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  Davey’s gang looked shamefaced as the two boys rose from the ground. ‘It were the cheese,’ said Davey. ‘We didn’t mean no ’arm.’

  ‘Well, get back to your group,’ said Marion. ‘They‘re passing out torches now. Come on, you two.’

  Ruth and Joshua walked back at Marion’s side in low spirits. Ruth felt she had been cheated by Davey’s gang; Joshua felt he would have beaten Jack decisively given a few more minutes. But as they approached the head of the Rochdale column, their attention was caught by the sight of a horse and cart which was now surrounded by marchers. Standing in the middle of the cart, a thickset man in a brown smock was handing out wooden sticks about two feet long. As the children came closer, they could see that each of these had small metal cups attached to one end. At the back of the cart, a man was pouring a liquid into the cups of a group standing round him.

  ‘Come on, John, we’ve not got long. We’ve got five more lines to do yet,’ said the man in the back of the cart.

  ‘Fair enough, Josiah; but tha’ doesn’t want oil all over’t ground, does tha’.’ said his colleague.

  ‘Can we ’ave three please?’ Marion said on behalf of herself and the children. These were quickly handed to her and the children could see that each metal cup contained a wick. John, at the back of the cart, was pouring liquid pig’s fat into the cups so that the wicks could light. The children joined the circle surrounding him and quickly had their cups filled.

  ‘Can we light ‘em now?’ asked Joshua.

  Hearing the question, Josiah, at the front of the cart, answered: ‘No, lad; tha’ cannot. That oil is right scarce and I wouldn’t like to say ’ow we and t’other wagonners got ten gallons of it. Nobody lights up till it gets dark and we’re into Manchester.’

  ‘’Ow ’igh will ’t’flame rise, Marion?’ asked Joshua.

  ‘No more than a good three inches, lad; but with thousands and thousands of ’em, we’ll be fit to set Manchester ablaze.’

  Jess Midgeley came up behind them, anxious to make sure that all the Todmorden group had torches.

  The Torchlight Procession in Manchester

  ‘Now then, Marion, what’s this? We’ll ’ave no talk o’setting owt ablaze. This is a peaceful gathering, lass. We’re common people claiming us rights. An’ wi’ them soldiers there, we’d better stick to that.’

  ‘Aye, no burns, but a few bangs, eh, Jess?’ said Judd Ackroyd, swinging his enormous hammer through the air.

  ‘Neither of ’em, Judd. You think the lads in red’ll give us ’alf a chance if there’s any trouble? They’ll mow us down like at Peterloo as soon as tha’s got that ’ammer off tha’ shoulder.’

  Before Judd could reply, the word was passed round from column leaders that they should prepare to march off, with as many as possible carrying the torches. A total of nineteen columns had arrived at the Ancoats fields. Jess had heard another of the column leaders, Frank Sykes, a weaver from Oldham, estimate that there were a good twenty thousand there in all. The whole procession was nearly three miles in length. It took the Oldham column ten minutes to march out of the field, closely followed by Rochdale.

  ‘Where do we go now, Dad?’ said Ruth.

  ‘We’ll be following road down Oldham Street into centre of Manchester and fetch up at St Peter’s Field, where ’t’Peterloo Massacre ’appened twenty year ago. It’s big and central and all kinds o’folk is there – and t’army lads’ll never dare to ’arm us there after what ’appened in ’19.’

  ‘An’ what’ll we do when we get there?’ Ruth continued.

  ‘Three o ’t’Chartist leaders and their supporters’ll be there to speak. You’ll ’ave seen two of ’em afore – Feargus O’Connor and John Fielden.’

  ‘What, you mean Fielden of Waterside Mill, where me anty Leah works?’

  ‘Aye, the same man, Ruth, and one what’s fighting for more than ’is own profits and believes that working folk shouldna’ toil more than ten ’ours a day. ’E’s one ’t’Members of Parliament for Oldham now – neither Whig nor Tory but Radical, and let’s ’ope he stays so.’

  ‘So why does Anty Leah work so long then?’ persisted Ruth.

