Until the Colours Fade (18 page)

‘Do you think,’ he murmured, ‘that I’m the fool Catherine said I was to be doing this?’

‘If it’s what you want, why should I?’

‘Because I might want to deceive myself into thinking better of myself. That’s what you think I’m doing, isn’t it?’

‘If you succeed, why should deception come into it? I wouldn’t do it myself, but I’m not you. There wasn’t much room for pride or heroism at the engraver’s where I was apprenticed. My
grandfather
never lost a leg. My father was a fire insurance clerk. My mother gave music lessons.’

Stung by the unfamiliar harshness in Strickland’s voice, Magnus still managed a slight smile.

‘You said that rather too proudly to be laughing at aristocratic pride. You’re forgetting how you came after me the other day
because
you couldn’t bear to be thought disloyal. You said so
yourself
.’

‘Can’t you see the difference?’ asked Tom, with a hint of
contrition
. ‘I wanted
you
to think well of me. That’s not the same as doing something to be able to think well of oneself.’

The carriage slithered slightly at a bend, making Magnus wince with pain.

‘If others think badly of us,’ he sighed, ‘surely we think the same of ourselves?’

‘You don’t care what most people think of you.’ He looked at Magnus sadly. ‘Can’t you understand? I’d never met anybody like you. I cared about your opinion because I admired you.’

In the distance Magnus saw the dark sprawl of the town, its harsh outline transformed and softened by the snow. He turned to Tom.

‘But you don’t any more.’

‘No. That isn’t your fault though. I never thought what was possible or likely. I envied you … your assurance, manner … things like that.’

‘Which of course aren’t worth a brass farthing.’

The effort of talking had taken Magnus’s mind off his
shoulder
, but hurt his mouth and jaw.

‘I didn’t mean that,’ Tom replied softly.

‘You weren’t paying me a compliment either.’

Magnus was surprised by an almost imploring look from Tom.

‘Haven’t you ever met somebody, and thought he knew
everything
that you had wanted to….’

‘And later found out how wrong you were?’ Magnus smiled. ‘Who hasn’t? But I sometimes ended by liking the people I’d expected too much from … after I’d forgiven them for my own mistaken estimate.’ He looked intently at Strickland’s handsome face. ‘Are you too proud to do that, Tom? Perhaps you think I
took advantage of you because of my class; asked you to take risks because I considered it my right. I asked you because I liked you; yes, from the night of the riot, when you pointed out so clearly that I had no rights over you. Any favours there may have been were conferred by you. I have no plans, no prospects. You help me today, but I can do nothing for you tomorrow. I’m the debtor, Tom.’

Strickland looked away.

‘I didn’t expect friendship as a reward. You needn’t fear that burden.’

‘Burden?’ cried Magnus. ‘If you’d known a quarter of the loneliness I went through in Ceylon, you wouldn’t call friendship that.’

‘I’m sorry.’

From the pained look on the artist’s face, Magnus did not doubt his sincerity.

‘Didn’t it occur to you,’ he asked, ‘that I wanted you with me today so I could prove something to you? Just as you once wished to prove something to me.’ He fell silent and both listened to the creaking of leather and the muted thud of the horses’ hoofs. ‘A pity,’ he said at length, ‘that I chose the wrong thing. Stoicism’s probably no more than a refuge for the lost and scared.’ He banged sharply on the roof and the coach slid to a halt. ‘Shall we go back?’ he asked Tom, who stared at him in astonishment.

‘No, no, of course not. I didn’t explain well, but it doesn’t matter. I want to go with you.’

‘I’ve made it impossible for you to say anything else.’

‘It’s not that at all. Really.’

*

Soon they were passing through the deserted outskirts; the town seemed silent at first, until they heard a low distant rumble, as might be heard approaching a race course at a large meeting. It was not loud at first, but grew as the pure white snow gave way to blackened slush and the wide span of the iron bridge came in sight. Magnus caught Tom’s eye and, though he did not smile, knew that he had changed his mind. The pain in his shoulder was worse, but he suddenly felt happy.

