MASTERS, MAGISTRATES, MUTINEERS & MEN
Chapter 8: The Gravestone
Milton General Cemetery lay in hilly wooded plot of acreage, interrupted by a lane through the middle of rows of gravestones and a low brick wall around the edges. On one side, Milton Community Park abutted the cemetery, providing a rare open place for children to play and the inhabitants of Milton to walk on a well-kept lawn and through a carefully tended grove of trees. On the other side, the cobblestones and chimneys of Milton crept in, overshadowing the trees with their impermeable grey walls and reminders of the conquest of Men over Nature.
The walk through the park and into the cemetery had always been Margaret's favorite, though it was too far to come as often as she might have wished. When she could be spared and had the strength for the long walk, she came to wander through the shade of trees and smell the sweetness of growing grasses and living things. The cemetery itself was an island of forest in the heart of the city. While the trees changed their leafy garments each season and the graves they guarded multiplied like crocuses in spring, the quiet sanctitude of the space did not shift or turn or strive to keep up with the great men of Milton around them.
By the handful of lingering brown leaves, bare grey branches, and withering grasses, the cemetery itself spoke of the turning of the seasons. There was a chill in the air which clung to the cold stone crosses and iron gates and quickened Margaret's heart. Not a drop of sunlight penetrated the thick charcoal blanket of clouds overhead and a thin layer of frost tinted the edges of the stones and the grass beneath her feet. The grey of the even rows of headstones marched on in every direction along the path. They were not all the same, though many were alike. Some gravestones stood tall and elegant, proudly proclaiming the final resting place of some grand family. Others were small and humble, penitent in death as they had been in life, hardly remembered by those who lived on without them. There were those who died without a name and those who were gathered together with all their kin in death as they had been in life. Here they would stay, while Milton powered on full steam ahead around them.
It was a fitting irony, in a way. Until the recent development of Milton Community Park, the greatest abundance of natural life in Milton was to be found in its cemeteries and church yards. It was between the graves and steeples that trees could freely grow and tower over the silent subjects holding vigil beneath their roots. It was as if only in death that the men of Milton could find their repose in the shade of a tree, in a meadow of grass. After they ceased their striving, it was then they could pay homage to the power of nature in the silence of their eternal rest. They could lay undisturbed - long enough for moss to grow on the headstones and their names and the scant details of their lives to be weathered away by wind and rain and ice.
Try as she might, as she walked through the cemetery, she could not escape from the memory of one of Fanny's terrible stories and the images it conjured. Long before princes seeking wives, birds casting ballgowns over gravestones, and stepsisters cutting off toes to fit into an ill-fitting shoe, the story of "Cinderella" had centered on the death of a beloved mother and her daughter's duty to her mother's memory.
Fanny had read, "When she felt her end drawing near she called to her only daughter to come near her bed, and said, 'Dear child, be pious and good, and God will always take care of you, and I will look down upon you from heaven, and will be with you.' And then she closed her eyes and expired. The maiden went every day to her mother's grave and wept, and was always pious and good."
It was in her dedication to her mother's memory that Cinderella was given the aid she required and rescued from the harsh treatment of her stepmother. Ever since Fanny read that story, those words had haunted Margaret throughout her troubled night. It was not that she needed her mother to send her a new silk gown for a ball but her realization of her neglect of her duty to her mother. Since the day of her mother's funeral, Margaret had not visited her mother's grave. So caught up in Fred's departure, her father's grief, and the death of the Boucher, Margaret had not mourned her mother as she ought.
Hearing what troubled her, Mrs. Thornton had sent Margaret from the house directly after breakfast on an errand to her mother's grave.
"I could not possibly leave Papa!" Margaret had protested.
"I will not leave his side," Mrs. Thornton assured her. "The fresh air and exertion will do you more good than any number of days by the fire. Your father will benefit from the return of a daughter refreshed far more than one wearied with constant vigil in the house. Go, walk, and spend some hours out-of-doors while the weather keeps."
Mr. Bell managed to coax Mr. Hale out of his room and into conversation long enough for the scones to all disappear and for him to take a turn about the house on his daughter's arm. Then, with a stern expression, Mrs. Thornton ushered Margaret from the room. Reluctantly, Margaret had fetched her shawl and gloves and left the house.
The change of sights and exercise did do her good and helped clear her mind of some of its accumulated cobwebs. Margaret far preferred the cemetery when the names on the graves were all those of strangers. To read through the births and deaths of people she had never met and held no tether on her heart proved a fertile exercise for imagination and curiosity. Now, though, it was all changed and one far corner of the Anglican side of the burial ground held a claim over her heart and she could not journey among the graves with her old indifference.
