“Christians awake! Salute the happy morn,Whereon the Saviour of Mankind was born.Rise to adore the mystery of loveWhich hosts of angels chanted from above;With them the joyful tidings first begunOf God Incarnate and the Virgin’s Son.”
“Christians awake! Salute the happy morn,
Whereon the Saviour of Mankind was born.
Rise to adore the mystery of love
Which hosts of angels chanted from above;
With them the joyful tidings first begun
Of God Incarnate and the Virgin’s Son.”
And then again.
“Of God Incarnate and the Virgin’s Son.”
“Of God Incarnate and the Virgin’s Son.”
Who could it be? Some lone wanderer surely that had stolen a march on church and chapel alike.
“It’s happen ’Siah,” hazarded Martha. No ’Siah had a voice like a frog.
“It’s th’ sexton,” said my father.
Now the sexton was sixty years old, with a piping treble, and the voice of our midnight visitor was rounded, full and mellow.
I looked to Mary for a hazard, for no thought of who it could be came to my mind, and I was not best pleased that anyone should outstrip the choirs. And as I looked the voice without took up another strain.
“Then to the watchful shepherds it was toldWho heard the Angelic herald’s voice ‘Behold.’”
“Then to the watchful shepherds it was told
Who heard the Angelic herald’s voice ‘Behold.’”
And Mary’s face was a sight to see. She had dropped her knitting on her lap, and her hands were crossed over the work, and her face was as though the morning sun shone on it, and a soft smile was on her parted lips, a look half–glad, half sorry, was in her eyes and her bosom seemed to flutter.
“It’s George,” she said, very softly, “George Mellor, fra’ th’ Brigg.”
And then came a thundering knock at the door, and my father rose to open it right heartily, and in came my cousin, George Mellor, with a great red muffler round his neck, and his coat all flaked with snow, and his short brown beard and moustache wet with half–melted flakes; now stamping his feet and now kicking them against the door–post, and bringing with him a gust of cold air and a sprinkling of tiny feathery sprays that whisked in at his back.
“A merry Christmas to you, Uncle William, and a happy New Year.” “And to you, aunt, with my mother’s love.” This with a hearty smacking kiss. “And to you, Mary, and here’s a Christmas Box for you,” and I thought George would have kissed Mary too, but she was away to the other side of the table.
And so all round, with a noble smack at Martha’s lips, Martha being nothing loth, and giving kiss for kiss with a good will that set us all laughing. “A right proper lad is George Mellor, and knows how to win a lass,” I heard Martha tell ’Siah afterwards, when she was rating him by way of curing his aching head.
And a right proper man George Mellor was. Six feet by the stick, and with shoulders well back, and strong, firm, warm hands that gripped you to make you tingle. His eyes were brown and full of fire, and dark auburn hair curled close upon a rounded head. He had a temper, if you like, but he never bore malice, and I never knew him do or say a mean thing, and if he was at times unjust he was quick to make amends. He was a prime favourite of my mother. Her own sister was George Mellor’s mother. His father was dead, and my Aunt Mellor, to my mother’s surprise and indignation, had married John Wood, of Longroyd Bridge, a cloth finisher, in middle life, somewhat younger than my aunt, and a man it was hard to like. Whatever could have possessed my aunt capped us all. She had a bit of money of her own, and could have pulled along in a middling way without a second marriage. But my father said, “You mun wait till yo’re a widow yoursen, if yo want to know what makes a widdow get wed again.” Anyhow Aunt Matty had a hard time of it, for John Wood was a hard man, cold–blooded and spiteful. He soon found out that he could hurt his wife through George, and he always seemed to rub George the wrong way. The lad ran away once, and none of us knew what became of him till long afterwards, not even his own mother, who nigh fretted herself into her grave over him. But he turned up again as suddenly as he had vanished, taller, stouter, firmer set, quieter. John Wood thought his spirit was broken, made him so quiet. But he found out his mistake when he began to slur at him.
“See here, John Wood,” George had said, for he would never call him father, “I have come back home for my mother’s sake, because it was made clear to me my place was by her side. I will work for you, and do my duty by you, and I will pay you fair for my board and ask no favour of you as man or lodger. But you must speak me fair, and treat my mother kindly, or you’ll rue the day you ever crossed George Mellor.” He had a quiet way with him when he was most roused, a sort of cold heat, had George; though over what you would have thought concerned him least, he would flare up and flush, and his eye would blaze and out his words would come like a pent–up torrent. I never feared George when he was in a temper, but it was dangerous to cross him when his cheek and lips paled and his words came soft and slow.
