Chapter 20: The road to St Peter's Field

I reported as ordered to John Stafford's office next day, but before handing me my orders he apologised for the contretemps between us regarding his brother-in law. " You were right, Major, in thinking that as Sir Boris Crossley is a friend, and also my brother-in-law, he did not receive the same degree of scrutiny I would have given other men in public office with his, err, propensities. I shall ensure he is thoroughly investigated by someone not related to him by marriage." He held out his hand. "Will you shake my hand, and accept my apology?"

I did so willingly, with an apology of my own. "I should have exercised more tact before casting aspersions on your friend and brother-in- law." We shook hands, smiling.

Stafford cleared his throat, and gave me a somewhat embarrassed look, before speaking. "I know you and Patrick Jane are attending a wedding at the end of August, but the situation developing in the north requires the deployment of all our available resources. However, there is no reason why you should not both be in France in plenty of time for the ceremony. Now, to business." Stafford gave me my written orders. He also gave me a money belt. "Wear this next to your skin. It contains twenty gold sovereigns, and the State Seal of the Commander in Chief, His Royal Highness the Duke of York. Should you require help from the authorities the seal will open most doors." He gave a wry smile, "and the gold will open all the others."

I read my orders while sitting in his office.

There was to be a gathering of the supporters for parliamentary reform in Manchester on August the 16th. The well-known orator, Henry Hunt, was to address the meeting, and the government feared that violent demonstrations, or even the start of an insurrection, had been planned by the shadowy people behind some of the various unions and groups attending the gathering. The government had been mightily alarmed by reports of former soldiers giving military training to bands of supporters of parliamentary reform, specifically in those northern counties with many industrial towns, and had reacted by stationing several cavalry and infantry regiments in the vicinity of Manchester

My orders were to proceed to Manchester and meet with one of MI6's undercover men, a Samuel Braithwaite, at The Grapes Tavern, situated in Ancoats Street by the side of the Stockport Canal. I would use my usual alias of Jackson Greenstreet, and play the role of a disgruntled ex-soldier looking for employment – any sort of employment. Samuel Braithwaite would be my conduit into a gang comprised of suspected radicals and former military men. He and I were to monitor the activities of the group, and alert the authorities should there be any sign of an armed insurrection being planned.

"How will I recognise this Samuel Braithwaite?" I asked John Stafford. "I have not met any member of your staff by that name."

"He will know you, and will make contact at an opportune moment."

I was to travel part way to Manchester by stage coach, then walk the fifty or so miles from Stoke on Trent – a town en-route – to my destination. Stafford explained the reason for this mode of transportation.

"An unemployed former soldier could not afford coach travel. It costs a penny a mile even when seated on top of the coach, and seeing a penniless vagrant travelling by coach would cause eyebrows to be raised, and questions to be asked, by your fellow travellers. However, arrangements have been made with Ferris and Sons, the stage coach proprietors, to employ you as a guard as far as Stoke. From there you must tramp the rest of the way into Manchester, and arrive looking like a man with no money and sleeping rough, with sore feet from walking all the way from London."

John Stafford was correct about the sore feet. Even the fifty miles from Stoke-on-Trent raised blisters as I was not wearing my comfortable, and expensive, Wellington boots but a pair of cheaply made boots of the poor. I still carried the skean dhu knife, but inside my jacket, the faded madder red tunic with the green facings of the 69th.

It was near 6 p.m. when I entered The Grapes, a typical canal-side tavern, frequented by bargees and labourers. Heads turned as I entered, but after a cursory glance the clientèle went back to their talking and drinking. The bar maid was a large, round faced, homely looking woman, who greeted me with a smile. "What shall you have, me luv?"

I asked for a tankard of her best strong ale.

"You'll be wanting Mister Boddington's special brew then. It's three ha'pennies a tankard, and well worth it."

I pushed the coins across the bar as she poured me a measure. I took a long swallow of the foaming tankard, and she was right, it was excellent ale. I wiped the froth off my lips with the back of my hand, and a satisfied air.

