The Prince of Eden (76 page)

This was greeted by a softer scattering of applause, not that the men disagreed, but rather that they had never thought of themselves in positive terms. Now lifting his eyes, Edward saw, just coming down Kennington Street, a regiment of quickly advancing cavalry. Peculiar, he thought, that all those horses could move silently. Of course they were still a distance away.

If O'Conner saw them he gave no indication of it, clearly caught up in his own rhetoric and the rarified mood of the occasion. "They tell us it is impossible to change the course of history. They say that it was always thus, competent men these are, too, who say these things. The Poor Law, they say, must be observed. Commercial stagnation must be expected."

As O'Conner launched forth into a heated diatribe against the Poor

Law, Edward saw a second regiment of infantry, a thousand soldiers was his guess, dividing themselves into columns as the cavalry had done, half filing in one direction, half in the other, again encircling and taking up positions directly behind their companions on horseback.

As Edward watched, his disquiet increased. Surely they would not march on peacefully assembled men. God, with what ease Kennington Common could be converted into a blood bath.

Again he looked out over the men and, behind them, the troops, the darker blue uniform of the cordon of special constables, silently flanking the Chief Commissioner of Police, who sat astride his horse only a short distance away. Their plan was clear. Let the constables handle it first. If they failed, there were the troops.

Still he heard O'Conner speaking and was grateful. As long as there were words, there would be no call for action, though, as Edward heard now, those words were patently incendiary. "And now in the presence of you all," O'Conner cried, "I call the leaders of this country barbarians."

Although he was pushing his voice to its maximum capacity it showed no signs of breaking. "No blacker gulf of wretchedness," he was crying now, "has ever been created by a government for its people. Why have we been denied those enchantments, produced by the successful industry of England? Has it made us rich?"

In answer to the direct question came a single explosive thunderous "No!"

"Indefensible," he shouted, his arms outstretched. "To whom, then, is this wealth of England truly wealth? Not to us, the men who produce it."

It was clear that the questions were hitting their mark. The workers seemed to be pressing closer to the wagon.

"But we'll not stop here," O'Conner promised them now. "Here are our demands for a portion of that wealth which is justifiably ours." And so saying, he thrust the petition up into the air. "Here it is," he shouted again, "the new map of England where all men function and flower in equality, in a spirit of justice and brotherhood. Let it be said that on the tenth of April, 1848, Englishmen reached out and reshaped their futures and created a new world for themselves, for their sons, and for all mankind."

Then it was over. For a few moments, that vast crowd of men stood motionless, as though stunned by the vision of such a dazzling Utopia. Then it came, a low roar at first, like incoming tide, perhaps a hundred voices in the beginning, then joined by others and still others until at last the sounds of the cheers struck the wagon like an inundating wave.

The men belonged to O'Conner. He could do with them what he pleased, although, at the moment, Edward observed that O'Conner seemed disinclined to do anything with them at all. Rather he stood at the edge of the wagon like a spent saviour, his head bowed, his arms hanging limp at his side, allowing the waves of adoration to roll over him.

Directly ahead of the wagon now, by about fifty yards, Edward saw the Chief Commissioner of Police slowly advancing, one man alone, urging his horse carefully through the crowds.

Still he drew nearer, a rather elderly man, though he sat excessively erect on his handsome sable horse.

Yet closer he came, his eyes fixed on Feargus O'Conner, a mildness in his eyes. The man was less than ten feet now from the edge of the wagon, his face perfectly calm as he pulled up on his horse.

The men in the front ranks of the crowd pushed slowly back as though sensing a confrontation. The shouts and cries were diminishing. O'Conner seemed exhausted, yet alert, his eyes fixed rigidly on the Commissioner.

"Mr. O'Conner," the man said now, in a soft voice. "My compliments," and here incredibly he extended his hand upward across the edge of the wagon and it merely hung there for a moment, unclasped, as all eyes focused on O'Conner, who seemed completely baffled by the cordial gesture.