“Aw walked up th’ cut side,” he explained. “It seemed an age since aw saw yo’ all; an’ our house’s none too cheerful just now. Trade’s fearful bad, an’ John Wood’s as sore as a boil—an’ I bowt this sprig o’ mistletoe of a hawker for yo’ to hang on th’ bowk, an’ who’ should let you Christmas in if not your own nevvy, Aunt Bamforth.”
“Sakes alive, aw nivvir thowt on it,” cried my mother all of a sudden. “Ben, whip outside this minnit—doesn’t ta see George’s hair is awmost red an’ it’s black for luck—whatever could’st ta be thinking’ on, George?” And so nothing must do but I must step outside and enter with due Christmas greetings, to cross the luck, and the waits from Powle Moor arriving at the very nick of time, we all went in together; and Mary and George and myself were soon busy enough handing round the cheese and cake and ale.
George and I slept together that night, and next morning, we all, save my mother and Martha, who must stop at home to cook the dinner, went to church, for we wouldn’t for anything have missed hearing the Christmas hymn; and near all Slaithwaite was there, Methodie and Baptists and all; and even folk that went nowhere, Owenwites they called them, made a point of going to church that one morning of the year. They said it was to give them an appetite for the beef and plum pudding; but I think it was more by way of keeping up a sort of nodding acquaintance with what they felt they might have to fall back on after all, for you may ever notice that the parson treads very close on the heels of the doctor.
Now after dinner my father must needs have a glass of hot spirits and water, and presently was fast asleep in his chair, and I would have been glad to have done likewise, for I was not used to sitting up half the night, and had dozed off more than once in church, only to be roused with a start by a nudge from Mary. But George was all for a walk over Stanedge to stretch his legs and get a mouthful of home–fed air after the foul smells of the town. I thought Mary pouted a bit, and asked her to go with us, but she said two were company and three were none, and George maybe was too fine to walk out with a country lass. I expected George to disclaim any such slanderous thoughts, but he only laughed and said something about the wind being too nipping for the roses on Mary’s cheeks. So off we two set towards Marsden at a good swinging pace. When we had dropped down into the village, and were thinking of calling at the Red Lion to get a glass of ale and a snack, whom should we come on but Mr. Horsfall, of Marsden.
“What, Ben, lad!” he said to me heartily and shaking my hand most warmly—“A right good Christmas to you, and my compliments to my good friends at Holme.” A pleasant man was Mr. Horsfall when he liked, but one you must not lightly sour or cross. He had an iron hand, folk said, but he kept it gloved.
“And who’s your friend, Ben?”
I made George known to him, and Mr. Horsfall could tell him of knowing his mother, my aunt, when she was a blithe young girl courting with my uncle Mellor that was dead. But what surprised me was that George, generally so cheery and ready to meet civility more than half–way, seemed to freeze up and would scarce give his hand in greeting to Mr. Horsfall.
“It’ll be cold on the top, Ben,” said Mr. Horsfall. “Come along to Ottiwells and taste our spiced ale. My wife will be glad to have a crack with yau, and it’ll be cozier by th’ fireside nor ovver th’ top I’ll warrant you.”
My own good will went with this invitation, for I got enough and to spare of Stanedge in my business rounds; but George hung back strangely, and Mr. Horsfall, not used to have his advances coldly met, ceased to press us, and with awkward apologies on my part, and a curt nod from George, we went our several ways.
“I wonder you can speak civil to a man like yond,” said George, when we had our faces straight set to climb the hill.
“Name o’ wonder, why, George?” I asked, thinking nothing but that some private quarrel must have sprung up, of which I knew nothing, but ready enough to side with George, for in my young days families stood by each other, right or wrong.
“Don’t you know that Horsfall is foremost of all in pressing on the use of the new machines? Don’t you know that he has put them into Ottiwells? Don’t you know he is sacking the old hands and will have none but young ’uns that will and can learn, for it isn’t all that will that can, how to work the new frames? Don’t you know that there’s many a family in Marsden now, this very merry Christmas that we’re wishing each other like prating parrots, that has scarce a fire in the grate or a scrap of meat on the table, or warm clothing to the back, just because of Horsfall and such as he? Don’t you know that in Huddersfleld Market Horsfall has sworn hanging isn’t good enough for the Nottingham lads? If you don’t know, you live with your eyes shut, Ben, and your ears waxed, for aw’ll never believe ’at your heart’s shut, lad. And then you ask me why I couldn’t take him hearty by the hand.”