"Have you come far, me luv?" The bar maid leaned her meaty arms on the counter, and scrutinised me with bright blue eyes.

"From London," I said, and took another hefty swig of my ale.

"I meant how far today." She said tartly.

"I started from Stockport at cock crow this morning." Mentioning a village about twenty miles distant.

"You've done well then, lad. Although walking that far in a day would be no hardship for someone like you. A soldier was you?"

"Aye, though marching with comrades makes the distance seem less than when marching on your own."

"So, why march all the way up from London to Manchester? You ain't been and gone and put some poor girl in the family way?"

I shook my head violently. "No, I wouldn't do such a base thing. I'm looking for work. There's not much down south, and I heard up here the factories and mills are crying out for men."

She looked me up and down. "I can always use a strong back and a pair of hands in the tavern. I'll treat you to one of my Lancashire hotpots, and after you've eaten we can discuss terms, if you're interested."

I was torn with indecision. I hadn't eaten since the night before, when I'd finished a crust of bread and morsel of cheese left from my fodder, and I was famished. A hotpot would be most welcome, but I couldn't take a job at the tavern since I expected to meet Samuel Braithwaite, who would obviously have some work for me.

I was about to reject her offer when a hand landed on my back and a cheerful, and familiar, voice said. "Jackson Greenstreet. What brings you to Manchester?"

I turned around to find Patrick Jane grinning at me – his hair cut short as a convict.

"Samuel Braithwaite!" I held out my hand and shook his. "I came looking for work, as I expect you did?"

Patrick/Samuel turned and spoke to the barmaid. "Betty luv, serve us up two of your famous hotpots, there's a good lass. I'm right clemmed, and by the look of him so is my friend Jackson." He handed over a shilling. "And while you're at it fetch us two flagons of Mister Boddington's special." He pointed to a corner alcove. "We'll be sat over there."

Betty the barmaid smiled indulgently at Patrick/Samuel. "I'll be over in a minute, Sammy. Fancy you knowing this fellow, who just this minute arrived in Manchester."

We sat, and Samuel, as I now must call him, spoke quietly. "I will ask after Matilde, which will be the last time I mention her, and I advise you to put any thoughts of Caroline from your head. The people we are going to meet are fanatical and dangerous, and we need to keep our minds on the task in hand."

I told him Matilde was most concerned the marriage might be postponed, but other than that she was well.

"John Stafford assured me that as soon as the meeting on the sixteenth of this month is over I can return to London," Samuel said.

"There is a daily mail coach from Manchester to London, and I have the money to ensure you and I will be on the coach which leaves on the seventeenth. We will be in London the next day, with plenty of time to travel to France for your wedding." I assured him. I stared at his close cropped hair. "What happened to you? Did you fall into a shearing machine?"

Samuel laughed. "The group I infiltrated consider themselves as Ironsides, Oliver Cromwell's New Model Army, and cut their hair in a similar style. Though the politics of the group are more of the Levellers than that of Cromwell, who of course suppressed the movement and drove their leaders into exile, or at least those he didn't hang."

"Will I be expected to shear my locks? Caroline would be appalled to see me shorn, as I expect will Matilde to see you so shaven."

He shook his head. "The group contains others not of their particular political bent, but all are dissatisfied with the present government and demand reform to the parliamentary system. I know you will be in concordance with their general view, as I believe you to lean towards a more inclusive voting system?"

"I do not condone the use of violence to gain that end, but will keep that opinion to myself."

Samuel nodded in agreement. "Just as well, for this town contains more informants per square mile than London, and not all are in John Stafford's pay. Even in this tavern, where the barmaid Betty Turpin is the local gossip, one must be circumspect. The fact you had just arrived when I fortuitously met you will be around the town in a trice."

"Will that cause us any problems?"

