Lancashire: March 1848
“Have you heard the news?” Armstrong eased himself out of the coach even before it halted. “It’s revolution, red, raging revolution.”
“What? Is the Queen still on her throne? When did it start?” Mendick stared at him, suddenly feeling very sick. He had been training his men in volley shooting, extolling the stopping power of the Brown Bess musket while his mind raced over the mysteries that he had yet to unravel. The arrival of Armstrong’s coach upset his entire parade; the volunteers were crowding around listening to the news and raising undisciplined cheers. He looked around, contemplating the chilling prospect of his men facing the rolling volleys of regular British infantry.
“Not over here but on the Continent – Naples, Palermo, Paris; the monarchs are tumbling like skittles.” Armstrong grabbed his arm, jerking it like the handle of a water pump. “Our revolution is going to happen, Mendick, and you and I are going to be right in the middle of it. Just imagine, we can boast to our grandchildren of the day we toppled the Whigs and established the Charter.”
“So it’s not happened yet.” Mendick tried to calm Armstrong down, holding both thin shoulders. “We’ve not had a revolution here.”
“Not yet,” Armstrong admitted, “but soon. Monaghan has called a general meeting of all the delegates, including you and me.”
“Where and when?” If he could inform Scotland Yard about such a meeting, the police could pick up all the Chartist leaders simultaneously and end any insurrection with a minimum of violence. As he could no longer use the pigeons, he would have to slide away to the railway station and get the next London-bound train.
“This afternoon, at Trafford Hall.” Armstrong’s words ended any hopes of a swift resolution. “So come on, Mendick, nearly everybody is already there; just you and I are missing.”
“Trafford Hall? Sir Robert’s place?”
Armstrong’s wink revealed how light-hearted he was feeling. “Why not?”
*
It felt strange to roll up to the front door of Trafford Hall in Armstrong’s coach and to have a stony-faced flunky open the door for him as if he were somebody important rather than a masquerading police constable.
Feeling as apprehensive as he had when approaching the walls of Amoy, Mendick stepped up the broad steps and into a hall that had obviously been designed to impress. Fluted pillars soared upwards from the marble floor to explode in Corinthian splendour on an ornate ceiling. Between them, two crystal chandeliers swung low, their multitude of sparkling lights amplified by mirrors that covered half the walls. Classical sculpture added to the splendour, with an array of white marble deities presiding from raised plinths.
The Chartist delegates appeared ill at ease amidst such opulence; a few were affecting loud bravado, but others were shrinking into the corners or standing with arms folded and faces furrowed. Only Rachel Scott appeared relaxed as she contemplated the muscles and manhood of Michelangelo’s David.
“A good copy,” she said.
Monaghan swept into the room, puffing on a cheroot and wearing a very plush morning coat.
“This way, gentlemen.” He indicated a side door and the entire gathering trailed through, some slouching, others putting on a betraying swagger.
Monaghan took them through a lancet arch door into a much simpler hall, a primitive chamber with a flagstone floor and an oak-beamed ceiling. Great logs crackled in the huge fireplace as servants set out rows of wooden benches for the convenience of the delegates. Mendick found a space close enough to the wooden platform to hear what was being said but far enough back to appear inconspicuous. He avoided Armstrong, who sat right at the front, but was strangely disappointed that Scott walked past him with hardly a glance.
“I won’t keep you long.” Monaghan spoke so quietly that everybody had to strain to hear him. “We all have a great deal to do. You will have heard about the revolutions taking place all across Europe, and now it is our turn.”
They cheered at that, simple, desperate men alongside the cynical and the cunning, the honest worker and the devious politician, all ostensibly committed to the Chartist cause.
“You are all aware that Feargus O’Connor has organised yet another petition and a massive march that will end in a rally in Kennington Common in London. If Parliament accepts our five points – only five, note, not six, for we are allowing them some leeway – then we will have won.” Monaghan waited for the excited buzz to fade away before he continued.