“But what does it matter to thee, George?” I asked, wondering at his warmth and hardly keeping pace with him as he strode on in his excitement.
“It matters nowt to me in a sense, Ben, and yet it matters all to me. I suppose th’ upshot would be that John Wood might as well shut up shop, and little I’d care for that. John Wood’s cake’s baked, and if it warn’t, there’s enough for my mother ’bout his brass. But it’s not o’ Wood nor myself I’m thinking, Ben, and I don’t take it too kindly you should look at it that way. I tell you, Ben, there’s hundreds o’ men and women and wee helpless bairns that’s just clemming to death. Yo, don’t see as much of it up i’ Slowit nor on th’ hill sides, though it’s war there nor yo happen think. And now th’ mesters are for doing th’ work o’ men an’ women too wi’ cunning contrivances that will make arms and legs o’ no use, and water and steam in time will do the work that Natur’ intended to be done by good honest muscle.”
“Aw think yo’ exaggerate, George,” I said. “A little saving o’ manual labour here an’ there’s one thing, th’ displacement o’ human agency altogether’s what yo’ prophesy.”
“Aw’ve no patience wi’ thee, Ben. Tha’ cannot see farther nor thi own nose end. Aw tell yo unless the toilers of England rise and strike for their rights, there’ll soon be neither rights nor toilers. Aw’ve looked into this thing further nor you, an’ aw can see th’ signs o’ th’ times. Th’ tendency’s all one way. There’ll soon be no room for poor men in this country. Its part of a system aw tell yo’. There’s a conspiracy on foot to improve and improve till th’ working man that has nowt but his hands and his craft to feed him and his childer, will be improved off th’ face o’ creation. Aw’ve been reading aw tell you, an’ aw’ve been listening an’ aw’ve been seeing, an’ aw’ve been thinking; an’ what aw’ve read an’ what aw’ve seen has burned into my soul. The natural rights of man are not thowt of in this country, th’ unnatural rights o’ property ha’ swallowed ’em up. It’s all property, property.”
“Nay, George, yo’re riding yo’r high horse again,” I said; but I couldn’t help admiring him, for he spoke well, and his face was all lit up with the glow of intellect and passion.
“It’s God’s truth aw’m speaking, Ben, and pity o’t it ‘tis true, as th’ player says. What is it keeps folk so poor? Bad trade. What is it keeps trade so bad? Th’ wars. Allus wars. For twenty years it’s been war and war to it. What are we fighting for, I ask you?”
“To keep Boney out o’ England,” I said very promptly.
“Nowt o’ th’ sort, Ben—that’s a bogey to frighten babbie’s wi’—Boney axed nowt better nor to be friends wi’ England. Th’ French ha’ more sense nor us. They saw all th’ good things o’ this life were grasped by th’ nobles an’ th’ priests. They saw it were better to be born a beast of the field than a man child. They saw that the people made wealth by their toil; and the seigneurs, that’s lords, and the church enjoyed the wealth they made, only leaving them bare enough to keep body and soul together. Aye, they’re careful enough not to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. That is, sometimes. Time’s they over do it. But a trodden worm will turn, an’ they turned in France. They sent their proud lords and ladies packing.
“To the guillotine,” I interposed.
“Packing, I say, and the fat parsons, faithless shepherds of an abandoned flock, packing with them. Then the people begin to put things to rights.”
“And a pretty mess they made of it,” I put in.
“But all the kings and, emperors in Europe, an’ all th’ landlords an’ all that had got rich by robbery, an’ all th’ bishops and clergy, little an’ big, hangers on o’ th’ aristocrats to a man, took alarm. They thowt their turn would come next, an’ they raised the cry of England in danger. It wasn’t the people of England that wer’ fleyed. Not they. They knew well enough nowt could make them waur off nor they were. Th’ war were a put up job of th’ king and th’ nobles and th’ squires. And who profited by it? The noble and the squire an’ the sleek parson with his tithes. What has made corn as far beyond the poor man’s reach as though a grain of wheat were a ruby or a pearl? The wars, always the wars. And the people, the thousands upon thousands of men and women who have no part nor parcel in this war, save to send their children to die on a gory bed, what voice or what part have they in all this? The part and the part of sheep driven to the slaughter”—
“But what has Horsfall to do with all this?” I asked, very naturally I think.
