When Will and Jeff Jefferson arrived in Paris it was late afternoon and already growing dark, but the city seemed peaceful. The old tenements were still there like dark cliffs lowering over the cobbles, there were the usual vociferous crowds in the streets, and the gas lights in the boulevards cast their golden shells of illumination on the grand old houses and the splendid new carriages that were returning home after an afternoon’s entertainment. The ladies were magnificently dressed in crinoline skirts a great deal wider than the fashion in England, and the gentlemen were plainly dandies, in silk cravats and velvet coats and plush hats in every conceivable colour. If a revolution was being planned they didn’t seem to be aware of it.
However, when the three travellers reached the centre of the city, it was plain that there was something going on. Every café was loud with argument and the Place de la Concorde was full of prowling citizens. So they sent Tom Thistlethwaite off to prepare their lodgings, and then walked straight into the nearest argument, notebooks at the ready.
‘What is happening, monsieur?’ Will asked.
‘You are English?’ the nearest man replied. ‘Arrived for the Reform Banquet?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you could have saved yourself the journey. The banquet is cancelled.’
That was a surprise. ‘But why?’ Jeff asked.
The man shrugged. ‘This is what we ask ourselves,’ he said. ‘It is by order of the Prefect of Police, damn him. There is to be no banquet and no demonstration neither. It is all forbidden.’
‘Is it true, do you think?’ Jeff asked in English as he and Will moved away from their informants.
‘We’ll go and find the Chartist delegation, and see what they have to say,’ Will decided. ‘They’ll know if anyone does, and I’ve been invited to dine with them as soon as I can.’
They set off through the noisy streets to find their compatriots, who had taken rooms in a tenement in the Rue Montorgueil, not far from the city market of Les Halles. The concierge said they were out, dining at a small café near the old church of St Eustache. ‘You will see them, messieurs,’ she said. ‘They are so numerous and so English.’
Which was true enough, for there were over two dozen of them and they filled the little eating house, crowded around four overloaded trestle tables and all talking at the tops of their voices. And their leader was none other than Dr Taylor from Birmingham who, despite grey hair and an ageing stoop, still sported the sort of seafaring uniform that Will remembered him wearing at the time of the Bull Ring riot all those years ago.
‘Come in! Come in!’ he boomed. ‘I am glad to see that you London journalists are starting to arrive. Have you heard the news?’
They told him they had, and asked if it were true.
Apparently it was, and all done on the orders of Monsieur Guizot, the Prime Minister. ‘Although I wouldn’t want to cross ‘em if I were that gentlemen. The Parisians are a volatile crew and there’s a rare mood hereabouts.’
‘Do you think there will be a revolution?’
‘Personally,’ Dr Taylor said, ‘I doubt it. But who can tell? There are others among us of a different opinion. My friend here, for example, who is a journalist like yourself.’ And he turned on his stool to pluck at the sleeve of the gentleman who was sitting beside him. ‘You think an uprising likely, do you not, sir?’
The man turned to give them his full attention. ‘Aye, I do,’ he said. ‘Particularly now that these gentlemen have arrived from t’London newspapers.’
‘How so?’ Will asked, intrigued. It was flattering to think that his presence would make a difference to the situation.
‘Things will be said in t’ streets that should have been said att’ banquet,’ the man told him, ‘and all of ‘em things that Monsieur Guizot would rather were left unsaid, so he’ll do what he can to stop them. Bad enough that t’ people of Paris will hear them, worse if they are to be spread to t’ people of England. Governments are t’ same t’ world over, public knowledge of their actions is anathema to them.’
A rough looking man, Will thought, for he looked like a navvy, squat, stocky, and weatherbeaten, with broad shoulders, a barrel chest and scarred, hairy hands. But he knew what he was talking about and spoke with authority, so that people around the table paid attention to him, stopping their own conversations to hear what he was saying. Will was puzzled by his accent which was a hybrid unlike any he’d ever heard before, mixing the occasional clipped speech of the midlands with the burr of another broader, foreign dialect, and yet using the words of Oxford English with such ease that they were plainly natural to him. A mysterious mixture and therefore interesting.
‘You work for a newspaper, I understand?’ he said, probing for more information.
‘Aye,’ the man said. ‘I started with the Hobart Town Gazette back in Van Diemen’s Land eighteen years ago. Now I freelance, selling where I can. My last article was taken by the National here in Paris.’
Will had never heard of the Hobart Town Gazette but he recognized Van Diemen’s Land as somewhere in Australia. That would account for the odd accent. ‘You are one of the English delegates, I presume?’
‘No sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve not seen England these twenty-two years, not since ‘25. I met these gentlemen by chance at the English pension. I came here from Vienna.’
