A war with a 98% victory
I know we're violent, but we have to be. The government won't just listen to us, so we have to take action. We won't wait for the Suffragists to get women the vote, they are too tender hearted. Our actions are having to become more desperate. All of the Suffragettes are meeting today to gain justice. We do the usual, arson and attacks on property. It's the only way we can bring attention to ourselves, and make headlines in the newspapers. We don't like creating dancing balls of fire, being responsible for shattering glass, and chaining ourselves to buildings. It is our duty to the campaign, and we are pressured to live up to the reputation that the public put upon us.
Everyone starts rushing out of the flames. I stay still watching, being mentally dragged into Rowley Regis Church. I see it trying to cough out the smoke, suffocating and dying. Someone grabs my arm. I'm being pulled away from the orange monster. "Come with me," grumbles a low mystery voice from behind me. I can't see the face of the man; I can only feel the strength of his fingers against my left wrist. The streets that surround me are noisy. I hear pattering feet in all directions, but I cannot see them, the air is too blurred by the smoke. All the skys light is blocked from my sight by the houses around me. I knock my left wrist against a wall as I'm thrown round another corner, into another cobbled street. My wrist throbs with pain, which is added to by the constant violent pulling from the man in front of me. Where was I being taken? Who was this man, and what did he want with me? I think, I ponder over the actions that have just taken place. I've just taken part in an illegal action, against the law. I look at my free right hand. I notice burns; these must be from the flames. I have just been involved in a major event, which will be spoken about for days. I helped burn down Rowley Regis Church! So who is this man? I fear only one possibility, a policeman.
It is my fear. "We've had enough of you Suffragettes. You are vandalising London. Your friends have had their fair share of warnings, so now you can have the privilege of being one of the first few of your kind staying the night in a cell. This enforcement of the law doesn't seem to have arrived soon enough, but we're going to make up for the lost time." My mouth dropped at his concept. The law gave police to arrest Suffragettes for causing trouble had only just been passed! I couldn't sleep in a cell, but I'll have to, I have no choice. My mind went weary, overloaded with positive and negative thoughts about the Suffragette campaign. One question that came into my mind was, where is my dearest friend? Had she escaped and now be celebrating with fellow supporters? Or was she like me, ready to be assigned a cell. I won't know the answer for some time.
I sit in the corner of the cell, my new home. It's cold and damp, hard to think. I need some inspiration! What can I do that will scare the government if people follow me? What will they most dislike me doing? We had decided our plans, our aims. We agreed that if we didn't get caught doing an offence, then we didn't do anything wrong. If we did, then we had a few options. I remember deciding mine, ticking the chosen box in my head. It didn't seem so important before, but now it seems I need ...
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I sit in the corner of the cell, my new home. It's cold and damp, hard to think. I need some inspiration! What can I do that will scare the government if people follow me? What will they most dislike me doing? We had decided our plans, our aims. We agreed that if we didn't get caught doing an offence, then we didn't do anything wrong. If we did, then we had a few options. I remember deciding mine, ticking the chosen box in my head. It didn't seem so important before, but now it seems I need a step-by-step guide. One choice was to refuse to clean myself, but I remember distinctly that it wouldn't bother anyone apart from myself. The second option was to make myself noticed, cause some trouble, and open my mouth at every opportunity. That didn't entice me; I figured I could end up losing my voice and getting myself into deeper trouble. I was then left with the third choice, my final decision, starving myself. I have to refuse to eat, and I still stick to my decision. I'll go on hunger strike and they won't stop me from getting to the papers. The headlines will say, 'Suffragettes go on Hunger Strike, government are distraught.' I will not eat, not unless I'm forced.
"Miss, you must eat, we will not accept this behaviour. Your trend will not be followed, we will make sure of it," describes head nurse. I keep my mouth tightly shut, breathing the tiniest about of oxygen through my nose, the pressure builds up in my chest, but I'm not going to give in. Another nurse comes in through the doors leading to my cell, holding a tube. What is it for? More nurses come into my new accommodation; they come in with just themselves, no possible weapons. I am forced off the floor and launched onto an unstable wooden chair. My head is thrown back, and the tube I had seen is brutally pushed up my nose. I cannot breath. I see blood dripping onto my gown. The pain is insufferable. They don't stop pushing; they don't stop until they reach my stomach. I am hardly conscious; the food is now travelling its way into my body. I have failed.
I lay down on the cold, hard floor, waiting for the next attack. It doesn't happen. Surely they haven't given up after two days of giving me this torture. No one comes, not until now. The door to my cell slowly opens, as if the person is acting cautiously. I'm not dangerous! It is neither a nurse nor a visitor; it's a middle aged, stern faced man holding one key. "You can go," he announced. I can't believe it; they're letting me go! I must have made an impact. I claim my clothes and return my blood stained gown. I am free.