"Not if we stick to the story that you and I shared the same cell at Bow Street magistrates' court. I had been arrested for distributing pamphlets and you for disturbing the peace ... drunk and disorderly to be precise." He grinned cheekily as he informed me of my disreputable past. "I'll tell Betty the tale when she serves us our food, and the information will be with both the radicals and the authorities by this time tomorrow."

The hotpots duly arrived, and while I hungrily tucked into mine Samuel told Betty Turpin where he and I had first met. "I advised Jackson to come north when they let him out of jail, " Samuel explained, "as Manchester is so full of drunk and disorderly folk he wouldn't be noticed amongst 'em."

"'Ecky thump!" Betty said, "I have two jailbirds at one table. I knew you were a jackanapes, Sammy, but now we have a Jacksonnapes as well." We dutifully chuckled at her pun, and she went back behind her bar shaking with laughter.

"How does she know you as Sammy?" I asked, after wiping up the final morsels of what had been a very tasty meal.

"I come into Manchester once a week to pick up supplies." He indicated the sack under the table. "I always call in at The Grapes. Betty Turpin's hotpots are renowned for miles around, and I also catch up on the latest gossip."

We had cleaned our plates and emptied our tankards when Samuel said quietly. "I am part of a group who are bent on causing mischief at the meeting that is to be held on the sixteenth of the month here in Manchester, at St Peter's Field."

"What sort of mischief?"

"I don't know for sure, but they possess a cannon, secreted away in a barn."

"A cannon!" My exclamation was quickly stifled by his hand over my mouth.

"Quiet, Jack. Betty's ears and eyes are like those of a cook house rat."

I glanced towards the bar, where Betty was deep in conversion with a brawny labourer, and hoped my outburst had gone unnoticed.

"What do they want with cannon? Are they going to fire on the meeting?" I whispered.

Samuel shrugged his shoulders. "At the moment all they have is the cannon, with no gunpowder or shot. We stole the weapon from the estate of Lord Cranfield. The cannon sat in front of his home at Droyslden. One of his ancestors had brought it back to England after the Battle of Blenheim."

"Blenheim? That cannon is over a hundred years old," I hissed. "The barrel will probably explode the first time it is fired. An iron barrel will rust over that length of time."

"The barrel is bronze, but I admit it should be in a museum."

Another thought struck me. "Surely the theft of a cannon, even a museum piece, will make the authorities nervous. They will be sending out the Yeomanry and Militia to search for the weapon."

Samuel assured me Lord Cranfield's house at Droyslden had only a minuscule staff in attendance as the noble Lord and his family were in London. Servants were not permitted to leave a Great House by the front entrance, so Lord Cranfield's staff would not realise the gun was missing.

I was wary of meeting the rest of Samuel's group, knowing them capable of stealing, and then possibly using, a cannon. Nevertheless, the reason for me being dispatched to Manchester was to aid him in discovering the plans of the group, and then putting a stop to them. If their plans included firing a cannon then perhaps even more help was needed. I put my concern to Samuel.

"I leave messages in a 'post box', a hidden place in a building near this tavern. The local military commander knows about the stolen cannon, but until I uncover the complete plan I am ordered to do nothing other than observe and report. The weapon might be moved from where it presently rests, but God knows it took us enough effort to get it to where it is now."

He picked up his sack of supplies from under our table. "We best make a move, we face a two hours journey, and most of it is up hill."

As we left The Grapes Betty called out. "Happen I'll see you both next week?" Sanuel turned and smiled at her." Aye, Betty luv. Happen you will,."

The rest of Samuel's group, and the purloined cannon, occupied a barn near the village of Collyhurst on the Rochdale road. We set out to walk the six miles, although I would have much prefered to stay the night in The Grapes as my feet were swollen and my legs tired. However, after a mile of discomfort I regained my marching rhythm.

I had noted Samuel's accent was similar to that of Betty the barmaid, a Mancunian – as people from Manchester are called – and congratulated him on his grasp and use of the local dialect.

He stopped and faced me. "I was reluctant to tell you this before, Jack, but not only was I born at Ashton under Lyme, about ten miles east of here, but my baptismal name is really Samuel Braithwaite."