“He has this to do with it, Ben. Ever since th’ bad times began, Englishmen ha’ been told to stand together shoulder to shoulder agen a common enemy. Th’ poor ha’ borne their sufferings wi’out much murmuring as long as they saw th’ rich suffer wi’ themselves. Patriotism isn’t a rich man’s monopoly. Poor folk love th’ owd country, though aw wonder sometimes what they love it for. But now what do we see? These new machines offer th’ masters th’ chance o’ supplying their customers at a less cost to theirsen than they ha’ done up to now. Aw’ll give yo’ an illustration of what aw mean. A lace frame such as they’re putting up i’ Nottingham costs £120. They say it’ll save the work of four. Th’ master saves in a year more than th’ cost o’ th’ machine. He saves it, but who loses it? Why th’ wage earners to be sure. And that’s what they call standing shoulder to shoulder. Aw call it deserting your comrade and leaving him to shift for his–sen. Th’ ‘Leeds Mercury’ only last week said there were twenty thousand stocking–makers out of employment in Nottingham, and yo’ may judge for yersen what that means.”
“But what can yo’ do, George? Yo’ cannot fight agen th’ law o’ th’ land. Th’ masters ha’ th’ law at their backs—yo’ll nobbut get yersen into trouble. It’s waur nor kickin’ agen th’ pricks. Yo’ surely wi’not ha’ ought to do wi’ machine breaking. That’ll nobbut land thee i’ towzer, an’ happen waur nor towzer.”
“It isn’t towzer ’ll stop me, Ben. Aw’m groping i’ th’ dark just now. Frame breaking and rick burning seems but spiteful work, but it is action, and action of some sort seems called for. If we submit like dumb cattle, our rulers say we are content and have no grievances; if we assemble in great numbers and proclaim our wrongs they hang us for sedition. What can we do, where shall we turn? Aw cannot see daylight which ever way aw turn.”
“Cannot yo’ let things bide, George? Happen things ’ll shape theirsen. It’s little such as us can do to mend things. If tha’ were Lord Dartmouth na’, tha’ might do some good. But aw can see nowt but trouble for thee i’ me’lling i’ this wark, and what hurts thee tha’ knows well will hurt me, George.”
“Aw know that, Ben. And aw’ve more reason nor ever o’ late for keeping out o’ trouble. Is there ought between thee and Mary, Ben?”
“What, our Mary?” I asked, bewildered, somewhat by so sudden a change of subject, and not seeing the working of George’s mind.
“Aye, your Mary,” said George.
“What does ta’ want to know for, George?” I asked; and I tried to ask as though I cared little for the answer, and yet I knew, all of a flash like, what the answer would be, and that somehow, and why I could scarce even myself say to myself, the answer would make me wince.
“Because, George, if ever aw wed, your Mary will be the lass.”
“Yo’ll happen ask her first,” I said, nettled.
“P’raps tha’s axed her already?”
“Tha’ knows very well aw hannot, Ben. It only came into my head last neet when ’oo were singing ‘Wild Shepherds.’ ’Oo’s a sweet voice, an’ th’ way she looks when ’oo sings makes yo’ think a bit o’ heaven’s opened up, an’ th’ light inside is shinin’ right down on her face—hasn’t ta’ noticed it, Ben?”
“Mary’s ower young for courtin’,” I said.
“But tha’ hasn’t told me, Ben, is there owt between yo’ and her? But there cannot be. Tha’d ha’ told me if there wor. Besides she’s too near o’ kin to thee an’ browt up i’ th’ same house too. She’ll be more sister like to thee, Ben, aw reckon. But is there owt?”
“Nay there’s nowt, George. She’s thine to win an’ to wear for me. But ’oo’s ovver young for courtin’, George. An’ if yo’r for our Mary, tha’ mun put all thowts out o’ thi yed but stickin’ to work an’ makin’ her a good home. And that reminds me. It ’ad welly slipt mi mind. Soldier Jack was hinting summat t’other day. Tha’ are’nt keeping owt back fra’ me, are ta, George?”
“Can aw trust thee, Ben?”