There, under an old beech tree, Margaret reached out to stroke the gravestone with one gloved hand. The smooth granite was not yet weathered by age and no moss grew on its edges. It was like her grief- young, untampered, still new and fresh. Time would dull the edges and wear on the engraved words, but not yet. The inscription was still sharp and she felt each dotted 'i' and crossed 't' like the stab of a knife in her heart.
In Memory of Maria
The Beloved Wife of Richard Hale
Who departed this life the 10th of October, 1851, in the forty-eighth year of her age
Deeply lamented by her family
Christ will Clasp That Broken Chain Closer When We Meet Again
A fresh wave of tears filled her eyes as she read the words chiseled into the granite stone. At least, in the fresh bloom of spring and the heat of summer, her mother rested beneath a glade of trees. It was a small comfort to Margaret. Yet, her heart protested. Her mother ought not to have been buried in Milton. She ought to have lived out her last days in Helstone and been buried in the cemetery of the parish she labored for most of her adult life. She ought not have died a near stranger - unknown and unmissed by the masses around her.
A fiery, blazing burst of anger flared through Margaret's chest and she fought to push the emotion away. It was not right for her to feel such and yet… she did.
She was angry her father had taken her mother away from Helstone.
She was angry her mother had not informed Margaret of her illness sooner, that she had not summoned Margaret from London earlier. The years they could have spent together, during the days her mother was still strong and whole! Why bring her back, only for those few months of the very end?
She was angry her mother had asked Margaret to write to Frederick and put her in such an impossible situation. She could not disobey her mother's urgings and yet, to bring about such an end! It fell to Margaret and not her mother to live with the effects of her final request and it was a burden Margaret did not think it right for her to bear.
She was angry that Fred heeded her request at all rather than staying in the relative safety of Cadiz. Why had her parents not informed her more fully of his affairs and the danger returning to England would have placed him in? Why must she learn all in bits and pieces and incomplete patchworks until she erred so far she could not sew it all back together again?
Ultimately, Margaret was angry with herself. She ought to have known better, been more vigilant, and not sent Fred on a fool's errand to London.
And yet, she had not known.
She felt as though her life, since she had left London to return to her parents, had been an endless series of blind fumbling and attempts to forge her way alone through the dark. A single tumble would result in irreparable damage to all those she loved and yet, how could she make her way without a candle or even a handhold along the edge of the cavern to find her way?
No, no, she could not say she had not light to guide her way. As the daughter of a parson, she knew better. She had prayed and made her decisions the best she could, trusting in the Hands of Providence with the outcome. Had she learned nothing? She had chastised herself for proving herself faithless in the face of a police inspector and possible inquest. Like Moses and the rock that he struck, rather than speaking to, Margaret feared she would fail again.
It was hard to walk in faith when she could not see the way – but what was faith for but for the times of deepest darkness, when one's feet are most uncertain and one's way unclear?
She wandered the rows of gravestones for longer than she realized, until she noted the lateness of the hour. She determined she would find a way to place a wreath of roses on her mother's grave. Mrs. Thornton had been correct. Frederick would not have to be forgotten, his name could be remembered and be forever entombed with the mother he gave his life to see. There was enough space for another name to fit below, even if no body would ever rest there.
What of the rest of the Hales? Where would her father find his final rest? And where would Margaret lay? Would they end their days as separated as their living years had been?
One thing was for certain. No Hale would be buried in Helstone, despite the many years that beloved place had been their home. That was another death she had not quite fully grieved and it lingered below the surface of her mind, like a submerged log in a river current, ready to grasp unsuspecting boats overhead in its clutches. Yet, she could not bury Helstone in the same way she buried her mother. Instead, she must bury Helstone every day by choosing to wake up and walk through and dwell fully in Milton. It was in Milton she now living and in Milton she must make her way. With a lingering glance at the guardian trees and the precious patches of green and growing things, she departed and reentered the chaos of living men again.
She had not gone four steps beyond the entrance to the cemetery when she heard her name. There, across the street in front of the bookseller's shop, Mr. Thornton stood. His face broke into an earnest, delighted smile, which only grew when she made her way across the street to join him.
He had not come. Not that morning nor the day before.
"Mr. Thornton!" She cried warmly, her hand outstretched to eagerly clasp his.
She must have completed the necessary greetings but she hardly attended to what she said, so distracted was she by the suddenness of their meeting and the overwhelming rush of emotions she felt at coming upon him in this manner. Perhaps, if he had shown more diffidence in manner or restrained his smile beneath a furrowed brow, she may have managed better. However, she could hardly attend to what was going on around her when he looked at her so.