“But if they do not,” he said, and his voice had a new edge to it, “if Parliament does not accept the Charter, then it will be our time, brothers, and all our work here will be needed. If Parliament ignores our demands, then we will be embarking on more direct, and much more physical, action.”
This time the cheers were shorter, ending in a general chant of “Tell us how” and “Name the hour” from a small but vociferous group at the front of the meeting. Recognising Armstrong as a prominent member of these men, Mendick reasoned that Monaghan had instructed them on what to say and when to say it.
“We will take part in O’Connor’s march and rally, so if the Charter is turned down, we will be in London and ready to rise. We will gather in the Midlands and travel south in our units, with our weapons carried in carts.”
The hiss and crackle of the fire seemed a suitable backdrop as the delegates listened to Monaghan’s words.
“We will not make a Moscow of Manchester, instead we will strike at the political and economic heart of this nation; we will take over London and dictate our terms to our oppressors!” Monaghan paused, allowing the audience to wait for the final words they knew he would announce: “We will achieve the Charter!”
Strangely, the climax sounded weak. Mendick had expected something more inspiring, but the Chartists still erupted in spontaneous applause. Monaghan had to raise both arms to achieve quiet.
“O’Connor’s rally at Kennington Common is planned for the twelfth of April, so we will start to travel south a fortnight before. That is only a few days away. Our brothers in London will welcome us, and we will recruit them to our cause.”
April the twelfth. Mendick closed his eyes. Now he knew the plan, and he knew the date. Monaghan intended to infiltrate his Physical Force Chartists into what would otherwise be a peaceful gathering, and if the government did not accept the Charter, he would lead an uprising in London itself. It was very simple but could also be very effective, with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of armed and trained men already in position amidst a disgruntled and angry populace. The recent uprisings across Europe had showed how easy it was to topple an unpopular government; perhaps it was Great Britain’s turn next.
He tried to ignore the secondary mystery of Scott’s Uncle Ernest and that teasing mention of a white horse. The relationship between Scott and Trafford was unimportant compared to ensuring that this attempted revolution did not go ahead. He would have to act like a Chartist this afternoon. Later, he would slip away and return to London with his information.
Standing up, Mendick cheered and thrust his fist in the air to announce his approval of the plan to turn London into a city of devastation and horror, with dead bodies in the gutters and half-trained Chartists exchanging fire with the Brigade of Guards.
“We will achieve the Charter!”
Armstrong was beside him, hand extended in comradeship.
“The day is announced, brother: the day of our liberation!” He was grinning, his eyes brighter than Mendick had ever seen. “The process will be painful, but picture the results: a full franchise, full employment and equality.”
Taking his hand, Mendick shook it vigorously, realising that all around him, men were doing the same. They were cheering their own revolution before it had taken place, congratulating themselves for initiating their own destruction. If he closed his eyes, he could recall the sordid reality of that faraway war in China, the valour and slaughter of the assault on the Bogue Forts, the rotting corpses, the shrieking wounded, the row after row of the sick on their hammocks; did these people really want that here? Did they have any idea what a civil war would do to the country? And then he remembered the misery of the brick streets of Manchester, the dripping cellars with their hopeless occupants, the dying children and weeping mothers; did the moneyed classes understand what they were doing to the country? Did they care, so long as it did not impinge on their own comfortable lives?
“Go now!” Monaghan was back on his feet. “Return to your volunteers and prepare for war! Prepare for government!”
There was a last cheer, a final triumphant roar, and Armstrong began to sing. Although he knew the tune of Rule Britannia well, it was the first time that Mendick had heard those particular words:
“Spread, spread the Charter
Spread the Charter through the Land
Let Britons bold and brave join heart and hand.”
Others joined in, and then the tune and words altered to Armstrong’s favourite Chartist song. Others joined in until the entire room was roaring out the words, and Mendick saw the tall figure of Trafford standing behind Monaghan, a glass in hand as he joined in,
“Truth is growing – hearts are glowing
With the flame of Liberty:
Light is breaking – Thrones are quaking-
Hark! The trumpet of the Free
Long in lowly whispers breathing
Freedom wandered drearily
Still, in faith, her laurel wreathing,
For the day when there should be Freemen shouting
Victory!”