This was even more interesting. ‘Was there unrest in that city too? All the reports suggest it.’
‘Aye. There was, sir. There’s a reforming spirit all over Europe, in t’ states of Italy, in t’ Austrian Empire, here in France, in England, a great reforming spirit. It only needs one spark to set it all ablaze.’
‘Then shall we see changes, do you think?’
‘I hope so, sir, when it’s been my life’s work to bring ’em about.’
He’s a fighter, Will thought with admiration, and certainly he was looking at the face of a fighter, strong but guarded, the shock of grizzled hair bold above a very seamed forehead but the beetling eyebrows lowered to keep his eyes in shadow until he chose to lift his head. There was a blue scar on his right cheek, most of his teeth were missing, and his nose was spread and ugly, having been broken long ago and on several occasions from the looks of it. But his eyes were surprisingly gentle and knowledgeable, large grey eyes fringed with a sweep of black eyelashes. They reminded Will of somebody else’s eyes, but before he could think who it was, there was a commotion in the square outside, and the English delegation rushed out as one man to see what was happening.
It was a demonstration. But a very different one from any that Will and Jeff had ever seen before. These men weren’t marching in the sober English way. They were running, in a column so wide and so closely packed that it filled the width of the street. Their arms were linked aggressively and they were bellowing the Marseillaise like a battle cry. To Will and Jeff, used to the mildness and sobriety of the Chartist demonstrations in England, they looked threatening. But their Australian friend seemed perfectly at home with such a crowd and instantly disappeared into the charge, to return some minutes later, glowing with news.
Every workshop in the city had closed down, he told them. The people had taken to the streets, to show that ‘poor fool Guizot’ exactly what they thought of his decree.
‘Then it’s an uprising?’ Will asked.
‘The start of one.’
It was the news they wanted and the two friends lost no time in writing it up, hurrying off to the Post Office to ensure that they caught the last post out of the city that night, ready to be sent on to London and Cambridge by the new electric telegraph from Folkestone.
‘I believe,’ Will wrote, surprised to be actually penning such words after all, ‘that we may have witnessed the first act in a new revolution.’
By the next morning there was no doubt of it.
The great crowds were still milling about in the Place de la Concorde and filling the space before the Madeleine, but during the night the National Guard had been called out and the troops had arrived, a hundred thousand of them according to the morning papers, and there were certainly plenty standing guard ostentatiously before the public buildings. In a matter of hours, cannon had been positioned at all the road junctions between the Madeleine and the Bastille, the rich had disappeared, and the city had drawn up its battle lines.
It was a cold bleak day but the streets were warm with anger. At every corner someone was making a passionate speech and from time to time a new column of protestors arrived from the suburbs in the east, singing the Marseillaise or their new, more bloodthirsty hymn, ‘Mourir pour la Patrie’.
Will and Jeff stayed beside the crowd, waiting for violence to break, but the morning passed and nothing much happened. The marchers prowled and waited, and the troops stood where they were and waited, the Marseillaise was sung, speeches were declaimed, but there was no conflict. As the afternoon wore on even the air seemed to be brooding and Will and Jeff grew bored with inaction and set off to walk up to the Madeleine to see what was happening there.
They’d barely gone a hundred yards before the crowd ahead of them began to cheer. ‘Vive la Reforme! Vive la Garde Nationale!’ And then everybody in the street was running, hurtling pell-mell towards the Rue Lepelletier, and Will and Jeff were caught up in the crush and ran with the rest, straining their necks to see what was happening in front of them.
There were two lines of National Guardsmen formed up across the entrance to the Rue Lepelletier, about a hundred and fifty men in all, standing at ease with their officers in the midst of them, and the people were rushing at them headlong, to fling their arms about their necks and kiss them on both cheeks in a frenzy of joy. ‘Vive la Reforme! Vive la Garde Nationale!’
Will’s rush came to a halt in front of a stolid guardsman with a young woman hanging about his neck. He looked sheepishly happy, pleased and embarrassed all at the same time.
‘We have declared for Reform,’ he said, when Will asked him what had happened. ‘That is, some of us differ about Reform, but we are agreed about Guizot! Guizot must resign!’
‘We are one with the people of Paris,’ his neighbour said, as another wave of rejoicing citizens bore down upon them. ‘We stand for universal suffrage. One man, one vote.’
Will and Jeff were being jostled about so much that there was no chance of asking any more questions, but they had learned enough to make a story.
‘Back to base,’ Will said, pushing his way through the hordes.
