A Song Twice Over (80 page)

She shrugged. ‘Why should he? He lost the election so he'll be going back to London, I suppose – or, wherever.'

‘Away from Mrs Gage? Do you think so?'

‘Yes, I do.'

She meant it, for Daniel would not change his course now for any woman. He would walk his own way alone, until that cold flame had burned itself out in him, or consumed him. She could see that. Could Gemma Gage? Yet Daniel made several visits to Frizingley that autumn and winter, coming, he still declared, as the true representative of the working people, which amounted, after all, to ninety per cent of Frizingley. And he was dining at the Ephraim Cooks with Gemma one night the following February when the news arrived of revolution in France.

Not the first, of course, and not in France alone this time either. Although no one doubted that the revolutionary French, with their great liking for turning out their kings, had triggered it off. Beginning when the French king Louis Philippe found himself running from the Paris mob without his wig – remembering, no doubt, another King Louis, not too long ago, who had lost not only his wig but his head – and spreading with the terrifying rapidity of a spark among dry trees to similar uprisings in Austria, Hanover, Naples, Schleswig Holstein, Prussia. A whirlwind of revolt sweeping across the whole continent of Europe, against established monarchs and dukes and generals, which only Belgium and Russia, and England so far, resisted.

In Paris a new republic was proclaimed, King Louis Philippe taking refuge with that natural patron of dispossessed royalty, Queen Victoria. Would the Habsburgs fall too? It seemed likely. And the families of Hesse and Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, and Romanov with them? There were many in England who hoped so. And what of the socialist and nationalist groups in Hungary, Poland, Italy, where voices had been crying out a long time now against oppression? Would they not take this opportunity to rise, each nation against its own brand of tyranny? What of mutilated Ireland, seething like a cauldron about to spill over? What of the Charter?

Where France had led could not England follow?

The young men of Halifax certainly thought so as they marched in military formation up and down their town, openly and volubly declaring their support and whole-hearted admiration for the republican French who had overcome their enemies and established – forever, it was hoped – the power of the people.

The Chartists of Bradford – that most hot-headed and belligerent of cities – met
en masse
on Peep Green to pay homage to the revolutionary enterprise of their brothers across the Channel; among some discreet speculation as to the expected increase in the price of pikes turned out by the local blacksmith, and much singing of Chartist hymns and the Marseillaise.

In Frizingley Daniel Carey was carried shoulder-high from a torch-lit meeting on Frizingley Moor, above St Jude's, where he had informed a crowd of grimly exultant men – quite enough of them to trouble Ben Braithwaite's peace of mind – that the time was
now
.
Now
. For Justice and Democracy. For the Vote. So that no man need ever go hungry again. The Charter.

In Manchester the Chartist MP for Nottingham, Feargus O'Connor, asked a crowd of thirteen thousand men to swear to him, individually, hand on heart, never to abandon the cause of the Charter until it had been won. They swore.

It was the same everywhere. Hope and excitement, as there had been in ' 38 and '42. Vows. Dedication. The singing of hymns and anthems by crowds that seemed to rise from the ground like dragons' teeth. The collection of signatures for a new petition to be presented to parliament that April. A petition this time which would be too enormous to be ignored. The familiar tactics of the ‘moral force' wing of the movement. Victory through education, persuasion, rational argument. And, in their background, the ‘physical force' men polishing their home-made pikes again, oiling their guns, drilling on remote moorland all over the Industrial North on moonlit nights, no matter what their ‘moral force'brothers might have to say about it.

The Charter. It would now not merely have to be nipped in the bud but stamped on, hard and quick. Both Braithwaites and Larks were at one on that. So was Her Majesty's Government. So was the Duke of Wellington when he fortified London that April against the invading Northern hordes, coming to present their petition to Parliament and vowing, if it should not be listened to, to declare a Republic of Lancashire and Yorkshire instead.