The Chartists were still singing as they began to dissipate, in small knots or individually. Mendick edged toward the door, now knowing exactly what intelligence he had to carry with him to London. All he had to do was get to the railway station in Manchester and within hours he could put a stop to all the impending trouble.
“James,” the voice was low and feminine, “James, it’s me.”
He looked up. Scott stood in the shadow of a recessed doorway, smiling to him.
“This way, James.”
“Rachel?”
“You fell asleep on me last time, James.” She shook her head, eyes mocking, “You really must avoid the drink in future.” Her smile broadened. “But there’s no drink here, James, only you and me and a host of excited delegates who cannot think of anything but power for themselves.” She moved slightly, stirring her hips suggestively.
“I must go . . .” Mendick tried to slip away, but she held him with a small hand. He stared at her, confused but not tempted, until she laughed.
“You look like a small boy in a sweetshop, James. You have seen all the treasures, but you’re undecided which one to pick first. Which is it, James, the Charter or the woman?”
“I must attend my duty.”
“Of course you must,” Rachel agreed, “but you must also admit that I attract you.” She nodded to the rapidly emptying hall. “Look at them all, James, eager to run back and start a war that may kill most of them. The Chartist symbol is the beehive, and they are just the drones, destined to work and die for others, whoever is in government.” Her contempt startled him, but he could not fault her logic. He shivered as she echoed his own thoughts from earlier.
“What does it matter to them who is in power, which voice makes the decisions, Finality Jack Russell or Vociferous William Monaghan? Whoever it is, they are destined to remain at the bottom of the heap, with or without the vote or the six points of the Charter, they just don’t matter.”
“They?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t you mean we?”
Scott shook her head. “We are different, you and I, James. We don’t belong with the drones.’ She looked at him with a cynical twist to the side of her mouth. ‘The problem is, I am not sure where you belong at all.”
“I must do my duty,” Mendick repeated, and she mocked him with a laugh.
“Your duty? Duty is the old standby of the lazy and the confused. People who do their duty don’t have to think, do they? They allow other people to do their thinking for them, and thereby allow others to rule their lives.” Very deliberately, she shifted her position, thrusting that provocative hip further towards him. “Well, James? Are you going to do your duty, or are you going to do me?”
He looked at her. She had supported him when he tried to help Ogden, and had spoken up for him in front of Monaghan, and despite, or possibly because of, her mysteries, she was an alluring woman. Nevertheless, her attempt at seduction was as attractive as the hiss of a serpent. Even as a siren, she was so inferior to Emma that he would not have considered even talking to her except as part of his job.
“I’m sorry, Rachel, but I must do my duty.”
The sound of a slow handclap made him turn around, and he saw Armstrong a few steps behind him and Peter towering in the background.
“Well said, Mr Mendick, a man has to do his duty.” Armstrong stepped closer. “The only question is your duty to whom, and what exactly does that duty entail?”
“What?” Mendick looked at him, shaking his head. “I do not understand, Mr Armstrong. My duty to the Charter, of course.”
“Of course.” Monaghan slipped from a side door. “Of course.” He nodded to Scott. “Well done, Miss Scott. You played your part to perfection.”
Scott gave a graceful little curtsey as Monaghan glowered at Mendick.
“You were about to scurry to your masters in London, were you not?”
“Which masters in London?” Mendick tried to bluff, but he felt sudden sick dread. His memory of Ogden writhing on the floor was vivid. He glanced back, preparing to run, but Armstrong gripped his arm.
“Come with us, Mr Mendick; we have things to discuss.”
He shook away the hand.
“I don’t think there is anything left to say.” He stepped toward the door, but Peter was there first, balancing on the soles of his feet with his hands clenched and his head lowered like a young bull.
“Best do what Mr Armstrong says.” Peter raised his head, his eyes dazed. “Please, James, I don’t want to hit you.”
Mendick nodded; he remembered Peter’s strength and speed; he knew that he could never defeat him in a fair fight.