Around the perimeter of the crowd, Edward saw the troops still waiting. And still the hand was waiting, the morning growing colder and darker. It occurred to Edward that it must be noon or beyond, but it was almost a night sky forming above them, the heavy gray clouds beginning to pitch and roll, already dropping moisture.

At that instant the Commissioner looked up as though to confirm the unpleasantness of nature. "An unfortunate turn," he pronounced, looking truly grieved. Then heartily he insisted, "Come, man, let me take your hand. Never have I heard a more rousing speech. I predict it will be quoted for years to come."

Then at last O'Conner moved. Unfortunately he had to stoop from the height of the wagon to the lower level of the man on horseback. But stoop he did, as slowly, he clasped the still waiting hand. "I thank you, sir," Edward heard him say. Then incredibly he asked in a childlike manner, "Do you really think it will be quoted?"

"I'm certain of it," the Police Commissioner smiled. "I'll do the quoting myself, I will. Needs to be said, every last word of it."

The words of encouragement seemed to fall like healing balm on O'Conner's ears. He shook the man's hand with increasing gratitude,

although at that moment he too was clearly aware of the increasing rain, many of the men pulling hoods and hats over their heads and seeming to press closer for shelter.

At last the Police Commissioner withdrew his hand and pulled the visor of his cap down over his head, his manner still sympathetic. "A bad turn," he cursed, raising his head directly into the rain. "Rotten luck, really." Then he looked at O'Conner as though a brilliant idea had just occurred to him. "TTza/ must be kept dry," he warned, pointing to the petition in O'Conner's hand. "Let me summon, for your convenience, several taxis. If you walk the distance from here to Westminster, the petition, as well as yourself and your men, will be drenched. A sodden committee is not a very effective one."

Edward listened closely, unable to believe his ears. The increasing rain seemed to be effortlessly quenching the revolutionary spirit.

"Come," the Commissioner coaxed. "Three taxis. I can summon them within the moment." He held out a hand as though to test the falling moisture. "It's a chill rain, and I'm afraid it's set in for the day." There was a clever combination of concern and compassion on his old face, as though he knew very well what he was doing.

But most incredible of all was O'Conner, who in turn glanced up at the spilling heavens, who looked around at his rapidly scattering men, and who at last gave the Commissioner a pleasant nod and murmured, "I'd be most grateful, for the taxis, I mean."

And with what remarkable and miraculous speed did those three conveyances appear, three black rain-soaked carriages, drawn by three black horses, all making their way through the dwindling crowd as everyone was running hurriedly for the nearest shelter.

"This way," the Commissioner shouted, leading the carriages in a circular pattern to the edge of the wagon. Within the instant the brave aides who'd taken shelter beneath the wagon scrambled out and pushed into the waiting taxis. O'Conner himself continued to stand for a moment in the now driving rain, on his face an expression of bewilderment, as though he knew that at some point he'd lost control, but was totally unable to say when or how.

He looked over his shoulder at Edward. "Eden?" he inquired. "Are you coming?"

But Edward, who had carefully charted the entire spectacle and who still couldn't believe what he had seen, did well to shake his head. He had no desire to approach Parliament in the back of a cab, and less desire to continue to associate himself with the twitching, befuddled Feargus O'Conner.

"You go on," he said quietly. "Don't keep the Commissioner waiting."

As he heard his name mentioned, the Police Commissioner looked toward Edward and lifted his hand to the visor of his hat in a small salute. "There's room for all," he shouted cordially. "No need catching an unnecessary chill."

But again Edward declined. He had conjured up many conclusions to this day. But in his wildest imagination, he had never thought of this one.

Standing alone on the wagon, Edward watched as Feargus O'Conner bent low and climbed into the lead carriage. The Police Commissioner himself, like a dutiful steward, closed the door after the "dangerous revolutionary," and with a wave of his hand and a faint smile on his old face, he gave the driver orders to proceed, at the last minute taking the lead himself in the spirit of an honor guard. As the procession passed by the waiting constables, Edward saw the Commissioner slowly shake his head, as though to inform his men that, with the help of nature, England's revolutionary fires had successfully been extinguished.