From their headquarters in the Town Hall, Lord Goodchild and Colonel Summers looked down anxiously at the surging crowd in front of the polling booth in the centre of the market square. At the next window, beside the Town Clerk, stood a tense-faced St Clare. As on Nomination Day, Braithwaite had assembled a paid mob to protect his voters from the vast crowd of non-electors favouring the Liberal candidate, but, once again, their presence merely served to cause greater antagonism. Nor were the hundred special constables, employed to keep the two factions apart, a dependable force. Freshly issued truncheons and black and white cockades could not be expected magically to transform an untrained levy of shopkeepers and warehousemen into a body sufficiently disciplined to remain calm for long under the
barrage
of stones, dead rooks, rats and rotten fruit raining down on them from both sides. So far they had managed to protect Tory voters on their perilous path to the polling booth, but the mood of the crowd was worsening.

By noon the Liberal agent’s tactics had become apparent. For the first two hours after the opening of the poll the Tories had been allowed to establish a narrow lead, but now the Liberals were pushing forward forty or so voters in a rush to achieve a tenuous majority. Their hope being that, as the Tory vote
inevitably
rose towards parity, the fury and disappointment of the crowd, whose expectations had been falsely raised, would be enough to discourage the more faint-hearted of Braithwaite’s electors from turning out. Although to date there had been no violent attacks either on individual electors or on property, Goodchild felt far from confident; the unpopular special
constables
would not remain for long the sole targets of the stones and bottles being thrown; and, when Tory voters had to
contend
with greater intimidation than the spitting, jostling and hooting they were currently enduring, action would have to be taken.

Their problem, as Goodchild and Summers knew very well, was that, if rioting broke out, they would be unable to clear the square without serious repercussions. In Millcroft Fields, an open space just outside the town, the Spinners’ Union was
holding
a meeting of five thousand strikers and had promised a march to the market place. To meet this threat five troops of
cavalry
– two of dragoons and three of lancers – had received orders to seal off the entrances to the High Street and Silver Street, the two principal thoroughfares leading into the square. This would stop the Union’s procession reaching the centre of the town and also prevent the crowd already assembled in the square leaving it en masse and joining the strikers. Clearly, if the situation in the market square did become critical, the mob could not be driven out by either of the main exits, since this would bring them up behind the cavalry sealing off the streets, thus exposing the soldiers to attack from both sides. The square could only be cleared by forcing the crowd through the three small alleys on the south side – an action which would cause panic and bloodshed, since several thousand people could not rapidly be squeezed through such small openings without terrible crushing and trampling.

As Goodchild watched, two Tory voters were being escorted to the booth from the Swan Hotel, flanked by a dense screen of constables. A flurry of movement passed over the crowd around them, like an angry squall over water. A moment later the police were attacked with staves and bottles, but they managed to get the electors safely to the booth. On coming out, their protectors faltered and both men were kicked and punched, one having his coat ripped off. The idea of bolstering the special constables with a company of foot-soldiers had been suggested but rejected, since their appearance in the square would probably start the riot they had been put there to prevent. Also unmounted men were easier to overwhelm, and if the mob succeeded against one group of
soldiers
they would feel confident that the same could be achieved against others. This consideration apart, Goodchild was
convinced
that it would be madness to place his men in a situation where they might have to fight hand-to-hand with people from their own class and background; up on a horse they would be more likely to do their duty. That morning a number of
pamphlets
and posters had been tossed over the barracks wall. One of them Goodchild still had folded in his pocket:

Goodchild remembered from the riots of 1842 that troopers, to avoid hurting the crowd, often secretly bit out the ball from their cartridges.

A chaise with shuttered windows had drawn up outside the Town Hall; moments later Joseph Braithwaite leapt out.