  ‘Why, lass; Fielden can’t change ’is mills’ hours till t’other masters do. That’s reet enough – or ’e’d never make money to fight for better times. Now get ready for off, and don’t let that oil drip out o’ your torch, Joshua.’

  Marion, Ruth, Joshua, and Jim Knotts were still at the head of the Rochdale column. But the children were tired now and left it to Jim and Marion to hold the poles. Besides, they each had a torch in one hand and had to hold it upright.

  As the Rochdale column moved out of the field, the sound of powerful male voices began to fill the air. Ruth and Joshua could hardly make out the words, but as soon as she heard the singing, Marion recognised the tune and the words. Taking them up in her rich voice, she sang the song that was a tribute to the heroes of Peterloo, led by Henry Hunt and attacked by the police chief Nadin Joe:

  “With Henry Hunt we’ll go me boys,

  With Henry Hunt we’ll go,

  We’ll mount the cap of liberty,

  In spite of Nadin Joe,

  On the sixteenth of August eighteen hundred and nineteen,

  A meeting held in Peter Street,

  Was glorious to be seen.

  Joe Nadin with his big bulldogs as you would plainly see,

  And on the other side, stood the bloody cavalry.

  From Stockport Town and Ashton,

  The weaver lads came in,

  Who all behaved with honour bright,

  The meeting to begin,

  Upon the ground they all did meet,

  Like heroes of renown,

  Search all the men o’ th’nation,

  Our match cannot be found.

  Soon the song, which had been popular throughout the mill towns of Lancashire for nearly twenty years, was taken up by each of the columns as they made ready to march. Within five minutes, the song was resounding throughout the field.

  Ruth and Joshua knew a few of the words but soon picked up the rest as the song was sung a second and third time. Marching out of the field and buoyed up by the singing, they regained their energy. Glancing to his left, Joshua noticed the officer at the front of the horsemen was moving up and down – the very act which Jethro had warned could be a sign of danger.

  ‘Look at that, Ruth,’ he said. ‘Yon soldiers are getting bothered – they don’t like this song.’

  ‘I expect it’s talk of “bloody cavalry” they don’t like,’ said Ruth. ‘They don’t like to be so unpopular. But I wouldn’t panic.’

  The children picked up the song again and walked just behind Marion and Jim. Now the whole three-mile line of columns was snaking out of the field and “With Henry Hunt We’ll Go” seemed to echo to the skies, as the horses of the fusiliers nervously pawed the ground. Ruth and Joshua were swept along in the excitement of the moment, rapidly forgetting tiredness, hunger – and bruises. Joshua wondered briefly if Davey and his gang would reappear, or if they were safely sandwiched inside the Salford column.

  As the line moved away from the field, it passed through a long unpaved road with ramshackle dwellings on either side. Made from timber poles, rejected quarry stones, pieces of tin and in some cases clods of earth, their ‘front doors’ opened onto open drains. As Ruth and Joshua marched down the street, they were amazed by how primitive the houses were and by the strength of the stench coming from the drains. It was obvious that every kind of household waste found its way into them and that they were never cleared. Even more striking were the people who stood outside the houses or lent over half doors. Ruth and Joshua, used to working from dawn till dusk and to finishing their meals hungry, nevertheless looked in disbelief at the rags which some of the boys and girls in this street were wearing – all of them gave the appearance
of being ill-nourished and without energy. Though brave cries of support were shouted to the marchers as they crowded into the road, it was obvious that few people here had the spirit to join the march.

  Ruth realised she was walking just in front of her dad and turned round to him. ‘But, Dad,’ said Ruth, ‘I’ve never seen such a mess, or smelt such a stench. Life in Tod is bad enough, but this is a kind of ’ell.’

  ‘Aye, Ruth; tha’s reet enough, and that’s one of things that’s got to change. Charter’ll ’elp wi’ that.’

  Eventually, the dusty, rutted, ill-drained road turned into a street with cobblestones and, as it did so, the quality of houses noticeably improved. Leading off the road were streets with double storey houses, painted doors and cellars reached by stone steps. Each street seemed to contain hundreds of houses, all in a line, and at the end of each one was a crowd of supporters of the march, ready to join in at the end of any of the columns. At the end of many of the streets was a towering mill building, up to seven or eight storeys high, belching out smoke into the evening air.

