, shoved Annabel down into the well behind him, and raised his arm.
St. Peter’s field, August 16, 1819, 1:45 pm
When the Yeomanry began to push through the crowd, hacking and slashing, Fanny had at first been frozen in place by sheer horror, unable to credit what she was seeing. Then as the screaming crowd turned and broke in all directions, she could not move forward to join the exodus, for the mass of persons attempting to leave the field pushed and surged and pressed her and dozens of others back against the wall. No-one was trying to harm her, but everyone was trying to flee. She was caught against the brick wall, held there and buffeted by the people pressing by. She began to sink, people stepped on her skirt, elbows jabbed into her chest, she could scarcely breathe.
“Fanny!”
She heard his voice. It was Mr. Gibson.
“Mr. Gibson! I am here!”
Mr. Gibson tore his way through the crowd. “Fanny!”
He reached her, just as she was in danger of being pushed underfoot. With all his strength, he clawed his way to her, pulled her up and held her against the wall, then shielded her with his body.
Half-fainting, Fanny clung to him.
“Fanny, I fear we will be crushed if we remain here. I am going to lift you over this wall—do you understand?”
Fanny nodded, dimly wondering what might be on the other side of the wall, but looking around her, she could see other people climbing over one another, and clambering over the wall, to escape being crushed.
“One, two, three—up!”
Fanny felt herself flying up, and then she was straddled across the wall, and she obtained, for the first time, a complete view of the scene around her. She saw the flashing blades of the sabres in the hands of the yeomanry, coming down upon the heads and limbs of shrieking men, women and children, she saw an officer on horseback, his face contorted with horror, shouting, “Put up your swords! Put them up, damn you! Are you mad?”
“Jump, Fanny!” She heard Mr. Gibson shout, and she rolled off the top of the wall and fell six feet onto a soft garden bed on the other side.
She was breathless, and would have preferred to lie there, but the thought that someone else might come over the wall and land on her, caused her to scramble to her feet and lurch forward.
She was in a walled garden, and there was an opening on the other side; some persons had already forced the gate open, and were fleeing through it; Fanny followed, then hesitated beside the gate. She did not wish to be lost in the fleeing throng before she found Mr. Gibson again.
She recalled that Mr. Gibson had named the Quaker meeting house, but to get there, she would have to beat against the tide of fleeing humanity streaming down Peter Street, and that was impossible. The street was thronged with shouting, weeping, people, all hastening away, being followed, senselessly, by constables who were beating them with cudgels and shouting, “Disperse! Disperse! In the King’s name!”
“Fanny, wait for me!” She heard Mr. Gibson behind her—he too had managed to climb over the wall. She turned and flung herself into his arms, shaking with fear, horror, and gratitude.
“Thank you! Thank you for saving me!”
Mr. Gibson looked at her carefully, taking in her dirtied and torn skirt, her mangled bonnet, and the bruise forming on her forehead. “Are you all right?” Without waiting for an answer, he swept her up in his arms.
Fanny only wanted to hide her head in his chest, and close her eyes, until the entire scene around them dissolved away, and they were both safe. They were being buffeted by the fleeing crowds; she opened her eyes briefly and saw a man staggering past, with blood spurting from a great slash in his forehead. She closed her eyes again and shuddered.
“I saw Charles, Fanny,” said Mr. Gibson. “I saw Charles. I told him to follow me. He was behind me, but we were separated. I’m sure he will come through all right.”
Fanny nodded, her cheek against his shoulder.
“Once I have you safely out of here, I will go back and look for him—and Sam.”
Mr. Gibson pushed his way through the gate and they continued down Peter Street. Mr. Gibson thought the crowds, though still numerous, were beginning to thin and the tumult to subside, with every step he put between them and the field.
Fanny began to weep softly and Mr. Gibson tightened his hold on her.
“There, there, my love. It’s all right. You’re safe now.”
They had reached St. Peter’s church but the steps were already covered with people, who clung to the columns lining the front of the building as though they would be swept away if they let go. Dozens more were pushing and