As soon as Goodchild saw the manufacturer’s infuriated face, he knew what to expect. Joseph strode up to St Clare.

‘May I ask whether you intend to wait until murder is
committed
before reading the Riot Act?’

Summers stepped forward in the same shabby undress
uniform
Goodchild had first seen him in.

‘Mr St Clare’s restraint has been at my request.’

‘My voters are being set upon, sir. I demand you clear the square.’

‘If there is a riot it will be quelled,’ returned Summers in an even voice.

‘Colonel, you are permitting a brutal and vicious mob to
prevent
my voters reaching the polling booth.’

Goodchild disliked Summers and resented the fact that, as commander of the garrison, he was in overall command of the troops in the town, but he admired the colonel’s manner as he said:

‘In the present circumstances electors must expect some
inconvenience
to attend the exercise of their privilege.’

‘Is that your view, my lord?’

Goodchild turned reluctantly and faced his benefactor,
twisting
his golden sword knot between his fingers.

‘It is.’

‘I had never hoped, my lord, to see you tolerate intimidation.’

Goodchild felt a spasm of choking anger and indignation. How did the man dare speak of intimidation when a quarter of the shopkeepers in the town stood to lose their leases or their
custom
if they voted against him?

‘I believe that money and property have methods of
persuasion
quite as pressing as the mob’s.’

A loud cheer rose from the square. Goodchild turned and saw a man with a heavily bandaged head leaving the polling booth
supported
by several others. He swung round the telescope mounted in the window and picked out Magnus and Strickland. He
pushed the eye-piece towards Braithwaite and said:

‘There’s a man able to vote in spite of certain impediments.’

The slight intake of breath as Joseph looked through the instrument convinced Goodchild that he had known exactly what had happened to Magnus. Nor would he get much pleasure from seeing Strickland in young Crawford’s company. Already his shock seemed to be giving way to anger. Joseph pushed aside the telescope and walked to the door.

‘Gentlemen, you will regret it if you fail to do your duty to the electors.’

‘My duty, sir, is to the whole town,’ replied Summers, as the door closed after their visitor.

Five minutes later, a young subaltern burst in on them. The Union marchers had left Millcroft Fields and were heading for the High Street along Mytongate and Granby Street.

*

As Goodchild, accompanied by a subaltern and the adjutant, stepped out into the stable-yard, the order ‘Prepare to Mount’ was given and men hurried to remove heavy grey blankets from the horses’ backs; underneath, the animals were already saddled. The thawing snow in the yard was littered with straw and hay and stained with urine. Goodchild’s batman came up with his white gauntlets and black-plumed shako. Horses neighed and whinnied and the cobbles resounded to the clash of hoofs as the thoroughbreds pranced and skittered in the sharp cold air.
Without
their usual lances and fluttering pennants, the 17th were equipped with carbines and sabres; their scabbards so highly polished that they could be, and sometimes were, used as shaving mirrors.

Goodchild mounted his large mettlesome black horse and his servant adjusted the stirrup leathers and checked the reins and girth. The command ‘Forward!’ was given and, with clanking sabres and clattering hoofs, the troop, defiled in fours, moved out of the yard. The sun caught the gold lace on epaulettes and glinted from the brass ornaments on shakos and pouches, and from numerous buttons. The black plumes spread out and caught the wind as the walk was increased to a trot. At the
appearance
of the horsemen, with their dark blue uniforms and striking blue facings, a roar of anger rose from the crowd in the square, but this changed to an ironic cheer as the cavalry wheeled towards the High Street. Riding just ahead of the two troop leaders, Goodchild felt thankful to be escaping from the
square, where Summers would now be wholly responsible for supressing a riot, if one started. His lordship’s task was now to prevent the strikers’ march reaching the centre of town; and with four troops of cavalry at his disposal, he was confident that he could halt four thousand marchers without violence.