“Tha’ knows that best thissen, George.” We had reached the very crest of Stanedge, and were looking down upon the Diggle side and over towards Pots an’ Pans an’ where the road leads to St. Chad’s and winds round towards what is now called Bills o’ Jack’s. We came to a stand by common impulse. George stood right anent me.
“Can aw trust thee, Ben,” he asked again, and looked at me as though he would search my very heart.
“Tha’ knows best thissen,” I replied once more; for I should have thought to lower myself by protesting to him who had been my dearest, almost my only friend, since we were boys together.
“With my life, Ben,” he said very solemnly, and took my hand.
And then George told me something of what was afoot in Huddersfield. Steps were to be taken, he said, to dissuade the manufacturers from ousting manual labour in any of the various processes of the making and finishing of cloth, by the use of machinery. For this purpose the men were to bind themselves by solemn oath neither to work the new machines nor to work in any shop or mill into which they might be introduced. No violence of any sort was to be employed either against man or machine, at least not if the masters proved amenable to reason; and of that George thought there could be little question. “They cannot stand against us, if we are united,” said George; “our weakness lies in action unconcerted and without method. If we set our faces resolutely against the use of these new fangled substitutes for human labour, we can at least compel the masters to wait till times are better and trade mends. It may be that when the wars are over and the market calls for a larger and a quicker output, machinery may be gradually introduced without hardship to those who have grown old in the old methods and who cannot use themselves to new ways. Meantime we shall have learned the secret and the value of combination and we may turn our organization to the protection and the improvement of the worker and to the wresting of those rights that are now withheld.”
Now to this I could see no mariner of objection, and partly from curiosity, partly because my blood had been fired by George’s words, but much more because it was George who urged it, I promised to attend a meeting of some of George’s friends who were’ like–minded with himself; and promised too, though not so readily, to keep my own counsel about what he had talked on.
The early evening of winter was falling, and we turned homewards. We did not speak much. My cousin was deep in thoughts of his own, and I, too, had enough to ponder on. I did not half like my new departure. I was not much of a politician, and had always thought my part in public affairs would be to ride to York once in a while and vote for the Whigs as my father had done before me. As for setting the world straight, I had no ambition that way. In time I had no doubt I should be either a deacon at the Powle or a churchwarden at the church, and probably constable of the manor if I thrived. To make fair goods, to sell them at a fair price, to live in peace with my neighbours, and in time to marry, such was the sum of my ambition.
And that sent my mind in a bound to Mary. The house would look strange and lonesome without Mary. I should miss her saucy greeting of a morning; I should miss her gentle bantering, the sunshine of her sweet face and the music of her voice. The more I tried to think of the old place without Mary, the less I liked the picture. And when I tried to console myself with thinking that there were as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it, I failed dismally.
When we reached home keen set for tea, there was the table laid all ready, and a scolding too for being late. But I turned away my mother’s wrath by giving her Mr. Horsfall’s greetings, and set her talking of him and his wife and all the family tree. For mother had a rare gift that way, knowing the relationship by blood and marriage of every family for miles around, and able, in a way you must hear to believe, to count up cousinships and half–cousins, and uncles and great uncles, till your brain turned round. Except my lord’s family and the folk at the vicarage, who had come from the south, I think she made us akin to all the folk in Slaithwaite, Linthwaite and Lingards. As was natural, George took but little interest in this intimate pedigree, and about eight o’clock announced his resolve to take the road to the Brigg. He was greatly pressed to stay to supper, but would not, much to my mother’s concern, who had a firm persuasion, that town bred lads never got enough to eat, and cherished a suspicion that George, though as hale and hearty a youth as ever went on two legs, and one as little likely as any to be put on, was starved as to his body and broken as to his spirit by his step–father.
It befell that night, whether by chance or that my mother schemed it so, that she and I sat up by the fireside after all the others had gone to bed. My mother had her eternal knitting, and I tried to settle my mind to a book; but could not, for thinking of matters not on the printed page. I gave up the effort after a while, and set my mind resolutely to think on my promise to join the plot against the masters; but all to no good, for do what I would, my thoughts strayed to what George had said of Mary, and I liked it less and less. It gave me a turn when my mother said—
“Mary grows a fine lass and noan ill–favoured, think’st ta, Ben? Not ’at aw set much store on good looks, for beauty’s but skin deep, as is weel known. But Mary’s one ’at ’ll wear well, an’ keep her looks to th’ last,” continued my mother, without waiting for the opinion she had asked from me. “Aw was just such another misen when yo’r father begun a courting me.”