As the two friends reached the corner where the Rue Lepelletier met the Boulevard des Italiens, they saw a column of cavalry and infantry approaching on the trot, mounted Guardsmen and cuirassiers, and behind them, infantry of the line. At the intersection they made a move as if they were going to wheel into the street, but then they saw the National Guard who were still being rapturously embraced, and they paused. There was a moment of indecision, the order was given to march on, but none of them moved, although the horses fidgeted and snorted. Then without order or warning they turned around and retreated up the Boulevard. It was an amazing victory and the cheers were prolonged and triumphant. And of course it made a perfect end to the story.
By the time both reports had been written and despatched, it was growing dark and the streets were emptying.
‘I suggest we go down to Les Halles and see if we can find the Chartists,’ Will said. ‘They might know what will happen next.’
But there was no sign of their English friends at the Pension, and the café they’d occupied two nights before was shut and shuttered, which was hardly a surprise because most of the streets around it had been closed off by barricades, which had been rapidly put together from upended carts, heavy furniture and cobblestones, and were now being reinforced by anything the citizenry could lay their hands on. They were lit by rush torches and manned by a gang of formidable men armed with rifles and pistols. Busy among the builders was a stocky figure that looked familiar.
It was their new friend from Van Diemen’s Land.
‘What a day!’ he said, wiping his hands on a piece of rag, as they walked towards him. ‘Things are quiet enough for t’ moment but we’ve had all sorts happening here. T’ National Guard have joined the uprising, and t’ students have been wi’ a petition to the Chamber of Deputies asking for t’ ministers to be impeached. Took it to t’ office of t’ National newspaper, so they did. I met ‘em there.’
They told him about the extraordinary scene in the Boulevard des Italiens.
‘Much t’ same has been happening all over Paris by all accounts,’ he said, ‘which is t’ reason for t’ present calm, I shouldn’t wonder. If all t’ Guards have thrown in their lot with t’ people, there’s hope of a settlement. T’ troops marched off, you say?’
‘Meek as lambs,’ Jeff told him.
‘It’s an interesting situation,’ their new friend said. ‘I’m for a spot of supper while t’ lull continues. Would ‘ee care to join me?’
‘That’s uncommon kind of you,’ Jeff said, ‘Mr –’ And then he hesitated because he couldn’t remember the man’s name.
‘Rawson,’ their friend said. ‘And you are?’
‘Jeff Jefferson, from the Cambridge Chronicle. And this is my friend Will Easter, scion of the great firm of A. Easter and Sons.’
‘Well, here’s a thing,’ Mr Rawson said, smiling at them in amazement and pleasure. ‘Not related to Mrs Harriet Easter by any chance?’
And Will suddenly realized who he must be. ‘Caleb Rawson,’ he said. ‘Of course. W is for Weaver. You were a weaver in Norwich when I was a child in Rattlesden. Caleb Rawson. The man from Peterloo!’
‘T’ same.’
‘How extraordinary! To meet here in Paris!’ This visit was one surprise after another.
‘It is that. But we were speaking of Mrs Harriet Easter.’
‘Harriet Easter was my mother.’
‘Was, sir?’
‘She died when my sister was born.’
‘I’m uncommon sorry to hear it,’ Mr Rawson said, and his face suddenly looked much older, drawn and chilled.
‘Where shall we dine?’ Jeff asked. ‘There don’t seem much open hereabouts, and if there’s to be a battle I’d prefer to die with a full belly.’
‘Behind t’ battle lines and across t’ river,’ Mr Rawson said. ‘If you’ll follow me.’
They dined on the left bank of the Seine in a small café that opened its doors unwillingly but served a filling stew and a passable apple tart. Then they talked for an hour or two, sometimes about the uprising, but mostly about the Easter family in general and Harriet Easter and her bravery on the field of Peterloo in particular, which seemed a peculiar thing to be doing in a city prepared for revolution. When they finally emerged from behind the shutters, it was pitch dark and the streets were deserted.
‘You’d best stay with us tonight, Caleb,’ Will said. ‘I’d not fancy anyone’s chances of crossing the city now.’ There were no street lights on the north bank and the place was unnaturally quiet.
So he stayed, since the concierge said she had plenty of rooms available, and in the morning they all had breakfast together in Will’s room, wondering what had happened overnight and what the day would bring.
The news was stunning. King Louis Philippe had abdicated and the Prime Minister, the hated Monsieur Guizot, had resigned.
‘Then it is all over,’ Jeff said, ‘and the war won without bloodshed.’
‘In two days!’ Will said. ‘Why, we shall be home again within the week.’ It was hardly credible. ‘I suppose the rest of the government will resign too.’
‘We will go out presently,’ Caleb said, ‘and see.’