I stared at him in astonishment. "But your father is Admiral Sir Vincent Jane?"

"He and his wife adopted me when I was aged ten."

As we walked on to Collyhurst Samuel – for that is his baptismal name – told me his story.

He had been born to Samuel and Eliza Braithwaite in Ashton under Lyme. Samuel senior, who had worked in the local iron foundry, was killed in a horrific accident when Samuel junior was four years old.

"I have no memory of my father." He said sadly. Eliza struggled for a year to bring up her son, doing all and any work available, but fell behind with her rent and was evicted. She applied to Ashton under Lyme Parish to take her and Samuel into the local Workhouse, but as she had not been born in Ashton she was not entitled to be housed 'on the parish' but had to return to the parish of her birth, the seaport of Kingston upon Hull, eighty miles away. After a terrible journey crossing the bleak Pennines Eliza and Samuel staggered into Hull, and were admitted into the local Workhouse.

Although they now had shelter the conditions were extreme, and after a year of back breaking labour on the dockside Eliza died.

Before Sebastian could be transferred to the local Foundling Home a Press gang from Captain Jane's vessel, HMS Conquest, came to the Workhouse looking to 'press' personnel to crew the ship. On account of his agility and quick wits Patrick was chosen to be a powder monkey, one of the young boys who brought the gunpowder charges to the guns during a sea battle. They had to be quick both of mind and body, as well as nimble and agile, as they made their way between the cramped decks of the ship bringing the canvas covered gunpowder charges to the ever hungry guns. Stocks of gunpowder couldn't be stored above the waterline, and a constant stream of boys scurried between the magazines down in the bowels of the vessel and the cannons on the gun decks, during an engagement at sea. The boys also helped in making up the charges, by weighing out the powder and then sewing the canvas bags which contained the powder.

Samuel served four years aboard Conquest and at ten years old was present at the Battle of Trafalgar. It was after that battle, when Captain Jane came around to congratulate what was left of the ship's company, that he first saw Samuel.

The lower deck was a place a senior officer seldom ventured, and even when mustered on deck for Sunday devotions it wasn't often a Captain of one of His Majesty's ships would pay any attention to a lowly powder monkey, but on this particular day he did. Not only did Captain Jane notice Samuel but nearly fainted away with shock, for Samuel was the exact likeness of his own son, late son, Patrick. When Captain Jane discovered Samuel had been born on the same day that Patrick had died he took it into his mind his late son had been resurrected. The Janes adopted Samuel, changing his name and his fortune. Patrick Jane, formerly Samuel Braithwaite, was given the education a son of a Royal Navy Captain merited, and then appointed a Midshipman on his adopted father's ship.

"So you see, Jack, I am from lowly stock. I was going to tell Matilde after our marriage, for I feared she would not wish to marry herself to someone so far beneath her station in..."

I burst out laughing. "Matilde worried that you, or rather your parents, would not agree to you marrying a former housemaid. Now you have concerns she would not wish to marry a former powder monkey. How ironic is that?"

I clapped him on the shoulder. "If I know Matilde, she will be so saddened by the trials of your early life she would marry you if you were still a powder monkey. She loves you as wholeheartedly as you love her, and your station, or her station, does not matter a hoot." I paused as if deep in thought. "Though you'd best lose that haircut from hell before she next claps eyes on you!"

The smile on Samuel's face would have shaded the sun, had it been shining. But this was Manchester and it had come on to rain – again.

Dusk had fallen by the time we approached the barn where I was to meet the rest of the group. As we made our way through a small copse I picked out the outline of a barn, dark against the twilight sky, and then a voice called out "Halt! Who goes there?" I was impressed the group kept a military style guard. "Samuel Braithwaite and one other." Samuel replied.

"Advance, and be recognised." Came the response

We moved forward a few more paces, then stopped again. I still could not see the sentinel, but heard him give the watch word. "Freedom for all."

Samuel replied with the counter sign. "And universal suffrage."