Mr. Gibson looked around. The nearby shops were all locked and shuttered.
“I think we must keep going,” he said.
“Mr. Gibson!”
Mr. Gibson swung around to see Charles, almost swept off his feet, carried along with the hordes of people pushing and shoving to escape.
“Charles! With us!”
Charles managed to extricate himself from the tide of people, to join Mr. Gibson and Fanny. Fanny was exceedingly alarmed on his behalf for a moment, seeing blood all over his face and on his shirt, and he rather impatiently answered her anxious enquiries as they hurried along.
Charles was extremely cast down at the inglorious end of his adventure. He was shocked at the attempts of his false friend Benjamin to use him, to enrol him in acts which were not only disagreeable, but could have sent him to prison or worse. He was overjoyed when he had seen Mr. Gibson in the crowd, surprised at learning Fanny had followed him to Manchester, and inexpressively relieved to be away from the melee, but now he felt like an escaped prisoner who had been recaptured.
Miraculously, they had only to hurry on for a few more minutes to put sufficient distance between themselves and the tumult behind them. Mr. Gibson called a halt to their flight, to allow them to stop and take stock of themselves. He set Fanny down and ascertained that she had suffered no injury, apart from some bruises. Charles was limping, for his foot and leg had been trodden upon during his escape. Both men had lost their hats.
Fanny was looking steadfastly at Mr. Gibson, still marvelling at the fact of his presence. “Mr. Gibson, you have saved my life.”
A slow smile crossed Mr. Gibson’s face. “It was my pleasure.”
Fanny removed her bonnet and attempted to arrange her tangled hair. She looked at her brother.
“Charles, are you still bleeding?” said Fanny. “Do you have a handkerchief?”
“What?” said Charles. “What the devil, Fanny—”
“Let me see—yes—I do,” Mr. Gibson, and as he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, his notebook and pencil came out with it and fell to the ground.
“Oh, Mr. Gibson!” said Fanny remorsefully. “You came here to report on this meeting, and instead—”
“That does not matter now,” he answered.
“Yes, it does!” Fanny exclaimed. “It does matter. You must write of this—you must tell what has happened here. The public must be informed.”
“I will not leave you here, Fanny!” he exclaimed. “The soldiers are still roaming the streets, and we have no acquaintance in this city with which to seek shelter.”
“Charles will stay with me,” said Fanny. “Charles and I shall go to the White Lion on the Stockport road.”
Mr. Gibson looked at Charles and Charles nodded, but with some reluctance.
Mr. Gibson gently caressed Fanny’s cheek, and saw the bruise swelling above her eye would turn purple soon.
“Are you quite certain, Fanny?” asked Mr. Gibson.
“Yes, I am, Mr. Gibson,” she replied firmly. “You have something you must do, and no-one can do it so well as you, and it would be wrong and selfish of me to restrain you.”
Her eyes threatened to fill with tears, for she wondered if she would ever see him again. No doubt he would return to London immediately, to publish his report of the disaster.
A thrill of hope arose when he next said, “Very well—the White Lion on the Stockport Road. Please, please wait for me there. I shall return so soon as I can, and I shall find Sam also. Charles,” he added. “Take care of your sister. Get her safely out of here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well then,” he said, gathering up his notebook. “I shall go back now.”
Fanny smiled up at him, with a look full of confidence and pride, and he could not resist. Cupping her face in both his hands, he kissed her gently on her forehead.
“Fanny,” he whispered. “Do you trust me?”
“I do, absolutely.” she murmured.
* * * * * * *
Fanny and Charles had run here and there through the streets of Manchester, ducking into doorways and alleys to avoid the soldiers on horseback who were chasing the fleeing remnants of the crowd. They observed some people shouting and smashing shop windows but most of the spectators from St. Peter’s field melted away, or sat quietly on the steps in front of some of the buildings, weeping, wordless, some of them badly injured. Fanny wanted to stop and comfort them but Charles pulled her along. “You can’t help them, Fanny,” he said. “We do not know where the infirmary is in this town, we’ve no bandages or water, there’s nothing we can do.”
They reached the outskirts of town. The road to Stockport was filled with persons engulfed in misery, fear and anger, hurrying back to their homes, the same homes they had left that morning with such high hopes.
Fanny was astonished that it was not even sunset when they reached the coaching inn. So much had happened since she arose twelve hours ago.
At the inn, their dirty, bedraggled appearance proclaimed them to have been at St. Peter’s field, but Fanny’s genteel speech and manners convinced the inn-keeper’s wife that she must have been an innocent bystander caught up in the commotion.
Fanny paid handsomely for the privilege of being able to wash up and drink a cup of tea. Her travelling dress was stained and torn but she was too exhausted to care. She and Charles sat together, barely speaking, utterly spent. Fanny observed that Charles’ hand shook as he picked up his tankard of ale. Now was not the time to scold him for running away, and Fanny’s thoughts were all with Mr. Gibson and Sam.
Other stragglers brought word of fighting in the streets and