I stride out of the hell house, and wander the streets I had walked a few days ago. I pass the church, but it is no longer a church. It is now a distant memory, and a burnt fossil. I turn a corner, I see the children playing once again as usual. I cross the street, and then presented with my front door. I turn the handle, slowly with my fingertips, which are frozen from the chilly morning air. "You did it, you made the papers!" said a voice. I stand amazed; I'm in the papers? Why did that happen? "It's in this mornings paper, you refused to eat? Is that true?" questioned someone across the room. My mind is triggered to my last few days holiday. I explain to everyone how much I had to suffer, how much pain I went through, but if they are strong characters, I will encourage them to try it, and use it as a tactic against the government to get noticed and listened to. I think if this is tried in numbers, maybe we could achieve something. I read the article, I made front page! I must have made an impact. I spend the next few hours celebrating with my friends, everyone is so proud of me, this is unusual. I don't usually try to act on the front line of the campaign, I used to stand back and let the others fight.
I wake up early this morning, were the last few days a dream? They couldn't have been, I have the cuts and bloodstains to prove it. I wash my body, trying to wipe the nightmares away, but I can't dispose the most important ones, the ones inside my head. I know I need to fully concentrate on the campaign, I can't fail now. I thought I had before, but I was saved, the newspapers saved me. I pull open my front door once again, but now to visit a friend, to help her, to help women.
I arrive at a nearby lane in Morpeth. I notice six elegant horses in the field next to me, quietly grazing on the grass. "Ready for another practice?" my friend exclaims. I nod, and make my way towards the gate leading into the field, where the horses are situated. I lead a black beauty out onto the lane. "I've finished the final banner, I've only got this practice left till the Epson Derby, I need to hang it perfectly," my friend said pressuringly. I mount my victim and start to slowly trot down to the bottom of the lane to my starting position. I prepare myself, as I had all the other times. I pushed forward on my horse, down the lane, getting faster and faster, the atmosphere is tense, this is her last chance. She prepares herself, I draw closer, I am an inch away from her. The horse's heart is beating fast, in sync with mine. We pass her, but the banner only hangs by a thread. She missed, like most of her practices before. She can only have hope for the final event and an enormous act of courage. I look back at my friend. She lay on the floor, head in hands and a puddle of tears running away from her eyes. "I cannot do it, I will fail and not be worthy as a member of the Suffragettes. Why couldn't I just have hung it properly?" she cries. I suffer with her, trying to convince her that she is worthy, and will succeed at the Derby, because I believe in her.
The numbers at the Derby are amazing! I look around; my friend and all fellow supporters of her closely surround me. The banner is hidden within her bag. The first race will soon start and we will be headline news. My friend turns to look at me, our eyes meet. I can tell she is scared, her hands are shaking. She retrieves the banner, she is ready. She shows a nervous face and turns away, but she has no need to be like that. She has had several practices, I hope it pays off. At the starting end the horses are lining up in succession. The jockeys mount their own victims, and take a look at the course they are about to race. I swear I feel more nervous than they do. The seconds are counting down. They're off! They are so fast! In practices I wasn't even half their speed. I wonder how my friend feels, has she realised? They turn Tottenham Corner, and race full speed towards the finish, towards us. My friend sneaks under the barrier separating us from the race, closely hidden by everyone around her. She unfolds the banner. The horses come fast and furious around the corner, it's now or never. The King's horse draws near. The banner is positioned perfectly. She succeeded! She will be so happy. The horse falls! The horse didn't run past the finish line wearing the banner, but she will be pleased. My happiness is suddenly taken over by the desperation to get to the front. I can't see my friends joyful face, but I can see her motionless on the floor. I believe she is in shock, but as I draw closer to her body, I see a fresh stream of blood surrounding her head. The horse must have hit her when it fell! She's gone! After all we had done, that she had done, that horse didn't carry on the race! Why would it not do what all the others had? Why did it have to be different? It killed my friend! I wish I could tell her the good news, the fact that she succeeded on placing the banner. I would wish not to tell her the bad news that she is not asleep, and will not be coming back to everyday life.
Again, I see thousands of Suffragettes. Not this time at the Derby, but at Emily Davison's funeral. So many more people now admire her, and now everyone knows who she is and her cause. The government now has to listen and consider giving women the vote. They have to, now someone has died for their cause. We are one step further. We still do not have the vote, but that won't stop us from trying.
Stephanie Larter