When Lord Goodchild reached the top of the High Street, he was surprised that, although he could hear distant shouting and the music of the Union’s band, the signal flag had not been broken out above the Free Trade Hall ahead of him. The flag was to have been hoisted the moment the marchers passed the troop of yeomanry, positioned to prevent them forcing their way into Horsefair, the street leading into the Quadrant – the open space where the only other polling booths were situated. Either the strikers had turned back or they had overwhelmed the
yeomanry
.

The captain of the troop of Lancers deployed across the High Street rode up to Goodchild and saluted.

‘Did you send out advance pickets?’ Goodchild asked sharply.

‘My orders forbade sending out small bodies of men, my lord.’

Goodchild nodded. How even the yeomanry could have failed to hold the narrow archway leading into Horsefair was beyond him.

‘I want you to lead a small scouting party – say ten troopers and a sergeant – to see what’s happening in Horsefair. If you’re not back in five minutes, I’ll send a troop after you and enter the Quadrant from the west with another two troops. On no account must the marchers be penned into Horsefair. If they’re in there, we’ll get them out from the Quadrant end.’

‘And the High Street, my lord?’

‘We’ll still have one troop here and I’ll send for another from Silver Street.’

The captain rode off to collect his men and Goodchild called over his adjutant and two other senior officers to give them orders. He kept glancing at the flagstaff above the Free Trade Hall, but no flag was hoisted. Ahead the streets were eerily empty and now the band was no longer to be heard. Goodchild’s heart was pounding, more with anger than fear. The whole exercise had been perfectly planned, but the yeomanry could have been counted on to let them down. Trust the yeomanry.

*

George Braithwaite sat waiting on his horse, behind the two
closely-packed lines of yeomanry troopers blocking the narrow medieval archway of Monkgate Bar. In theory he knew that his two dozen men under the Bar, and the further hundred in reserve behind them, should be able to hold the confined opening into Horsefair against many thousands. Certainly, had his men been on foot with orders to fire if attacked, they could have turned back any mob; but George’s orders, as he understood them, only empowered him to use mounted men, and were unambiguous in forbidding any shooting, unless in answer to shots. Although George had been told that there was little
likelihood
of the marchers trying to force their way into Horsefair, he had his doubts. They would send forward spies who would at once see that the High Street was impassable and would
therefore
know that their only way of reaching the centre of town would be through Monkgate Bar. Nor, when they came level with the line of green uniforms under the Bar, would the marchers be able to see the larger reserve force in Horsefair.

When the marchers arrived and at once started to hack out cobbles with pick-axes and iron bars, George and the troopers in front of him knew what was coming, but were powerless to do anything. If they charged with so small a line, they would be
surrounded
and the crowd would surge through the arch behind them. To have fired at once would have been their only
salvation
, but their orders ruled that course out.

In the narrow space under the Bar, the first cobbles crashing among the terrified horses caused pandemonium; animals reared-up, threw their riders and brought each other down. In the ensuing chaos, the mob poured forward through the archway into Horsefair, and saw the reserve troop facing them two hundred yards away with drawn sabres, preventing their further advance on the Quadrant. The marchers’ leaders could not stop because of the pressure from behind, as hundreds pressed on oblivious through Monkgate Bar.

Acutely conscious of Goodchild’s repeated exhortations to avoid bloodshed, George did not give the order to charge, but prayed that the forward impetus would slacken, as more and more came to realise that the way ahead was blocked. Deciding to give them room, he ordered his men back but, when the mob kept coming, he saw that his withdrawal had been interpreted as irresolution rather than design. Simultaneously the thought came to him that unless he charged immediately, he would be
unable
to meet the mob at anything above a gentle trot. He felt the same sickness and confusion he had experienced a month before
on the station road. But now there was no Magnus Crawford to give advice. In training the charge ended with a double flank
retirement
in column of troops and the reforming of the first line behind the reserve line; but today, would he even be able to use a second line? And how could the first line clear itself after a charge against such a densely packed crowd? One line would have to be enough.