Now I opened my eyes at this, for it had never occurred to me to think of my mother as a beauty.
“Not but what there’s points in Mary ’at could be mended,” went on my mother serenely. “She’s a notion o’ keepin’ things straight an’ tidy, but ’oo’s a bit too finickin’ in her ways an’ too mindful o’ her hair an’ careful o’ her hands, an’ happen too fond o’ colour in her ribbons; but ’oo’l mend o’ that when th’ children come. An’ she’s mebbe too free o’ her tongue.”
Oh, mother! mother!
“But that comes o’ your father encouragin’ her an’ laughin’ at her answerin’ back, when it would seem her better to hearken to what I have to say an’ be thankful ’oo has a aunt to tak’ pains wi’ her.”
“Aw dunnot doubt ’oo is,” I cried.
“An’ Mary’s noan ’bout brass, an’ though awst allus hold ’at it’s better to ha’ a fortin’ in a wife nor wi’ a wife, there’s summat i’ what th’ owd Quaker said, ’at it wer’ just as easy to fall i’ love where brass was as where it wasn’t. Ever sin’ my sister died, an’ Mary wer’ left o’ mi hands, her fortin’ has been out at interest, an’ we’n charged her nowt for her keep.”
“Aw should think not, indeed,” I cried, indignant at the very thought.
“There’s them ’at would,” said my mother tartly.
“We’re not o’ that breed, aw hope,” I said. “Anyways we ha’ not, so tha needn’t fluster thissen, though aw’ll tell thee, Ben, it’s better to be a bit too keen about brass nor a lump too careless. So Mary ’ll ha’ more nor her smock to her back, wed who she will, an’ a handy lass in a house, an’ th’ best of trainin, as all the country side will tell yo’. An’ for my part, when th’ parents is agreeable, an’ plenty o’ room i’ th’ house, an’ there’s th’ spare bedroom, an’ we could fit th’ lumber hoil up for th’ childer, an’ when yo’ve made up yo’r mind, it’s no good wastin’ time; an’ Easter’ll soon be here, an’ aw shouldn’t like a weddin’ ’atween Easter an’ Whissunday. Tha’d better see what Mary says, an’ aw’ll speak to yo’r father afore th’ week’s out.”
“But, mother,” I cried, “Mary’s nivver given me a thowt that way. Aw’m sure she just thinks o’ me as a brother. Aw shud only fley her an’ happen mak’ it uneasy for her to live here, if aw said owt and she didn’t like th’ thowts on it.”
“Who said she had given thee a thowt that way? Aw sud think she knows what becomes her better nor to be lettin’ her mind things till th’ man speaks. But Mary’s a good lass, an’ I’ll go bail ’oll wed to please them as brought her up.”
“Did yo, mother?” I asked with malice, for my father and mother had been married at Almondbury out of our parish, taking French leave of her folk. And as my mother rallied her thoughts for a reply, I made my escape to bed.
CHAPTER IV.
IN February of 1812, it was borne in upon our minds that something more than distress and disaffection were in our midst. These we were used to, and they had come to seem matters of course. It was painful to go to the Huddersfield Market these days. The old brick rotunda was opened as usual, and as usual the stalls were piled with cloth. The manufacturers stood by their wares, or gathered in anxious groupes in the alleys between the stalls. But buyers were rare, and prices ruinous. Shop–keepers in the New–street stood on their steps looking for a customer as eagerly as a becalmed captain for a cap of wind. Round the old market cross the famished workmen stood sullen and scowling. They had not much to say. They were too far gone even for anger. Their faces were now pinched and haggard. If a man had thrown a loaf among them they would have fought for it. It was said that at that time families had not twopence a head to live on each day. At the market dinners at the Cherry Tree and the Pack Horse the manufacturers dined together as usual but it was doleful work. We sat down to our meat as to funeral cakes.
Bad trade long drawn out had tired the staunchest of us, and there was not one ray of hope to brighten the outlook. War still dragged on, now a victory, now a defeat. But we had ceased to look for an issue from our troubles from the success of our arms. The contest seemed interminable, and meanwhile banks were breaking, credit was destroyed, old firms were failing; and men who had struggled on bravely, making goods to stock rather than close their mills and sack their old hands, saw no choice but to give up and own themselves beaten. Wheat was eight shillings a stone, and so bad at that, that it could not be baked; the poor rate was at twelve shillings in the pound, and worst of all, the poor were cursing their masters in their hearts and thinking their sufferings lay at their master’s doors.
