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Prologue

St Peter’s Field, Manchester, England

16 August 1819

The crowd surged around Nash like a living thing. Voices of children mingled with those of their parents anxiously awaiting the man they believed would give eloquent voice to their long-ignored cries for reform.

Unmindful of the smoke from the city’s factories marring the blue of the midday sky, thousands had flocked to the vast green field. Mothers wore their Sunday best, some carried babes in arms. Their presence only added to Nash’s fears.

The conversations he and his twin brother Robbie had overheard in Manchester’s taverns had educated them to the people’s hope that such a large gathering would rouse the government to act. They wanted representation in Parliament and relief from the heavy taxes that took bread from the mouths of their children.

Nash had seen for himself the hunger and sickness that stalked the overcrowded city like a destroying angel, claiming lives old and young.

Manchester’s huge population lacked even a single Member of Parliament while some villages with a dozen people and a few cows had their own MP, a situation that kept votes in the hands of the landed few.

Jostled by the crowd, Nash took a step back, shaking his head. He doubted the workers in Manchester would see their hopes realized. The political climate in England turned a deaf ear to cries for reform. Fearful the lower classes would rise up like those across the Channel, the government’s mood was one of suspicion, even fear.

The Home Secretary Lord Sidmouth had sent Nash and Robbie to Manchester to spy on those “fomenting rebellion”. But in the days they’d been here, they’d uncovered no signs of revolt. As far as Nash could determine, none of the men in today’s crowd bore arms. They carried only the meager food they had to sustain their families for the day.

What man brought his children to an armed rebellion?

Shifting his gaze to the right, Nash caught a glimpse of Robbie’s head of nut-brown hair rising above the crowd some yards away. His brother’s furrowed brow shouted the foreboding they both felt. As twins, they often shared emotions, a benefit to them as spies.

Nash’s unease grew, his stomach twisting in knots, as he thought of the forces mustered a few streets away: six troops of the 15th Hussars cavalry and seven companies of infantry, to which had been added the Manchester Yeomanry.

Over one thousand armed men stood ready to subdue any violence offered by the unarmed crowd.

Convinced this would be an insurrection, Sidmouth wanted to make a point. But did the Home Secretary intend to do more? Nash feared Sidmouth wanted blood. Did his plan, undisclosed to Nash and Robbie, include teaching the people of Manchester a terrifying lesson?

Murmurs spread through the crowd as the man for whom they had patiently waited finally made his way to the wooden platform. Henry Hunt, with his distinguished head of gray hair, stood ready to address the people.

Nash glanced at his pocket watch, noting the time: half past one.

From the other side of the field, a band struck up a rousing “God Save the King” and, for respect owing their monarch, the men took off their hats. Nash, too, removed his cap, setting it back on his head when the music stopped.

With eager anticipation, the people surged forward, straining to hear Hunt’s first words.

Suddenly, on the edge of the field, not far from where Nash stood, the Manchester Yeomanry appeared. Their blue uniforms and tall hats trimmed in gold made a flashy contrast to the common dress of the people.

Nash desperately wanted to believe the soldiers were there merely to assure order. The people must have believed it was so because they received the yeomen with shouts of goodwill. But the hard expressions on the soldiers’ faces told Nash they were there for an entirely different purpose.

Without warning, the yeomen raised their sabers and galloped into the crowd.

Horrified, Nash watched as the cavalry, reeling in their saddles, hewed their way through the defenseless heads and naked hands of the people. Heedlessly, they chopped off limbs until their blades dripped blood, leaving gaping wounds and blood-spattered clothes in their wake.

The thronging masses panicked, shrieking in fear and protest. Eyes wild, men, women and children screamed and tried to run. Trapped by the crowd, there was nowhere to go.

Heart-rending cries from women and children filled the air, piercing Nash to his soul.

Ignoring the shrieks and groans, the uncaring cavalry plunged forward.

Catching Robbie’s eye, Nash pushed his way through the fleeing crowd, heading toward the nearest yeoman to try to stop the mêlée. Before he could reach him, the soldier raised his saber and struck a woman in the head with the flat of his blade.

She plummeted to the ground. Her children fell to their knees beside her wailing, “Mama!”

Hot fury burned in Nash’s chest, as he raced to the yeoman. “These people are unarmed!” he shouted above the din. “Drop your sword! Forbear!”

The yeoman, slurring his words beyond understanding, swung his blade at Nash.

The blow hit him on the side of the head. Stunned, he crumpled to the grass.

Blackness closed around him as he heard Robbie shout, “Leave off, you fool! He is Sidmouth’s man!”