The streets were still full of people, marching arm in arm with their new allies in the National Guard, drinking and singing, and in high good humour. But it took Will and his friends until early evening, when they met up with some of the Chartists, to discover anyone with any information. The government had gone to ground, Dr Taylor said, and he and several others named the Hotel des Affaires Etrangères as the chosen bolt-hole. The three friends decided to go there and see for themselves as soon as they’d dined.
The Hôtel was surrounded by troops, some standing to attention with their rifles at the ready, some lolling about with their weapons slung across their shoulders. Although they were nominally on guard, they were taking the job lightly, as though there were no real danger, and the crowd that faced them were good humoured too, laughingly taunting that the rats should be allowed to leave their sinking ship. There wasn’t really much to report, and Jeff and Will were on the point of walking off to see if they could find some news elsewhere, when they heard the approaching crunch-crunch-crunch of a running column.
It was a very big demonstration, about six hundred people carrying torches and charging up the Boulevard des Capucines with their arms linked, singing as they ran. There was something peculiarly menacing about them, a heat and passion that made the milling crowd give way and the soldiers take guard with some apprehension. Within seconds they were ranged in front of the Hotel, hard-facing the guards, panting a little from their exertions, but still singing ‘Mourir pour la Patrie’ at the tops of their voices, with a harsh roaring sound somewhere between a shout and a growl. And when the song ended they began to taunt with a vengeance, abusing the soldiers and calling for the deputies to be brought out ‘like the scum they were’ to face ‘the judgement of the people’.
The alarm and excitement they engendered was palpable. But even so nobody was prepared for what was to happen next.
A young man suddenly detached himself from the marchers, and walked coolly across to the officer in command. For a second Will thought he was going to spit or hurl abuse, but instead he took a pistol from his pocket and fired it straight at the officer’s head. Blood and brains sprayed into the air, the crowd roared and groaned, and the officer fell backwards with half his face blown away. It was so quick and so brutal it was almost impossible to take it in.
Retribution was even quicker. Rifles were up and aimed and firing at the crowd even before the people had gathered enough wit to scatter. Will and Jeff hurled themselves away from the line of fire like everyone else, running and shoving at the fusillade cracked among them.
They only stopped when they were completely out of breath, and by then they were at the far end of the Boulevard des Capucines and the marchers had stopped too and were beginning to regroup. Nobody knew how many had been hit, although several had seen bodies on the ground and one man said he’d seen two people fall. And nobody knew what should be done next.
Will and Jeff waited for about a quarter of an hour, afraid and edgy, but staying where they were because they didn’t want to miss anything and they knew that something else was sure to happen given the high feeling that was running.
After a few minutes Caleb Rawson came walking towards them. He knew no more than they did, but he hardly had time to tell them so when they heard the tramp of an approaching crowd, and the song of death, ‘Mourir pour la Patrie’, being chanted in a dreadful low growl. This time the column was slow marching. They were preceded by four men carrying torches, and they were escorting an open cart completely surrounded by torch-bearers. The light was strong and theatrical. Inside the cart there were five dead bodies.
When the head of the column reached the corner of the Rue Lepelletier the song changed to a roar of fury so terrible it made Will’s hair stand on the nape of his neck. ‘Vengeance!’ they screamed. ‘Vengeance!’
‘We’ve a revolution to report now, gentlemen,’ the weaver said. ‘A revolution and no mistake. This is t’ spark that’ll set fire to Europe. We’ll none of us see England much before t’ summer, take my word for it.’
The next few days seemed to prove him right, for a great deal happened and very rapidly. The next day the revolutionaries published a proclamation in a newspaper called the Commerce. The Chamber of Peers was suppressed and the Chamber of Deputies dissolved. The nation was now a republic and all adult citizens who had attained their majority were electors. It was they who would decide the composition of the next Chamber of Deputies, and the elections would be held on 26 April. The revolution had achieved its ends. Universal male suffrage had arrived.
At the end of the week Jeff Jefferson had to go back to England because he’d written his story and spent his allowance, but Will received a sizeable cheque from Mr Forster, and instructions to take the next train to Vienna. ‘This revolution is spreading and will spread,’ his editor wrote. ‘Proceed to Vienna. Then follow wherever it leads.’
‘I’ve a mind to proceed to Vienna myself,’ Caleb Rawson said. ‘I’ve good friends in that city, and there’s naught for me in England now.’
‘We might travel together,’ Will suggested. The weaver was good company and would be a useful guide.
So the matter was agreed and the three companions went their separate ways, Jeff to the calm of Cambridge and Will and Caleb to follow the revolution.
And back in England Euphemia packed her bags ready for St Bartholomew’s and her first three months as a hospital nurse.