Remember remember, p.18
Remember, Remember, page 18
‘Because of the gunpowder plot?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ Nick says, lowering his voice. ‘Because on this day, we remember the consequences of treason. One group of conspirators decided they were above the law, so we’re annually reminded that persecution is no excuse for recklessness.’
‘Even when the law don’t help nothing but itself,’ Marion mutters.
Charity nudges the bawd to quieten her.
‘Even so,’ Nick says, bristling slightly at Marion’s blunt truth-telling, ‘I chose today because there is no more powerful reminder than bonfire night that Parliament’s mandate to legislate comes from the people. They elect us – and so we must listen and represent their views. With the turmoil this country has seen of late, it took me a great deal of effort to obtain approval for all this. I had to seek special permission from the Prime Minister for the march to end outside Westminster, and I imagine he and His Majesty will be more on edge after learning how many are in attendance.’
‘So what should we do?’ Charity says, hands cradling her elbows.
She’s never been one for trouble.
‘Keep order. Follow the law. Today is a chance to foster unity beneath the banner of equality and Vincent’s cause.’
The supporters gathered nearby have ceased their conversations to hear Nick’s warning; always happy to speak in front of an audience, he projects his voice further, and a hush falls over the room.
‘Remember, remember, my friends,’ he calls out, ‘there are forces that would relish disbanding you, and they will do anything they can to overturn Mansfield’s ruling. Do not give them cause or aid. For the sake of your safety and your future freedom, you must follow Miss Delphine St Joseph’s every direction meticulously during tonight’s vigil.’
Nerves flutter in Delphine’s stomach. Nick is looking at her in a way that suggests he trusts her directions will be wise. But she can hardly manage her day, let alone those of three hundred men. She fears he sees something in her that she lacks.
But there’s no time to correct him. Nick bids them all luck as he leaves the bawdy house, disappearing down Carnaby Street into a quickly descending fog. The crowds outside seem to be getting louder, and the fireworks louder with them. Delphine checks the clock on Marion’s mantel: in half an hour, the march will commence.
Chapter Nineteen
To the wicked, everything serves as pretext.
—M. DE VOLTAIRE
The next half hour passed in a blur. Delphine spent it greeting protesters outside the bawdy house, shaking their hands and then folding candles into them like weapons. Nick must have bought four hundred boxes of matches and at least thirty firestrikers because the misty streets were lit with an army of tiny flames when the clock chimed five o’clock. They’d expected a few hundred people to come, but there must be at least two thousand. Delphine steadies herself at the front and tucks a spare matchbox into her pocket.
Marion is beside her, but Charity isn’t.
The bawd whispers that Nick’s warning compelled her friend to stay behind. ‘Don’t be too hard on the girl. It’s her way.’
Delphine agrees, crestfallen.
But despite the disappointment, she must march.
They take the first step. Then another. Then another. The crowd follows their lead, one foot after the other, one row, then the next. Until every torn, tattered or tailored shoe along every winding street for half a mile is in step.
As she walks, Delphine feels the sadness that has been holding her still for the last fortnight begin to flow outward: through her fingertips, through the candle, and up with the smoke into the night. She pulls her shawl tightly around her shoulders with her free hand. November’s chill has set in, and despite all the bodies around her, she still feels its sting.
‘How are you doing?’ she asks the bawd. ‘Cold,’ Marion grumbles.
‘Likewise,’ Delphine says. ‘But it’s worth it. Because this is for Vincent.’
Marion lifts her candle closer to Delphine’s face and peers at her.
Then she takes her arm. ‘For Vincent,’ they echo in unison.
It does not go unheard.
The words spread from their lips to those at the very back of the crowd. Hearing his name uttered so many times, like an incantation, forces Delphine to acknowledge that her brother is much more than a man now.
He is a symbol.
And they are quietly marching towards another.
Halfway through the forty-minute journey to Westminster, she notices more tiny flames flickering inside some of the houses they pass. Men and women stand with their arms wrapped around each other, nodding their heads from behind the safety of windowpanes. They are with her, too, in their way.
The crowd swells as they reach New Palace Yard. No other people are in sight. Delphine grabs an empty, discarded crate from one of the trader’s stalls. They’ll need it later. Reflections from their candles bounce off the scaffolding surrounding the House of Lords, making its towers seem taller and more menacing in the darkness. Delphine takes comfort knowing that Nick is within, presenting his petition to the Speaker of the House.
When the abbey bells announce six o’clock, he will join them. Some of the signatories will tell their stories, relating to all of Westminster what Vincent’s success meant to them. Delphine sensed an expectation from the others that she should speak too, but the words in her heart are not meant for crowds – she’ll save them for her brother’s graveside.
Somewhere in the crowd, people begin to sing. A sombre tune carried from plantation to plantation, across islands and oceans. Delphine sets down her crate and closes her eyes, humming along to the melody, and though she hasn’t heard the song in years the lyrics easily resurface:
Massa buy me, he won’t killa me,
O’
Massa buy me, he won’t killa me,
O’
Massa buy me, he won’t killa me,
O’
‘For he kill me he whip me regular
The bells chime after the third repetition, and there is no sign of Nick. There could be any number of reasons why he’s been delayed, but tendrils of unease creep into Delphine’s voice. She tries to shake them off by singing louder. The low notes of the second verse reverberate deep in her chest.