  It had been agreed that the torches would be lit by 8.30pm – just before dusk fell. A party of young boys with lighted tapers were running down each of the lines setting a light to every torch. Ruth and Joshua could see the torches of the Oldham column in front of them being lit up line by line, until the lighting party reached the last line.

  ‘Come on then, lads, gi’ us a leet or we’ll never even see t’Charter,’ said Eric Naylor, who was now alongside Ruth and Joshua, holding up his torch. As it took light and flared, Joshua could see that he was surrounded by the boys of Davey’s gang who formed one of the lighting parties. Turning to his left, he could see that it was Jack lighting Ruth’s torch.

  ‘Glad to see me so soon?’ asked Jack. ‘Me and your Joshua’ll ’ave another round soon, but I ’aven’t got time now.’

  Furious, Joshua poked his torch in Jack’s direction, but his rival was already three lines away and hard at work. Jealous of Jack’s important position, Joshua kept his silence. The Rochdale column halted and waited while all the torches were lit. Looking back, Ruth could see a forest of flares behind her; looking forward, the forest of Oldham flares was already moving away.

  ‘Eh, Marion, I’ve never seen owt like this,’ said Ruth as she turned her head from front to back, making semicircles in the air with her torch.

  ‘And neither ’as anyone ’ere, lass,’ said Marion.

  ‘Torchlight marches are summut new. Supposed to put the fear o’God into t’government – Lord Melbourne and ‘is men.’

  Ralph Murphy, with the sinister face and twisted walking stick, who had never wanted women and children on the march, was standing not far behind. Ralph had said little throughout the march so far, but at the name of Lord Melbourne, the Prime Minister, his ears pricked up.

  ‘An’ do you think we’ll frighten ’im, Marion?’ he asked, in a surprisingly innocent tone.

  ‘I don’t see why not. Rich folk fear a fire more than owt.’

  ‘You mean you’d gladly burn a few ’ouses down?’

  ‘Did I say that, Ralph?’

  ‘No, I were just wondering like.’

  ‘Well, they’ll not frighten General Napier whose just been made General in charge o’these parts,’ said Jethro Strongitharm, resting on his crutch.

  ‘An’ what would frighten ’im, Jethro?’ said Ralph.

  ‘A crowd of marchers made up of Irish like you, I shouldn’t wonder,’ replied Jethro.

  Ralph knew very well that Feargus O’Connor had been born in Ireland, but kept his counsel. Before tempers could rise higher, Jess Midgeley, seeing that the torches were lit right down the Rochdale column, gave the word to start moving.

  As the haze of dusk turned into the blackness of night, the columns moved off one after the other. The torches of Ruth and Joshua were now burning brightly. Together with the thousand other torches in their column, they cast an eerie glow on the stonework of the houses. The children were amazed at the height of the mill buildings which they passed every quarter of a mile. They’d never seen buildings so tall. Sometimes there were mills on both sides, forming a canyon through which the columns passed.

  As they moved down Ancoats Road and into Market Street, they could hear the Oldham column take up the refrain of the Chartist hymn ‘Britannia’s Sons, Though Slaves Ye Be’. Recognising a tune they had learned at Sunday School the children listened to Marion’s voice soaring above all those around her:

  “All men are equal in His sight,

  The bond, the free, the black, the white!

  He made them all, – them freedom gave,

  He made the man, man made the slave!”

  The tall buildings on both sides made the singing echo from side to side so that the voices of a thousand marchers seemed more like those of five thousand.

  The army officers were evidently disturbed by the force and power of the march and had stationed their cavalry at each of the streets leading off Oldham Road and Market Street. As the column marched down this road, Joshua could see the cavalry fingering their bridles and the horses pawing the ground. But the marchers showed no sign of breaking into a rabble, and the soldiers were under orders only to move if the march became a riot. Peterloo was strong in their minds too.

