Page 5 of Highland Jewel
Edinburgh, Scotland
January 1820
Eight months earlier
Ignoring the scowling walls of Edinburgh Castle rising far above them, crowds streamed into the Grassmarket. For days, the weather had been unseasonably warm, and the cobblestone area from Bow Foot to the White Hart Inn was filling quickly. All around Maisie Murray, the voices of the people chanted in unison, calling her to her destiny.
“Respect the rights of the people!”
With one hand, Maisie clutched her speech, and with the other, a white flag painted with the word “Liberty.” Moving with the flowing mass of humanity, she pushed toward the hustings, where she could see the gathered speakers already leading the protestors in shouted slogans.
“Universal suffrage! A voice for all! Liberty, equality, fraternity!”
Maisie joined in as she drew near. On the platform, her friend Fiona Johnston saw her and motioned to the handlers below to help her up onto the stage. The dozen men atop shifted over, making room for her.
The view from above caused a fist to form in Maisie’schest. She and Fiona had started the Edinburgh chapter of the Female Reform Society three months ago, joining in with many protests since then. But this was, by far, the largest gathering she’d seen. The Scottish people were rising. The spirit of reform was swelling.
These Monday assemblies were occurring regularly now, and as always, the crowd was neatly dressed for the occasion, and more women and children were in attendance. She saw members of their society in the throng. Many wore a green favor or ribbon in their bonnet or cap as a sign of solidarity with those who’d died or been injured at the massacre of protestors in Manchester this past August.
“I’m so glad you made it in time.” Fiona’s voice was hoarse. “Do you have it?”
Maisie had a difficult time tearing her attention away from the flags, the banners, and the crowds. Several bands were playing across the way, giving the event as much a feeling of celebration as one of protest.
“Do you have the speech?” her friend persisted.
Maisie handed over the paper. “I rephrased it a bit, but it’s essentially the same message that our chapter sisters delivered in Manchester.”
“Good.” The young woman scanned the page and then handed it back to her. “My throat is raw this morning. I don’t think I’ll be heard. You’ll need to read it.”
“Me?” A moment of panic stabbed at Maisie’s confidence. She was the writer, the scheduler, the worker who ran back and forth between the printers and their growing group of reformers. When she spoke on behalf of their cause, her audience generally consisted of other women in small assemblies. Speeches at larger gatherings were Fiona’s domain.
One of the organizers raised his hands for quiet before shouting. “With us today, the ladies of the Edinburgh Female Reform Society are present and determined to address their brothers and sisters.”
“Now.” One of the other men motioned to them. “Just a few words, mind you.”
Maisie handed her reticule to Fiona as she felt herself being ushered to the front of the platform. She stared out at the expectant crowd and felt sweat trickle down her back. Her pulse was pounding at her temples. But once she started, the words spilled out. She didn’t need to look at the page. She knew them. She believed in them.
“Sisters and brothers.” Her voice struggled at first. She paused and then poured all her strength into it. “Dear sisters and brothers. It is with a spirit of peace and respect that we address you. The causes that affect us all compel us to gather together for the sake of our suffering children, our dying parents, and the miserable partners of our woes. We need to be heard.”
The sound of scattered hisses and hostile jeering budded like noxious weeds across the gathering. Maisie wasn’t surprised. This was the way of things. Women were supposed to be mothers and daughters. Wives and caregivers. They struggled with the same wrongs as the men in this assembly, but many who gathered didn’t welcome a feminine presence on a public stage.
Maisie focused her attention on a woman her own age, standing two dozen rows away from the platform, and on an old man beside her. She called out to them as if they were the only ones in the audience.
“So many of us stand bereft of the meager support that nature requires for existence; the balm of sweet repose has long been a stranger to us. Our minds at night are filled with horror and despair, fearful that with each returning morn, the light of heaven will present to us with the corpse of some famished child or neighbor, which the kinder hand of Death has released from theoppressive want of clean water and decent food. We must stand together to oppose the repressive Six Acts passed last month by Parliament. A Parliament in which we Scots have little or no representation. We must stand together to oppose these laws that rob us of our ability to feed ourselves and to voice in open assemblies like this one our opposition to a government that cares not if we live or die. We must—”
“We applaud the heroism of our city’s ladies.” One of the organizers stepped in front of her, cutting her off.
Maisie was startled and annoyed by the sudden interruption, but even angrier as she felt herself being pulled back on the platform. Before she could voice a complaint, however, she saw the reason for the interference. Blue-coated militia on horseback had appeared across the Grassmarket. They were forming a line at the far end of the assembly.
Maisie hadn’t been in Manchester, but she and everyone on the hustings knew what had taken place in St. Peter’s Field. Nearly sixty thousand had gathered to demand the reform of parliamentary representation, reform that would giveallmen the right to vote for those who could speak for them in the House of Commons. The demonstration was peaceful, at first. But the speakers had no sooner begun when the mounted militia consisting of drunken local yeomanry rode in, trying to force their way through the crowd toward the hustings, wheeling their horses and striking at any who got in their way. When the people reacted, the English Hussars were waiting in the wings. They charged into the assembly, sabres drawn. In the ensuing debacle, more than a dozen were killed and hundreds injured. Men, women, and children. The local newspaper was continuing to call it the “Peterloo Massacre,” an ironic comparison to the Battle of Waterloo, fought only four years ago.
“We defy no laws here, unjust or no!” the speaker shouted, his words no doubt directed as much at the militia as at the crowd. “We have no wish to engage in conflict with armed men. Brothers and sisters, go now from here in an orderly manner.”
The crowd stirred and began to push as awareness of the mounted men swept through the assembly. The horrors of the past summer were an indisputable motivator. Murmurs and pushing quickly gave way to shouts and a panicky surge away from the soldiers.
Maisie felt Fiona tug at her arm. She was pointing at a half-dozen dragoons nudging their steeds through the sea of people toward the platform. “They’re coming to arrest the speakers. We have to go.”
They looked around for a way to climb down, but frantic protestors were now pressing in around them. Bodies were being squeezed against the platform, and the shouts were getting louder and more frantic. An orderly assembly had quickly become a frenzied mob. There was nowhere for anyone to go, and Maisie saw the mounted soldiers were forcing their way closer to the stage.
