The Riot of Trafalgar Square
This was my entry into the Autumn 24 hour short story contest hosted by WritersWeekly. The contest had a 950 word limit and we were provided at the start of the 24 hrs with a prompt we had to adhere to. Once again I only got into the Honorable Mentions.
It was a dreary day, that November 13th, 1887, but the cast-iron stove kept the passenger car warm. Outside, cobblestone streets covered with orange and red leaves appeared as the train approached the last stop before Channing Station.
Mary Nichols clung to her carpet bag as she glanced around at the other people in the car. Her eyes rested on the three men seated together, clad in uniforms: striking double-breasted scarlet coats with dark blue velvet on the collar and gauntlet-style cuffs, trimmed with gold braid and lace. All three were blatantly staring at her. She looked away, out the window, just in time to see the depot for Waterloo flash past. The train wasn’t slowing.
The three uniformed men were no longer staring at her. They were excitedly speaking in low voices. One was looking wide-eyed out the window when the brakes screamed loudly. The abrupt stop caused everyone to be thrown forward and sideways. The door on the cast-iron stove flew open, slinging pulsing red coals toward Mary.
She ducked and cradled her bag just as the passenger car lifted off the tracks. Everything moved in slow motion. Momentarily suspended in mid-air. Mary landed hard in the aisle; the breath knocked out of her.
As she gasped for air, a burning ember clung to her face, searing her skin. She raked at it and screamed. She felt pain everywhere as she tried to stand. Her left leg gave way. Stumbled. But it was okay. Not broken, she learned as she tried again to stand and succeeded.
Cries and moans mixed with the sounds of mechanical grinding. The car, now stopped, was burning. No, not the car, her bag, the bag filled with clothes and scant savings, was in flames, filling her vicinity with smoke. She didn’t know which way to the door. How to get out?
Someone grabbed her arm and drug her forward, yelling words she couldn’t comprehend. She allowed it. Then she was on the rain-soaked ground, being rolled repeatedly.
“Stop!” she shouted, but it didn’t stop. Hands were slapping at her long skirt.
“Fire,” came his reply. “Fire!”
Now she understood. Her clothes were burning. She was being saved by one of the uniformed strangers.
The stopped train was surrounded by people. People streaming out of it. And people stopping it from moving on. Flames were lapping out of one window. “What happened?” Wobbly, she stood, holding the stranger’s hand as he assisted her up.
Shouting drew his attention from her. A mob of mostly angry men, shouting and waving green or tri-color banners streaming out behind them, was running toward them. Some held Irish flags; others were waving knives or heavy wooden sticks.
Her rescuer raised his hands and shouted. “Please stop!”
But the mob didn’t stop. They surrounded him and rushed him away. Two women, one old and the other young, grabbed her, as if saving her. Mary protested, pulled away, and yelled at them. “What are you doing? What is happening here?”
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The older woman stepped back, put her hands on her hips. The young woman with a strong Irish accent said, “Oh, that was your man, was it?”
Mary shook her head in disbelief. “What? No. What are you talking about? I was on fire; he was helping me!”
Now the older woman spoke, “Oh, helping ye was he?”
Mary looked around, looking for sanity in a world gone mad. Feeling weak in the knees, she lost the strength to stand and collapsed to sit on the cobblestones.
The younger woman knelt beside her. “Do you really not know wot is happening here? Are ye not here for the meeting?”
Mary shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m simply trying to get home. Then the train…”
The older woman, looked doubtful. To her younger companion she said, “Maybe she don’t know.” To Mary, she said, “We’re on our way to Trafalgar Square to support the Irish National League and protest against the Coercion Act.”
Mary looked at them with a blank expression on her face, then scanned her surroundings once more. As tears filled her eyes, she whispered, “I just wanted to get home to my four babies. I’m burned and I’ve lost everything. Everything.” She looked at them pleading. She touched her scorched cheek gingerly. “What am I to do now?”
The old woman grabbed the younger one’s arm and pulled her away towards the direction where the mob had dragged off the kind stranger. “Leave her. She’s not our problem. We have bigger matters to settle here today.” She threw one last glare at Mary, who sat sobbing, face in her hands. “Besides, she sounds like just another Sassenach to me.”
From the throngs of people still flooding toward Trafalgar Square, a voice rang out, “Polly? Polly Nichols?”
Mary looked up, recognizing the voice and the name most knew her by. Another middle-aged woman ran toward her. Helped her up. “Polly, what are you doing here?”
Sobbing, Mary choked out her answer. “I’m tired of sleeping rough in Trafalgar Square, away from my children. I haven’t had a drink in weeks. I worked and saved a bit. Yet, now, here I am again.”
“There, there now. You’ll be okay. Come on with me. We’ll find a place and gather our thoughts.” The two of them blended in with the flow of people heading to Trafalgar Square.
But poor Mary “Polly” Nichols. Less than twelve months later she was found ripped apart in the Whitechapel District of London.