‘For I live with a bad man,
Oh la lie!
‘For I live with a bad man,
Obudda bo
‘For I live with a bad man,
Oh la lie!
But the bad man gon’ reap what he deserve
The singing halts when a man emerges from a balcony window above them, dressed in red balloon breeches trimmed with gold. The crowd cheers, and Delphine steps onto the wooden box and raises her hand to call for silence. The hush falls quickly; her nerves do not. The man looks so tiny from where she stands, dwarfed beneath the twisting pillars of the medieval building.
So much for Nick’s idea that governments are not above the people, she thinks.
Marion nudges her. ‘What do you think he’ll say?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Delphine whispers.
‘Where’s Nick?’ she mutters through her teeth.
‘I don’t know.’ But Delphine is sure Nick will be here any moment.
The man on the balcony clears his throat, and his nasal voice rings across the square.
‘Our Sovereign Lord the King charges and commands all assembled here to immediately disperse…’
Anger slithers down Delphine’s spine – the Riot Act. The man is reading them the Riot Act. It’s been impossible to avoid the tumults that swept through the city these last few years, but this is no riot. Delphine can still hear the shouts of ‘bread or blood’ from the rioting women in 1766, when the army could barely control the uprisings after the price of wheat rose so high that only the rich could afford bread.
Or two years ago, when fifteen thousand angry white men mobbed the streets after Wilkes, the anti-monarchist MP was first imprisoned. After the first night of shooting, even Marion was forced to close the Temple doors.
And it’s not like during the silk weavers’ bloody revolt over wages and conditions in Spitalfields. Delphine still passes by many streets with boarded-up windows because of it.
No blood has been shed here. Yet Parliament is demanding they leave.
Is it possible all the people gathered here are in the wrong? What does that man see from his Westminster balcony that she does not?
‘… peacefully depart to your homes or your lawful businesses, upon the pains contained within the Act and…’
The vigil’s attendees are getting restless now. The lights on the walls dart about as some people shake their candles like fists; shouts of We not doing nothing, leave us be, and For Vincent, fly up into the air.
‘… at the will of his Majesty, King George III, for preventing tumults and riotous assemblies.’
The cries grow louder, and the bodies push closer into one mass of shock and outrage. Delphine’s pulse quickens – she wants justice, too, but not like this.
If this becomes a riot, there is no way Parliament will hear these people’s stories, no way for Vincent to rest in peace. Nick told her to control the crowd, but how can she? She is just one person. There is no reason for them to listen to her.
‘You have one hour to depart. God save the King.’ No one repeats his words.
No one moves.
The man turns and slams the balcony door behind him. The thud is lost among the rising commotion.
‘Should we go?’ Marion says to Delphine.
Should we? Delphine wonders as the shouts grow louder, as she turns to Marion and sees fear flickering in her eyes. This is how it starts, she thinks as the air thickens with uncertainty. This is how a protest becomes a riot. We agree to follow their rules and then they change them. Force the discontented masses to choose between compliance or violence, leaving no options in between. ‘We’ve done nothing wrong.’ But Nick did tell them to obey commands. And this is definitely one of them.
‘We did something wrong as soon as we were cut from our mothers’ wombs,’ Marion hisses. Delphine has never seen the bawd so vexed, and a fire is building in her, too. It’s been there all along, deep in the pit of her stomach, just as Vincent described it on the eve of his death. She has gone to great lengths to put that fire out daily. To suppress the flames of her anger with pursed lips, tensed shoulders and a held tongue. It has left her exhausted – the slave’s burden.
But no more.
Tonight, she will not be silenced.
‘I’m not leaving,’ Delphine says, loud enough for those around her to hear. She steps back onto the crate and lifts her candle to the sky.
‘Delphine!’ Marion snaps, tugging at her skirts. ‘Remember what Lyons said.’
She hasn’t forgotten, but Nick isn’t here. She can guess why he hasn’t joined them – it is safer within Parliament’s walls – and she’s not going to wait for him any longer.
The crowd is quiet again, all eyes on Delphine. Then, row by row, they raise their candles in solidarity, flames shimmering in the night. She has their attention – but what to do with it?
There must be a way to heed Nick’s warning without abandoning their cause. She couldn’t save Vincent’s life; at the very least, she needs to save his memory. And that’s what all these people came here to do.
Her heart won’t calm, but her thoughts are racing towards an idea. A beautiful, horrific idea.
‘We will not riot tonight,’ she calls out. ‘The men in this building have decided who we are, but we shall prove them wrong.’ Her voice is strong and carries across the yard. ‘You do not have to remain here, but if you choose to stay I am asking for your help. Help me show these men what it was like for our parents, our grandparents, and all those who came before them. We will… lie down.’
‘What?’ Marion points indignantly to the delicate lace trim on her dress, as the rest of the crowd mumbles their confusion.