“You just had to ask,” he said. He glanced at Scott, who favoured him with a simpering smile. “There was no need for the subterfuge.” He nodded to Peter, who remained immobile in the doorway. “Or the threats.”
Armstrong grunted and produced the pistol from within his jacket, caressing the barrel lovingly.
“No threats, Mendick, just a reminder.”
Monaghan took them to a large, draughty room immediately beneath the hall, his feet rapping on the floor of stone slabs. He scraped a Lucifer, waited until the phosphorous flare calmed down and lit a brace of candles. Yellow light immediately illuminated an oval table and a single chair, on which Monaghan sat and extended his legs.
“This was the kitchen, when the original hall was first built, and then it was used for storage before the new store rooms were built.” He glanced at Mendick. “But you know all about them, don’t you?”
Still faintly smiling, Scott took up position on one side of the huge fireplace, with Armstrong directly opposite. Armstrong tapped his pistol against the long spit that was slowly rusting against the wall.
“How should I know about the new store rooms?”
“You were there,” Monaghan said quietly. “The day that you robbed Sir Robert’s larder to feed your men, you snooped around and discovered the weapons store.”
“What?” As Mendick tried to simultaneously look confused and angry he measured the distance to the door, where Peter stood immobile with his arms folded. The muscles stood out like wire hawsers.
“Of course we knew it was you,” Monaghan said, his voice very quiet. “We always knew who you were.” There was triumph in his smile. “Why else would Miss Scott single you out at the meeting, and why else would we bring you into the fold? We played you like a fish and you bit on our bait every time.”
Mendick tried to keep the horror from his face as he edged closer to the door, but on a nod from Armstrong, Peter turned the key in the lock and enclosed it within his great fist.
Armstrong pointed his pistol directly at Mendick’s face. The barrel seemed as wide as a nine-pounder cannon.
“Show him, Miss Scott.”
“With pleasure.”
Reaching into his inside pocket, Scott withdrew a folded document, which she handed to Mendick.
The letter from Scotland Yard proclaimed his guilt with seven simple words: Chartist Rally, it read. Infiltrate and join the cause. Mendick stared, unable to say anything. The Chartists must have broken into his London home and found that. But how? The question screamed in his mind; how did they know who he was, and where he lived? Somebody must have told them, and only then did he remember that notebook of faces that Mr Smith had shown him. Somebody in Scotland Yard must have informed the Chartists who he was, there could be no other explanation.
Scott smiled to him with her head tilted on one side.
“Cat got your tongue?”
“And you thought that you were so clever, too.” Monaghan shook his head in mock sorrow. “You came here from London, inveigled yourself into our midst, and you even made a good job of training my soldiers.”
“God!” Mendick felt his mouth drop. “But . . .”
“But?” Rachel mocked him again. “But why? But why not just kill you as soon as you arrived?” Her laughter bounced around the bare stone room.
“Because if we did,” Monaghan told him, “Scotland Yard might just send somebody that we don’t know about, or even worse, somebody who was actually good at their job. This way, we could keep an eye on you and ensure that you didn’t tell your bosses anything important.”
“What’s wrong, James? You look pale.” Stepping forward, Scott stroked his face with a soft hand. “Not as clever as you thought?”
“Pale? It must be the chill. It’s cold in here.” Mendick tried to keep his voice light as he thought furiously. His life was unimportant, but he had to escape and warn about the horrors that Monaghan was about to unleash on London. He glanced around the room. With Peter holding the key to the only door, and Armstrong cradling his pistol like a beloved baby, he only had one, very unlikely, chance.
“We’ll soon make it warmer for you,” Armstrong promised grimly, with a significant glance at Peter.
“Look on the bright side, James.” Rachel was still smiling. “At least we won’t have to question you. You don’t know anything we haven’t already told you, and you haven’t sent any information to Scotland Yard.” She leaned closer so her moist breath washed his face. “We caught all your pigeons.”
“Mr Armstrong,” Monaghan spoke in a conversational tone, “could you and Peter take Mr Mendick for a walk, please? And don’t bother to bring him back.”