"Mother sent me to the bookseller to acquire a new sketchbook and pencils for you," he said and held up a paper-wrapped package. "I was to bring this to you at Crampton tonight… but, well, I do not think she would begrudge me giving you your gift early."
"How kind!" She said, her gratitude earnest for the thoughtfulness of the gesture. "I had wished to sketch a second likeness of… that is… I had started a portrait of Fred when he was here and I thought…." At this, Margaret's expression fell and she stared most resolutely at the path before her. "I meant to send the portrait to his betrothed. She is in Cadiz and she must know… she must be told… I must write to her."
Mr. Thornton reached out to place a hand on her arm, just long enough for her somber, grey eyes to look up at him again. "Let Mr. Bell write to her," he pressed.
Margaret took in a deep breath and threw her shoulders back, as if preparing herself for battle against him rather than simply discussing the correct author of a letter. She shook her head. "No, it must be me. We would have been sisters if not for…well… you see."
He nodded once. "I suppose you must finish your portrait, then," he said and handed the package to her gloved and trembling hands.
"Indeed. You could not have given a more timely or thoughtful gift."
He smiled warmly. "I am glad of it. I wish I could claim more due in its origin, but I am merely the messenger. Now, tell me, what errand are you on that brings you all the way out here?"
She motioned towards the open iron gates of the cemetery. "Your mother suggested I visit my mother's grave to see if we may add Frederick's name to her gravestone."
"I see," he said.
Margaret hurried to continue, "There is plenty of space on the stone and I will have Mr. Bell hire the stone mason to carve the additional phrases… Oh, Mr. Thornton, is it not terribly macabre to be planning the gravestone of a man who is not yet dead? Perhaps, I ought not to have come, but it had been so long since I ventured from the house…"
"I learned many years ago that it is not wise to argue with a directive from my mother," he said.
Margaret smiled. "That is wisdom, indeed."
"It is not a cheerful errand, but I am glad to hear it has been done," he said, as gently as he could. "Are you quite finished, then?"
"I am."
"May I accompany you home?"
"I would be most grateful," she answered honestly. She easily accepted his outstretched arm and turned in the direction of Crampton with him. At first, she made a valiant attempt at politeness. She asked him about the mill and his tasks the last day or so, though as much as she delighted in his company, she did not attend closely to his answers. Her mind remained fixed in the rows of graves she had left behind and the man, far away, held prisoner on a ship anchored somewhere off the coast of England.
"I wish I had more courage," she said, rather suddenly, interrupting Mr. Thornton's tale about fixing a loom that morning.
"I beg your pardon?" He asked in confusion.
"If all goes as expected, Fred will be buried in the naval cemetery in an unmarked grave. No rites will be said over his body. No prayers will be read or Christian service conducted. At least, I do not believe he will be gibbeted, but that is little comfort. If I were brave, perhaps I could find a way to bring him to Milton to be buried alongside Mama or find a way to have a service performed over him in secret after he is buried. It seems so small a thing to only inscribe his name on a stone."
"Unless you wish to hire unscrupulous fellows to steal his body in the dead of night, I do not believe you have many other options. His body belongs to the navy."
"I suppose I could steal the body myself, hide it in a dung cart, and transport him all the way to Milton in that manner," she replied.
"Aye. That you could… and I do not doubt you would, if you set your mind on it," he answered, a wry smile on his face. "Even if you must unearth the coffin with your own bare hands."
"No, I do not doubt you would readily believe me capable of such foolishness," she said with a self-effacing sigh. "I seem to have no qualms about setting myself and those I care about into harm's way with questionable decisions and overly emboldened directives."
"Yet you ensure the brunt of the harm falls upon yourself and you willingly take the greatest burdens upon yourself," he said. By the softness of his tone and manner she wondered if he, too, was thinking of the day of the riot and not only current circumstances.
"I wish I could do more. If I cannot help Fred in life, then in death?" She said.
Mr. Thornton looked down on her from his great height, his blue eyes kind. "We could hold no proper burial service for my father. At least he was not buried at the crossroads with a stake through his heart. If it had been a few years earlier, that would have been his fate. He was buried in the middle of the night with no service held for him. Mother read scriptures and she made me read the prayers, but only after the grave diggers had gone and no one else could hear."
"It was only you and your mother there?"
He nodded. "Fanny was far too young and we left her with a neighbor for the night. Thankfully, my father had purchased a plot in the Dissenter's Cemetery in earlier years, when the babe before Fanny succumbed to illness. He could be buried alongside her and added to her headstone with very little trouble. It was a good thing, too. Graves were hard to come by, then. It was the same time as the influenza epidemic and there were so many burials the cemetery was inundated. Mother sent me to check on the grave every day for a month to ensure no one came to make a quick shilling by stealing his body and selling it to the university."