The bawd has never told Delphine of her journey from Jamaica to Britain. She doesn’t know if Marion has ever experienced the tight packing method – where slaves are forced to lie, squashed side by side, for dangerous lengths of time in the belly of a ship. Having been born in St Lucia, Delphine hasn’t. But she has seen the chain-linked lines of broken men as they were forced off the vessels. She has dabbed water onto their cracked lips and has cleaned the layers of shit and puss from their untreated wounds.
This is what they are protesting. This is why her brother died. ‘Can you do this?’ Delphine asks Marion after explaining her idea.
The bawd pales, then nods her sombre agreement.
‘Then let’s spread the word. Make sure everyone knows they can leave if they have to.’
Delphine goes left, and Marion goes right.
All around the square, people lay down their bodies, as close as possible to one another. Delphine feels the crook in the bawd’s elbow, the calf of the man on her other side, and the scent of his sweat. Delphine takes each of their hands and closes her eyes as she trembles at the thought of living this. The strength it would take to survive it, what would be left of her on the other side.
When that man reappears on the balcony, guarded by his velvet pomp and privilege, he will see this:
Thousands of people lying head to toe, legs overlapping, heart next to crying, beating heart.
They are not faceless drawings in a book. They are not cargo to be claimed on insurance.
They are as they have always been: real, breathing beings with lives, struggles and stories.
She hopes that when the man comes back he sees that this is not a riot.
This is humanity. Resilience. Desperation.
As the last few protestors join them on the ground, there’s not a whisper among the crowd. Only the far-off boom of fireworks: each thunder and peal an echo of the explosion that never happened but will never be forgot. Because once, it might have destroyed this very building, disrupting the very heart of the empire.
Too soon, the fireworks are drowned out by marching feet and clopping hooves. She looks up to see the Horse Guard blocking the road on the north side of the square, the ranks of soldiers amassing on the east. Hundreds of black boots and silver bayonets glinting in the candlelight.
When the hour is up, they give no final warning. Gunpowder and lead explode overhead. A cacophony of screams rises, and her control over the crowd is gone.
When you don’t know whose blood just spattered your hands and face, instinct takes over.
Delphine runs, desperate to make it out of New Palace Yard.
Marion is already out of sight, as are the other girls and all the faces she recognised earlier.
How quickly peace can turn to violence.
She fights through the crowd, ducking and dodging the soldiers’ bullets and swords. With no weapons, the protestors are throwing their candles, pocket contents, and rocks from the ground to defend themselves.
‘We’re not doing anything, we’re not doing anything, we’re not doing anything!’ a woman begs, one arm over her face, desperately trying to drag a companion from a soldier’s grip with the other.
Delphine runs, skin flushed and slick with sweat. She breathes hard, but there’s too little air to fuel her flight in the crush.
Trying to block out the sounds of knuckles cracking against skulls, she scrambles over falling bodies. She cringes every time she hears the roar of a gun.
‘Move! Get the hell out of here!’ a redcoat yells, the noise burning like magma in her ears. His bayonet is on its side, and he slams the butt into her spine, then the back of her head. Delphine stumbles dizzily out of his eyeline before he can change his mind and pull the trigger.
The man beside her is injured. She reaches out to him, but the crowd surges, pushing her forward. It swallows him up like he’s being pulled under a wave.
She keeps pushing, keeps being pushed, until at last she breaks from the crowd, and finds herself sprinting across Westminster Bridge.
Though her lungs are on fire and the wind shoots icy daggers at her cheeks, she does not stop. If she does, she is dead. She slows only once she reaches the south side of the bridge, gripping the stone barrier to try and steady the swirling mess of her thoughts. Blood is trickling from the back of her head; she feels faint. As she looks back at parliament, all she can make out against the night sky is its silhouette – spikes, spires, and smoke.
What Delphine wishes to see instead: Westminster in flames.
It almost happened over a hundred and fifty years ago on this very day.
Remember, remember.
Across the city, church bells toll. Seven deep chimes for seven o’clock.
They didn’t even give us an hour.
A scream builds in her lungs, but she holds it. For too long Delphine has kept her head down in the face of injustice. She has tried, oh, how she has tried to reconcile her impulses to rebel with the reality of her status, to accept that she has no power. But she cannot any longer. She will not.
And why should she?
All they asked for was to be heard.
But instead of listening, the government Nick asked her to trust opened fire. Shooting to kill in the name of the King.
She knows now it does not matter which rules she follows. The noose drops all the same.
Because her very skin is a rebellion; her breaths evidence of resistance; her thoughts a living reminder of ancestral hope.
The protesters’ crying hasn’t stopped.
More of them are fleeing over the bridge, pursued by soldiers on horseback. She doesn’t need to see their faces, hear their voices, or know their fear. She was born knowing the scent of it: sulphur and ammonia, sweat and iron. She will take that fear and craft it into a weapon.
They will be here soon.
Delphine lets the scream out, primal and vicious and wild. With one last look at Westminster, before she runs again, Delphine makes herself a promise: this Empire will fall.
