The Last Days of Newgate - Andrew Pepper [125]
‘But we’re not forcing anyone to come to the meeting who doesn’t want to.’
‘No, we’re not.’
‘And the fact that these people have been driven to near-breaking point isn’t our doing, is it?’
‘No, it’s not,’ Townsend said, still refusing to meet Pyke’s stare. ‘But there’ll be a lot of anger in that barn.’
‘I’m sure there will be.’
‘And when Edmonton’s militia turns up?’
‘There’ll probably be some fighting,’ Pyke said, trying not to think about what might happen.
This time Townsend looked up at him. ‘And what are we supposed to do, when this fighting breaks out?’
Pyke stared at him. He had nothing to say that would alleviate Townsend’s righteous sense of guilt.
They arrived in twos and threes. Some walked, others came on horse-drawn carts, others rode donkeys. They trudged into the barn in their coats, frocks, pantaloons, breeches, boots and shoes, young and old men alike, some with whiskers and others who were cleanly shaven. By seven o’clock, as dusk settled over the freshly harvested fields and gently rolling hills, there were fifty or sixty people crowded into the small barn. Inside, Saville and Canning were addressing the gathering. Meanwhile, Pyke had positioned himself behind an oak tree, some fifty yards from the barn’s entrance. It was a cold night, almost cold enough for a frost, but the skies were clear and, though it was not dark enough to see the stars, a half-moon was visible above the farmhouse.
Pyke heard them before he saw them: the sound of hoofs moving in unison, vibrating against the hard ground.
They turned on to the track that led up to the farm, at least ten of them, all riding horses and holding torches.
They rode slowly but with purpose along the flinty track and came to a halt about a hundred yards from where Pyke was standing. In the light of their torches, he scanned their faces and was disappointed not to see Swift among them.
As they gathered together in a circle, all on horseback, one of their rank, their leader perhaps, addressed them in hushed tones. Pyke tried to determine who this man was, but his view was blocked by another rider. In the barn, a raucous cheer erupted from the gathered crowd which seemed to get the raiding party’s attention. Pyke could not hear what they were saying to each other, but they were clearly preparing themselves to attack; they lined up in formation alongside one another, their torches held aloft. From somewhere behind them, their leader gave the signal and the men roused their horses into action. It did not take them long to pick up speed, and once they had done so, and were bearing in on their target, they started to shout: angry, blood-curdling cries whose sole purpose was to terrorise those inside the barn. As the horses thundered past him, Pyke scanned their faces again, but saw no one he recognised.
Just as the first figures stumbled out of the barn, the raiders were upon them, scything them down and using their torches to set the rickety wooden building alight. Moments later, the trickle of men emerging from the barn became a deluge. As they spilled out into the darkness, the raiders were waiting for them and attacked without mercy; some were trampled under hoofs, others were beaten with sticks and set alight.
It was a bloody sight and Pyke bore his own responsibility for initiating the conflict heavily. He tried to close his eyes to the horror of what was happening but the cruelty of the raiders and the helplessness of the protesters elicited a feeling of self-disgust.
As he scanned the faces of the mob, he saw the familiar gait of the old man who had lost his daughter and grandchild. He was trying to hobble to safety when one of the men on horseback flew past him and struck him on the head with what looked like a makeshift hammer. The old man went down. The rider pulled up the horse, turned around and without another thought rode the horse over the old man’s prostrate figure. The man quivered for a moment and then