"Where is that cemetery? I do not believe I have heard of it," she said.
John cast her a wry glance and pointed, "Yonder, there, a bit outside the city, beneath Outwood station." At Margaret's look of surprise, he continued, "That cemetery filled so quickly that it could not be used anymore. The city kept growing and land was scarce and, well, as no one had need of it anymore for its former use, the railway built Outwood Station on top. They moved some of the bodies to other parts of the city, but most are still there – including my father."
Margaret's mouth fell open and she was torn between an expression of horror and surprise. "Oh, Mr. Thornton! I cannot imagine! What can your mother think!"
He shrugged. "We were away from Milton, at the time. I was working in as a draper's assistant then, some distance from Milton, and we did not find out about the construction until we returned to Milton some years later. By then, it was far too late to uproot the railroad to move my father to another place. However, I think he might be far happier where he is. He always admired the railroad."
"I am sorry you do not have a proper grave to visit."
"No, but he is still there, if I wish to speak with him. It is rare I do, but sometimes...," he said and trailed off, not finishing his thought.
"I suppose it is fitting, then, for Fred to end his days in a grave by the sea, but his name to be remembered in Milton."
"There is more you can do, I think. We may still hold a service for him, even if not an entirely proper one," he said.
"It is just the thing," she said and gratefully clasped his arm a little tighter, fighting back a rush of tears.
She looked up at him and she knew. If she asked it of him, he would find a way to bring her brother back to Milton from whatever unmarked grave he ended in. He had faced down an angry, riotous crowd because she sent him to. He had protected her from an inquest and ensured the case against her went no farther. And, how many of his precious hours had he spent sitting alongside the Hales in their grief this week? Here he was, taking time away from work to buy her pencils and paper. No, if she were to be honest with herself she knew enough of John Thornton to know.
He would go. If she asked it of him, he would go.
If she asked it of him, she would immediately feel guilty for sending him into danger.
She knew enough of herself to know she would insist on going alongside him. Just as she had the day of the riot.
It was this solid assurance in his compliance which ensured she would not dare ask it of him.
Ooooo
Author's notes:
I patterned Milton General Cemetery after Manchester General Cemetery (established 1837), which contains a mix of Anglican, nonconformist, and public burial grounds. Queen's Park was established in 1846.
Gravestone wording taken from period-appropriate graves in Manchester General Cemetery.
Brothers Grimm version of Cinderella has no fairy godmothers and a lot more gore.
The Dissenter's Cemetery is patterned after Walkers Croft Burial Ground (1815) now under Victoria Train Station and the Dissenter's Cemetery on Rusholme Road (1821) now under a park. For more on these look up the article: FORGOTTEN MANCHESTER: The city's hidden burial sites
The Burial Suicides Act of 1823 abolished burials at crossroads for suicides and allowed suicides to be buried at night in private burial grounds, but without a Christian service.
1832 saw a cholera epidemic and 1837 saw an influenza pandemic in Manchester.
Body snatching was a lucrative and illicit trade during this period of time. Universities and schools in need of bodies for dissection and research would pay highly for corpses, despite the less than scrupulous ways those bodies were obtained.
In Andrew Johnston's 2019 article "Hanged from a Yardarm: A Historical Analysis of Richard Parker's 1797 Trial and Execution" he writes the following about Ann Parker Richard Parker's wife):
"Ann was single-minded in her resolve to bury her husband with dignity. Undeterred by either the official refusal to give her the body, or the ten-foot fence which surrounded the cemetery, she hatched an audacious plan. In dead of night, she and three other women managed to scale the gate, remove the soil 'with their hands alone', and haul the coffin over the gate. They then successfully concealed the coffin until passing cart drivers agreed to transport it covertly to Rochester and then to London. Ann hid the body of her husband at the Hoop and Horseshoe Inn in Whitechapel, but it quickly became a public sensation: a macabre tourist destination with crowds queuing round the block.
"The Admiralty had buried Parker in obscurity at Sheerness and were confident that he would soon be forgotten. Suddenly he appeared on their own doorstep in London, lifted from the grave and exciting the lower orders of society into a dangerous frenzy. Thanks to Ann, defeat had been snatched from the jaws of victory. Terrified of the 'tumultuous assembly', local officials stepped in. The body of Richard Parker was stolen for the second time – this time from his widow.
"Within hours Ann had tracked down her husband once again. A staged diversion allowed the body to be secretly buried at the church of St Mary Matfelon, Whitechapel. Ann successfully persuaded the rector to recite the funeral liturgy over the body, thereby achieving her goal of securing a respectable Christian burial for Richard. In a widely-published statement, she declared herself 'perfectly satisfied with the mode of his internment'."