Now I cannot for my part think such a time was fitting for bringing in machinery. I know full well that water power and steam power and improved machinery have been of untold good to the poor; but those who were to reap the first profit should to my thinking have bided their time. But Mr. Cartwright, of Rawfold, Mr. Horsfall, of Ottiwells and some others, seemed callous to the sufferings round them. Perhaps it was they looked so intently at the distant object, that they could not see the things at their feet. They were both men impatient of obstacles; they resented interference; they pooh–poohed those who counselled delay.
In that month of February we had the first news of any violence in our neighbourhood. Late of a Saturday night a number of men with faces blacked and their dress disguised, some wearing women’s gowns and others strange hood gear, broke into the dressing shop of Mr. Joseph Hirst, of Marsh, destroyed the dressing frames, the shears and other furniture of a gig–mill. The same evil fate befell Mr. James Balderson, of Crosland Moor, and Mr. William Hinchcliffe, of Leymoor. Then came the soldiers, the Scots Greys and the Second Dragoon Guards. They were billeted in the various hostelries of the town at free quarters, and it was not long before there was much scandal at their carrying on a drinking, swearing lot of men, a terror to decent girls, reeling on the streets in broad day with the loose women of the town, singing lewd songs, with no respect even to the gravest and most dignified magistrates in the town, paying heed only to their own officers, and that only when on guard or patrol. They were a bye–word and a reproach in the town, and of no sort of use at all.
Then, too, did the Head Constable of Huddersfield call upon all men over seventeen, and under fifty, paying rates to the poor, to enrol themselves as special constables, and among them was none other than John Wood, who looked mighty big with his constable’s staff, and talked large to my aunt and George and to me, when I called at the Brigg about the valiant deeds he would do if ever Luddite fell into his hands. For by this time the name “Luddite” had crept into the district, how I know not. And at his step–father’s big talk George Mellor smiled grimly.
I say I called at Mr. Wood’s house at Longroyd Bridge. I had meant to have a talk with George about the smashing of the machines of which, and of nothing but which, the market talk had been. I was not easy in my mind about the matter. I thought, after my promises to George, it was but my due to know if he had any share in these doings. But I was let. My aunt had her ailments to talk of, and burdened me with messages to my mother. Then Mr. Wood was there whilst we took a dish of tea, and all his talk was of the dressing the Luds would get. I asked him if he intended to try the new machines in his own shop, to which, for my aunt’s sake, we sent our own goods to be finished. But I gathered that my astute uncle deemed it safe to see how the cat jumped before committing himself. He was ever one for letting others do the fighting, and then coming softly in and reaping the spoils. So with one thing and another I got no talk with my cousin, and started off by my lone to walk to Slaithwaite over Crosland Moor. And near the Brigg itself I came on Soldier Jack, with a poke slung over his shoulder.
“Bide your time, Ben, and I’ll be with you,” he cried. “Good company makes short miles. I’ve a little errand o’ my own to see to on Paddock Brow. Will ta come as far as th’ Nag’s Head and drink a glass and tarry there for me, or will ta company me to th’ Brow? I’st noan be long, for it’s not exactly a wedding I’m bahn to.”
“Oh, I’ll go with you,” I said, willingly enough, for Jack was always well met.
“It’s Tom Sykes I’m bahn to see. Yo’ dunnot know him belike, a decent body but shiftless, and a ailing wife and a long family. There’s a sight o’ truth in what young Booth was reading to us th’ other neet from a great writer, a Mr. Malthus, ’at a man who is born into a world already possessed, or if society does not want his labour, has no claim or right to the smallest portion of food; and, in fact, has no business to be where he is. At nature’s mighty feast there is no cover for him. That’s what you call pheelosophy. I’m bahn to comfort Tom Sykes wi’ a bit o’ pheelosophy.”
“And is that philosophy you’n got i’ your poke, Jack?” I asked “It seems weighty matter.”