There were five million signatures, one heard, on that petition and a quarter of a million men to carry it in procession from Kennington Common to Westminster. Angry men, one assumed, who knew what had happened in France and who, by sheer weight of numbers, – and despite the restraint of their ‘moral force'brothers– might easily overtip the scales of revolution in England.

Short-sighted, thought Ben Braithwaite, General Covington-Pym, the Duke of Wellington, to deny it. Might Buckingham Palace itself fall to their republican fervour as the Tuileries Palace had fallen to the Paris mob, with Victoria gathering up her skirts and her children and running for her life as poor old Louis Philippe had had to do? The Duke of Wellington – conqueror of Napoleon – declared he did not think so but sent the Queen and her family to the Isle of Wight just the same, out of harm's way. Troops, in large numbers, were drafted into the city, 200,000 special constables issued with batons and hastily enrolled. London's bridges and her public buildings were fortified. Noble gentlemen, with houses in town, had brought up the gamekeepers from their country estates, the windows of Belgravia's mansions sprouting a wicked crop of sporting guns.

The time was now.

Feargus O'Connor would march across Westminster Bridge at the head of 200,000 loyal men – one to match every special constable the Duke had enrolled – and lay the Charter at Mother Parliament's feet. A triumph for ‘moral force'. A peaceful and bloodless
coup d'état
, if
coup d'état
there would have to be, O'Connor having requested his quarter of a million soldiers to come unarmed.

Daniel Carey went off with the Frizingley contingent as to a pilgrimage. Would Luke Thackray make the journey from Nottingham, Cara wondered? Another pilgrim? Although one, it seemed to her, who would neither burn so fiercely nor break so easily as Daniel. Who would not rush headlong into the battle as Daniel would do – very likely without a weapon – but whose carefully husbanded strength would be far more likely to last the day.

For how taut and fine-drawn Daniel had become, paying no regard to safety. Or survival. Quickly she closed her mind to that. Damn him, the hot-headed, light-minded fool. Had he even thought to take food and money, or wondered about what to do if it did not succeed? Where to take refuge, and how to get there?

But perhaps Gemma Gage had taken care of that.

‘I wonder,' said Christie, spending the day which was already being spoken of as the Revolutionary Tenth, very much at his ease, drinking champagne in his new, over-heated apartment with Cara.

‘What do you wonder?' She was not feeling her best.

‘About those 200,000 men.'

‘What about them?'

Two of them were giving her considerably more than enough to wonder and worry about.

‘Oh – simply whether Feargus O'Connor has made suitable arrangements to get them all there.'

‘To London?'

‘Well, not precisely. To Kennington Common where they were all to have assembled at some unearthly hour this morning.
I
know where it is. So does Feargus O'Connor. As a politician and a journalist he is more than accustomed to finding his way to all kinds of places. I wonder if one can say the same for his 200,000 men? I wonder, in fact, if there are those among them who, having made firm promises to attend, now realize that they cannot raise the train fare? They will not all have had shepherds to lead them, you know, like the men of Frizingley. And none of those special constables we have heard about will be likely to give them directions. In O'Connor's place I would have taken care of that.'

‘I believe you.'

He bowed his head slightly.

‘One can only hope he has had the sense to think of it. The Duke of Wellington will be far from pleased if he has called out all those troops for nothing.'

She had hardly thought beyond her anxiety for the two individuals who mattered to her, seeing Luke and Daniel and the dangers which might befall them – which almost certainly
would
in Daniel's case – rather than the upheaval which might touch them all. But now, darting a rapid glance at Christie, taking in the value of his cambric shirt and striped satin waistcoat, the glass of vintage wine in his hand, his nonchalance, his arrogance, she said, ‘What if it succeeds, Christie? What if there really is a revolution? I mean a real one, like they've had in France? What would happen to you then?'

‘To me?' He smiled at her and raised his glass. ‘What would happen to
you
, Cara?'

‘Nothing,' she said decisively. ‘Why should it? I'll start making bonnets in Chartist green, that's all. I'll survive.'

And if anybody threw stones at her windows, Chartist or not, she'd make short work of them.

