This was suggested by the following thread:
vaultofevil.proboards.com/thread/7672/hugh-lamb-anthology-midnight-neverMrs G. Linnaeus Banks was Isabella Banks, a novelist and poet admired by the likes of Anthony Trollope.
Her novel
The Manchester Man is historical and depicts actual events. In particular the Peterloo Massacre and the sinking of a ship called the Emma.
Here is the Peterloo Massacre, it is fast paced and gives a feel of the brutal chaos:
A cordon of military and yeomanry had been drawn round St. Peterâs Field, like a horde of wolves round a flock of sheep. The boroughreeve and other magistrates issued their orders from a house at the corner of Mount Street, which overlooked the scene; and thence (not from a central position, where he could be properly seen and heard) a clerical magistrate read the Riot Act from a window in an inaudible voice.
Then Nadin, the cowardly bully, having a warrant to apprehend the ringleadersâalthough he had a line of constables thence to the hustings,âdeclared he dared not serve it without the support of the military.
His plea was heard; and thus through the blindness, the incapacity, the cowardice, or the self-importance of this one man, soldiery hardened in the battle-field, yeomanry fired with drink, were let loose like barbarians on a closely-wedged mass of unarmed people, and one of the most atrocious massacres in history was the result.
Amid the shouts and shrieks of men and women, cries of âShame! shame!â âBreak! break!â âThey are killing them in front!â âBreak! break!â hussars, infantry, yeomanry rushed on the defenceless people. They were sabred, stabbed, shot, pressed down, trampled down by horse and infantry; and in less than ten minutes, the actual field was cleared of all but mounds of dead and dying, severed limbs, torn garments, pools of blood, pawing steeds and panting heroes(?). Men and133 maidens, mothers and babes, had been butchered by their own countrymen for no crime.
Hunt had been taken, Bamford had escapedâto be arrested afterwardsâand Mrs. Fildes, hanging suspended by a nail in the platform which had caught her white dress, was slashed across her exposed body by one of the brave cavalry.
But the butchery and the panic had spread from the deserted Aceldama over the whole town; and the roar of cannon began to add its thunder to the terrors of the day. As the first shrieking fugitives rushed for their lives down Mosley Street, with the Manchester and Cheshire Yeomanry in swift pursuit, Mrs. Ashton, for the first time alarmed for the safety of Augusta, hurried through the warehouse in search of Mr. Ashton, who was nowhere to be found. On the stairs she met Jabez in a state of equal excitement.
âMiss Augusta! Is she at school? Had I not betterâââ
âOh, yes! Run! run!â cried the mother, anticipating him. âGo through the back streets, and take her to her auntâs. It is not safe to bring her home.â
He was gone before she concluded. (His masterâs daughter was the very light of his young eyes). From Back Mosley Street he tore down Rook Street and Meal Street, into Fountain Street, across Market Streetâalready in a fermentâand onward down High Street without a pause.
By good fortune he met the young girl and a school-fellow, on their usual homeward route, at the corner of Church Street, almost afraid to proceed, the distant firing had so scared them.
âThis way, this way, Miss Ashton!â was his impetuous cry, as he hurried them from the main thoroughfare (into which a stream of terror-stricken people was flowing), through by-streets, and a long entry to the back door of Mr. Chadwickâs house, which they found unfastened; and then he thanked God in his heart of hearts that she at least was safe.
Upstairs rushed Augusta, followed by her friend, in search of her aunt and cousin, whom she found in the drawing-room in a state of the greatest trepidation and alarm.
Dolly, a stout woman-servant, had gone to Fountain Street, as was her custom, to assist her paralysed master home to dinner. From the windows they had seen men, women, and children flying along, hatless, bonnetless, shoeless, their clothes rent, their faces livid and ghastly, cut and bleeding, shrieking134 in pain and terror as they ran or dropped in the path of pursuing troopers; and their hearts throbbed wildly with affright as they pictured that helpless old man caught in that whirlpool of horror and destruction with only a womanâs arm to protect him.
âJabez will go and meet them,â cried Augusta; âhe is below!â
âJabez!â exclaimed Ellen, starting to her feet, her white face flushed for a brief moment. âOh, no!â
But without waiting to hear her cousinâs exclamation, or to note her change of colour, Augusta had run downstairs to Jabez, waiting in the long kitchen, and communicated her auntâs fears to him.
Personal danger was unthought of when Augusta Ashton pointed to needful service. The lobby door closed after him with a bang before she had well explained her wishes; and when Augusta re-appeared in the drawing-room, Ellen Chadwickâs head was stretched from the window, watching the sturdy young man stem the on-rushing tide of humanityâthe only one in all that crowd with his face turned towards the danger from which the rest fled in desperation.
The sights and sounds that met her eyes and ears were terrible: gashed faces and maimed limbs; appeals and imprecations mingled with the roar of a surging crowd; the dropping fire of musketry; the coarse shouts of the yeomanry, drunk with wine and blood!
As her fearful eyes followed Jabez, a man rushed past whose hand had been chopped off at the wrist. With the remaining hand he held his hat to catch the vital stream which gushed from the bleeding stump; and as he ran, he cried, âBlood for blood! blood for blood!â in a tone which made her shudder.
Faint and sick, she drew back her head; but open apprehension for her dear father, and secret fear for the apprentice who had gone so readily to pilot him through that surging human sea, caused her to look forth once more. Augusta and her friend, with blanched cheeks and lips, were also at the window, fascinated as it were with that which chilled them.
Jabez turned the corner into Piccadilly, where one or two good houses had been converted into shops without lowering the floors, or removing the original palisades, which enclosed bold flights of steps leading to doors with good shop-windows on each side. A confectioner of some standing named Mabbott occupied the second of these. He and his neighbour135 were hurriedly putting up their shutters as Jabez, crushing his way through the thickening crowd, saw Molly and Mr. Chadwick jammed up against the palisades, a young mounted yeomanry officer, in all his pride of blue and silver, brandishing his sabre, urging his unwilling steed upon them, and shoutingâ
âMove on, you rebels, move on! or Iâll cut you down!â
Strong of nerve and will, Jabez thrust the impending throng aside, and grasped the horseâs reins to force it back, crying as he did soâ
âShame, you coward! to attack a woman and a paralysed man!â
âCome in here, quick, Mr. Chadwick!â cried Mr. Mabbott at that instant, opening his closed gate and drawing the feeble gentleman and his attendant within, as the sabre, raised either to terrify or strike the old man, came down on the outstretched arm of Jabez, gashing it frightfully.