At that moment, in the distance, Edward heard sounds of the regiments disbanding. The orders came rapidly along the whole drawn-out line of columns. The calvary took the lead in columns of fours, the infantry falling in behind. In a remarkably short time, they had disappeared behind a sheet of solidly falling rain, leaving not a trace.

Less than half an hour after the conclusion of O'Conner's rousing speech, Edward found himself standing alone on the wagon, in a drenching rain, looking out over deserted Kennington Common, which only moments before had contained the efforts of four years and the revoluntionary hope of all of England.

We have met here today to rechart the course of English History.

Edward could still hear the words over the steady downpour. He smiled, a stray wave of humor suddenly washing over him. Only that morning, he'd feared bloodshed, and with what melodrama he had given poor Elizabeth instructions in the event of—

He was silent for a moment, then suddenly, almost convulsively, he started laughing. The impulse came from somewhere deep inside him, so deep he could not recognize its source, yet the impulse was there and strong and he gave in to it and continued to laugh, aware of his own foolish self as spectacle, a laughing man standing alone in the middle of a wagon. Oh God, he couldn't catch his breath, yet still he laughed, his voice echoing in hollow tones around the deserted Common.

Slowly he shook his head as though still not able to believe what he

had just witnessed. So much for communal effort, for vast demonstrations designed to "aher the course of history." It didn't work, Daniel, he whispered. Perhaps the only effective revolution always took place in the heart of one man. And if that were true, then let the new revolution start here, on this cold, rainswept abortive day, with a laughing fool standing alone on the bed of a wagon. Laughed out and momentarily dreamed out, Edward climbed slowly down from the wagon.

It was a long walk from Kennington Common to Oxford Street, yet he accomplished it, strangely impervious to the cold rain, still smiling now and then to himself, thinking on all that had been lost, and all that remained yet to be done.

With a stifled, sputtering sound. Sir Claudius Potter pressed his white linen handkerchief against his lips and gazed with repressed amusement at the pamphlet of caricatures open before him on his desk.

He wasn't laughing. Never in his entire life, to the best of his memory, had he ever committed the rudeness of an open laugh. But they were clever, these caricatures which had just arrived on London's streets this morning to be eagerly devoured by its citizens, who only now were beginning to draw deep breaths of relief after the "revolution" of last week.

Again Sir Claudius pressed the handkerchief to his lips. Take that one for example, and Sir Claudius adjusted his spectacles and again bent low over the pamphlet. Look at that, the background clearly Kennington Common, the knight on horseback with the long leash in his hand the Police Commissioner, and attached to the other end of that leash was one green baby dragon with red hair and the face of Feargus O'Conner.

And that one, the best, the central figure again O'Conner, disguised as a small boy, standing in a pouring rain, holding up an extinguished torch which the caricaturist had cleverly labeled, "England's Revolution."

With his handkerchief firmly in place. Sir Claudius quickly perused the others, a dozen in all, some emphasizing the three black taxis, others dramatizing the empty halls of Parliament and the reception table on which the Chartists' petition had been placed, ignored, and ultimately to be covered with the soothing dust of history.

Well, so much for the revolution, he thought. Now there were other matters at hand and he glanced quickly at the letter resting just beyond the cartoons, a demanding letter which he'd received only that

morning from an impatient Sophia Cranford. It was clear that someone had rapidly conveyed the bad news to her, that Edward had survived the comic opera revolution, indeed was now spending the Eden fortune with even greater abandon than ever.

Slowly he adjusted his spectacles. The Cranford woman was right. Now was the time to legally take steps to remove what was left of the Eden fortune from Edward's hands and place it in the hands of Lord James Eden.

Warming to the possibilities of such a suit, Sir Claudius stared fixedly at his desk. The legal complexities were endless and unique, brother suing brother, legitimate heir turning on the bastard, one the plaintiff, one the defendant. Definitely not a jury case.

Slowly now. Sir Claudius arose from his chair, warming to the challenge. Well, then, it was up to him to find the right forum, the proper legal atmosphere so that the change could be effortlessly and painlessly brought about, painless that is for everyone but Edward.