‘Exactly,' he said. ‘So will I. Survive, I mean.'

‘Do you think so?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘They had guillotines in France, you know – not too far back.'

‘One doesn't forget it. I imagine a great many of one's friends are remembering it very clearly today. And yes – if they set up a guillotine in Market Square – not
too
near your shop windows, of course – then I suppose we might expect to see Ben Braithwaite in the tumbrils. And Uriah Colclough. And my cousin Grizelda Lark. Not our good Mrs Gage, though, since she would have a member of the Revolutionary Committee or whatever they chose to call themselves, to protect her. So would I.'

‘To protect
you
? Who, for Heaven's sake?'

‘I have no idea. Somebody who would find my services sufficiently useful to keep me alive. And in good health. It is rarely the idealists who profit from revolution. In fact hardly ever at all. The Feargus O'Connors – and Daniel Careys – may be good at toppling thrones. But there is always a new crop of kings waiting nearby, you know.'

‘So you would turn Chartist?'

‘Of course.'

‘I don't think anybody would believe you.'

‘Why not? I have been a Whig
and
a Tory for years already. And newborn regimes need experienced men. I could probably make a sizeable fortune out of this revolution, Cara. If it happened.'

‘But you don't think it will?'

Leaning forward he refilled her glass.

‘I think there is not the slightest chance of it.'

Was he inviting her to drink a toast to that? To Luke's defeat? And Daniel's? And could Daniel bear it? Luke yes. But Daniel?

‘Why?' she said.

‘Oh – for one thing the English are not natural revolutionaries. Far too reasonable and good-humoured. And for another thing the times are changing. We have police forces now, all over the country, which were not there during that last spot of bother, six years ago, when they unplugged Ben Braithwaite's factory boiler. We have the electric telegraph to let the government know where troops are needed, and trains to put them in and get them on the spot quickly and in very large numbers. And Feargus O'Connor knows that troops
will
be brought in and that they
will
fire on the people. It happened, very recently, in Glasgow. Some trouble about the Poor Law. At least half a dozen killed that one knows of. Not counting the wounded who dragged themselves away and may well have died since. A little demonstration that Feargus O'Connor will not have forgotten.'

She shivered.

‘And the sentences of transportation imposed on the ringleaders were very harsh,' he went calmly on. ‘The ringleaders being, of course, anyone they could catch. Some poor devil no one had ever heard of, that is, and about whom no one is likely to make a fuss. To discourage the rest.'

Had it discouraged them? Not Daniel. Nor Luke either she imagined. But how many others?

‘Poor devils?' she said. ‘Do you feel sorry for them, then?'

‘What I feel, Cara, is a determination never to find myself in their position. Possibly you feel that too?'

Possibly. For what thought had she ever given to the ballot box? What need did she have of such things to get her way? Believing in nothing but herself and therefore suffering no disillusion. But not Daniel.

‘What will happen then, Christie?' She assumed that he would know.

‘Probably very little,' he said. ‘Feargus O'Connor wishes to make a peaceful show of numbers. I doubt he will get those numbers. The “physical force” men will keep away because he has forbidden the carrying of weapons. The affair does not promise to be rough enough for them. Some of the “moral force” men will keep away in case it might be too rough. Which, of course, it might, since London is bristling with guns and soldiers. The rest will not make anything like 200,000. It is illegal, in any case, for more than twenty people to present a petition to the House of Commons. O'Connor is an elected member of that House and must be well aware of it. And when he sees what a poor following he has actually mustered I hardly think he will risk breaking the law. A quarter of a million men marching to Westminster might be impressive. A tenth of that number would raise little more than a laugh. The best thing to do would be to send them all home again – and hope they get there.'

‘And then?'

‘The end of O'Connor, I rather imagine. Which would leave the field to the “physical force” men. And that, my dear, should effectively finish Chartism off. All our soldiers and police and trains and the fact that they have almost no support among the governing classes makes it impossible for them to succeed. So you may sleep easy in your bed tonight, Cara. Or mine.'