At last Mr. Gibson returned, looking weary and sad. He attempted, without success, to pull Charles aside for a private word, but his face bore his news and Fanny, completely alert, exclaimed: “What of Sam! For pity’s sake, Mr. Gibson, please tell me!”
Mr. Gibson sighed and slowly took a seat beside her, and took her hand in his. “Fanny,” he said, speaking low. “I’m so sorry. I found him, near the platform. There was a girl with him, weeping and cradling his head in her lap. It was she who told me his name was Sam Price. They will take his body—I will look after—”
Tears streamed down Fanny’s face, and Mr. Gibson reached out, and folded her to his chest, shielding her from the curious stares of other travellers.
Charles leapt to his feet, but stood irresolutely, not knowing where to go. “It’s not fair,” he muttered angrily. “It’s not fair.”
Life had been so unfair to Sam, Fanny thought, her sobs muffled in Mr. Gibson’s jacket. He was clever and capable, but had never won promotion at sea. The last years of his life were marked only by regret and anger, by disappointed prospects and forlorn hopes. She preferred to recall the lively, boisterous child he had been, curly-haired, impudent and brash. After giving herself up completely to grief for a few moments, she endeavoured to control herself, for the sake of Mr. Gibson and Charles. She took Mr. Gibson’s pocket handkerchief, and looked up at him with tear-filled eyes.
“Do you know what happened?” she asked faintly.
“The girl told me Sam saved her life,” Mr. Gibson answered. “I have written down her name and her direction, if you wish to write to her for more particulars. I observed that he—can you bear to hear it? He sustained a deep cut to his neck, which must have severed a crucial artery. And there was a cut to his forearm as well, as though he had held it up to shield himself from the blow.”
Fanny shuddered and the tears flowed again.
“Why?” she sobbed. “Why?”
“The Yeomanry,” said Charles. “They were going for the banners. Then—” he stopped.
“Charles?” said Mr. Gibson, looking at him intently. “Did you hear anyone give an order to attack the people?”
“No, sir,” said Charles.
“I swear to you, Fanny,” said Mr. Gibson quietly but firmly, “If this was ordered by the magistrates I will blazon their names to the world. If redress can be obtained in court, we will do it.”
Fanny wiped the tears from her eyes. “Justice is very hard to come by in this world,” she said. “But I love you for seeking for it.”
“I will take you home tomorrow,” Mr. Gibson said softly.
Fanny shook her head. “You must go to London. The magistrates will tell their version of events—you must tell what you have seen.”
“Truth is even more difficult to come by than justice,” said Mr. Gibson. “I can recount what I have seen, but I cannot explain why—why did this happen? Why did the Yeomanry turn on the people so viciously?”
Charles buried his face with his hands for a moment, struggling with himself. Then he looked up.
“There was a man,” he said. And he told them about his false friend Benjamin.
* * * * * * *
The following day, Fanny waited at Stockport, while Mr. Gibson and Charles returned to Manchester to claim poor Sam’s body from the Infirmary and see to his burial.
“Hundreds of angry men are roaming the roads, Fanny,” Mr. Gibson warned, “and the militia are everywhere. There are rumours of riots and uprisings all about—I beg of you, do not go abroad until our return.”
The inn-keeper’s wife continued to be very anxious about her husband, and he did not return until the end of the second day, looking exceedingly tired and solemn. He had been assigned to patrol the streets all night, for fear of riots, but nothing materialised from the rumours.
Fanny thought he would be filled with praises for the militia, and their heroic efforts in suppressing a riot, and the thought of listening to him say as much was odious to her, but she was surprised to hear him say that he greatly regretted what had occurred. His wife and the loungers in the common room plied him with questions. No, his unit had not arrived at St. Peter’s field until the melee was nearly over. Someone had brought word that an armed escort was needed to escort Constable Nagin to the platform to arrest Mr. Hunt, but by the time his unit arrived at St. Peter’s field the melee was nearly over.
He had only seen the aftermath. He had seen the dusty field, with bonnets, baskets and shoes strewn about, had seen the broken bodies lying there, and he declared it “was all a very badly-managed business, when innocent women and children were trampled down in the street. It had better have been left to the professional soldiers, not the Yeomanry.”
How many had died? He was asked. He could not say, he had heard of six, then of twelve, but, all things considered, when there were so many people on the field, it was a mercy that more had not perished.
Meanwhile in Manchester, Charles searched for any sign of Benjamin and Jemmy and the other men who had defied the authorities, but could not find them. His description of Benjamin, however, was sufficient to convince Mr. Gibson that this was the same Benjamin Walker who had betrayed his Luddite comrades. Did his actions at St. Peter’s field arise out of his resentment for not receiving a reward before? Did he intend to lay a complaint
