Foolish Passions: A North & South Variation

Chapter 1: Riot

"Go home! He is one man and you are many!"

The crowd stilled for an instant. The sudden appearance of a woman, and one so well liked as Miss Margaret, had momentarily deflated the restless, rowdy mob of striking workers that filled Marlborough Mill's yard.

"Please!" she pleaded, "The soldiers are coming. Go home before things get out of hand!"

"Will ye' send t' Irish home?"

"Never!" he roared, stepping out in front of her. Mr Thornton was no coward. He would not hide behind anyone, not even a person of such admirable and impressive courage as Miss Margaret Hale.

A wave of violent restlessness rippled through the crowd. They bellowed their discontent like some great, injured animal. Margaret sensed rather than saw the arm, long and half starved from two weeks of striking, swing up high over the sea of flat caps and greasy heads.

She did not see the object hurtling in their direction. She did not hear the smack of brick against skin as it reached its mark, or the grunt of its victim as his body registered its impact. But she did observe the sway of inertia as he tried to steady himself, his arms unfurling from the tight knot that had held them over his chest. She saw him stagger forward, unsteady on his long legs, then watched, paralysed as the whole solid trunk of his body collapsed backwards, like some great elm felled in the forest.

Mr Thornton had been struck.

She stared in disbelief at the great and proud Milton Mill Master lying crumpled at her feet. So still, so pale... was he dead? Why had he fallen? She didn't know. There were too many thoughts in her head. Too many feelings. Compassion, of course, and christian concern. Fear, panic and something else... something gripping, alarming, unknown.

She knelt beside him, checking his cotton and wool clad chest for any sign of movement. The chain of his pocket watch glinted up at her. She remembered the wistful warmth in his voice when he had shown her his father's initials engraved on the back. 'G.T.', so he always carried a part of him, wherever he went. It had been the first time she had seen his face melt into some semblance of a smile. The first time she had enjoyed his company as they sat in her father's study, discussing poetry, parliament, and Plato. Her heart sank as she imagined the possibility that it might have been the last.

"'Tis alright lass, the's fight left in 'im yet," said a familiar voice at her elbow. She turned to see Higgins, red-faced and out of breath.

"I came as soon as I 'eard. Fools, th' lot o' 'em" he explained, gently turning the master's head to locate the wound. "Throwin' stones like that. We'll never get th' masters t' see reason wi' us behavin' like wild animals. I warned 'em, miss, I said... ah! there 'tis" he pointed to a penny-sized gash that was oozing blood on Thornton's left temple.

"We need to get him inside," said Margaret, "Nicholas, can you hook his arms about your shoulders? I will help you..."

"Aye, Miss Margaret, give us a moment."

Margaret rose and turned to face the crowd. They had fallen silent. The sight of the author of their grievances struck down by one of their own missives had knocked the wind out of them, and their anger. The union leaders had warned them against such a display. They had said it would only undermine their cause. What would they do now?

"Go home." She commanded, as gently and firmly as she could, "Your master has been struck down by...." She could not bring herself to say the words. She could see the fear written on their faces; the desperation hanging from their gaunt bodies. Poor, pitiful creatures, driven mad with hunger. "Please... Boucher, Peterson, Denby... You there, Ashe, take your brothers and leave. The soldiers are coming. Please, this is not the way."