  The march turned off Market Street to go the half-mile to St Peter’s Field. Now the Rochdale marchers were going more slowly as the Oldham column fanned out into the square. Ruth and Joshua were glad enough to slow down, although the singing had prevented them from thinking how tired they were. Their column moved forward gradually until its turn came to enter St Peter’s Field, when they were signalled to move into a different formation – in a long row four deep rather than a column – and lined up behind the Oldham marchers. As a result, Ruth, Joshua and Marion were at one end of the front row of their group and facing towards a raised platform which had been built of wood at one end of the Field.

  As the other columns entered the Field and took up their places in rows, more and more of Manchester’s citizens, many of whom had watched the march pass by, came to fill up every corner of space, nearly doubling the number of those who had been on the march to forty thousand. Nearly half of these had torches, augmenting the light from the rows of gas lamps which normally lit the edge of the Field.

  As the marchers assembled in front of the platform, they found themselves beset by a small army of hawkers expecting to sell bread, biscuits, sweets, drinks – and copies of the Chartists’ own Northern Star newspaper. There were few of the exhausted marchers, however, who had a penny or even a halfpenny to spare. Those selling drinks held a metal cup in one hand and a can of lemonade in the other. If they sold a cupful, they stood by while the customer swallowed it, gave the cup a rough wipe with a cloth and moved down the line looking for more business.

  Ruth was the first in her row to receive the attentions of a drinks hawker who was hardly older than her.

  ‘Come on then. Tha’ looks as if tha’ could do wi’ summut to drink. Just a farthing from your aunty ’ere,’ he said, pointing to Marion.

  ‘An’ where dust ah think I’ll get a farthing from?’ said Marion. ‘This lass and lad have walked all o’ twenty mile today. You should be congratulating ’em and pouring that drink free o’charge.’

  ‘Well, twenty mile’s none so bad. I’ll fill you ’alf a cup free o’charge.’

  ‘And give t’other ’alf to me brother,’ said Ruth.

  The hawker looked dubious but realising how little he was going to earn that night, poured out a full cup.

  ‘That’s for both o’you then,’ he said, ‘an’ I’ll watch while you drink it.’

  ‘You first, Joshua,’ said Ruth, ‘but leave some for Marion; we’d never ’ave got this far without ’er.’

  The hawker watched the children down their cups and pass what was left to Marion. As she was drink
ing, she became aware that a smartly dressed, tall man in a green suit and a grey top hat was watching her. When she had finished the cup and passed it back to the hawker, the man came over and spoke to her in a rounded English accent of a kind she’d never heard before. None of the wealthy mill masters in Todmorden, certainly not John Fielden, spoke that way.

  ‘Excuse me, miss. Did I see that hawker give you and the children a free drink? And did I see them give their cup to you?’

  ‘Aye, you did n’all for we’ve been marching together all’t day: we all need to drink and none of us ’as got any brass. An’ who might you be anyway?’ said Marion.

  ‘My name’s William Steele from the newspaper The Times. I’ve come from London to write about this great meeting and let the Londoners know what kind of marchers are going to descend on them. Rabble, mob, or army of saints.’

  ‘The Times? Oh, aye, I’ve ’eard of that,’ said Marion. ‘But who reads it anyway?’

  ‘Anybody who is anybody – certainly everybody in Parliament. The paper has changed the opinions of members a good many times, I can tell you.

  ‘I’ve just been talking to your leaders on the platform – O’Connor and Fielden. They’re afraid General Napier has given orders to the army to clear St Peter’s Field as soon as the meeting begins. These torchlight parades were banned by the Home Secretary, Lord John Russell, last week, as soon as they were tipped off this one was coming.’

  ‘But who’d tell ’em?’ said Ruth, alert to the danger.

  ‘Why, Russell’s got his spies everywhere,’ said Steele. ‘He might even have one in this very row.’

  ‘Tha’ll not find a spy ’ere,’ said Jim Knotts indignantly, who’d been listening to the conversation. ‘No one what’s prepared to walk two ’undred miles is going to spy for t’government at same time.’

  ‘Well, they have had them before, and they certainly have them now,’ said Steele. ‘But are you children looking forward to marching all the way to London?’