“Noa, this is a few crumbs o’ arrant nonsense, fra’ th’ kitchen o’ th’ Cherry Tree. Th’ cook there’s a reight good sort, an’ some day or other, aw don’t say but I might—you know. But it’s ill puttin’ all yo’r eggs i’ one basket. An’ gi’ein’ a shillin’ to th’ parson to tie you is a tighter job nor takin’ th’ king’s shillin’. Yo’ can’t hop out o’ th’ holy estate as aw did aat o’ th’ army—on a gamey leg. But here we are at Tom’s.”
It was a low stone thatched house on the Lower Brow, and overlooked the river. Jack lifted the latch, and we walked into the living–room. It was bare of all furniture, save a round deal–topped table, three–legged, a low rocking chair by an empty fire–grate, a cradle and another, cane–bottomed chair, on which sat a man in his shirt sleeves, hushing a wailing child. The man was shock–headed. He had not been shaved for a week or more. His cheek bones stood out above shrunken cheeks. His eyes burned with an unnatural fire, and he had a hollow, hacking cough. He was trying to quiet the child, clumsily but patiently putting sips of a bluish fluid, milk and water, to its lips, with a crooked broken spoon. Another child, about seven years old, I judged, with neither clogs nor socks, all her covering a smock and a short frock scarce to her knees, was stretched on its face in a corner of the chimney, over a litter of sacks. And under the sacks lay—a something. We could see the straight outlines of a figure—I felt what it was, and my heart stood still. But Jack’s eyes were not so young as mine.
“Where’s yo’r missus, Tom?” he asked, swinging his bundle on to the ricketty table. “Th’ cook at th’ Cherry Tree has sent her a summat. See here’s th’ makin’s o’ a rare brew o’ tea, screwed up i’ this papper. Aw carried it i’ my weskit pocket, for fear o’ accidents. An’ there’s broken bread an’ moat an’—but what’s ta starin’ at? Where is ’oo aw say?”
“’Oo’s there, Jack—in th’ corner there, under Milly. Yo’ needn’t fear to wakken her—’oo sleeps very sound. Gi’ my compliments to Fat Ann at th’ Cherry Tree an’ tell her th’ missus is much obliged. But ’oo isn’t very hungry just now. Th’ parson says ’oo’s gone where there’s nother hunger nor sorrow. But aw reckon if there is such a shop, there’ll be no room there for my owd woman. Th’ rich folk ’ll ha’ spokken for them parts, th’ poor ’ll be crowded out, same as they are here. An’ yo’, Ben Bamforth, an’ yo’ come to look on your handiwork? Yo’ may lift th’ cuvverin’ for yersen. Novver mind Milly ’oo’ll greet hersen to sleep agen, when yo’re gone. Tak’ a good look, man—it’s nobbut a dead woman, improved off th’ face o’ th’ earth—clemmed to death bi improvements. Nay dunna flinch, man, ’oo’ll nother flyte thee nor bite thee” But I could not look, and I went silently out into the rutty, dirty lane and the murk night so cold and raw. For I had no words of comfort for the man—I could not speak in that silent presence—so I slipped away, only minding to pass a coin or two into the hands of Soldier Jack—“Light a fire and fetch a woman,” I whispered, and Jack nodded and made no effort to have me stay.
I was in a distracted state of mind, drawn now this way and now that, as I made my way to Slaithwaite. My promise to George lay heavy on me, and I loved the lad. The scene of which I had been just now the witness filled me with an intense sorrow for the suffering I knew to be rife around us. But I shrunk from violence of any kind and from conflict with the law, of which I had a wholesome dread. I confess here, once and for all, I am not made of the stuff of which captains, heroes and martyrs are made—I asked nothing better of the world than to go my own way quietly and doucely, earning by honest toil sufficient for my daily needs, sustained by the affection of those I loved and safe in the esteem and goodwill of my little world. I was not therefore best pleased when Mary met me at the door and handed me a note which had been brought by an unknown messenger, who had been charged, he said, to give it into her own hands, and to impress upon her that she herself should convey it safely to me. It was addressed to me, and though I had had few letters from George Mellor I knew his handwriting, and I judged, too, that Mary knew it, and had all a woman’s curiousness to know what the letter might say. It was brief enough, anyhow:
“Meet me on Thursday night at nine o’clock at the Inn at Buckstones.—George.”
The inn at Buckstones stands, or then stood, almost alone on the road from Outlane to Manchester. All around were desolate reaches of moorland, with here and there patches won by hard toil from the waste and enclosed by dry walling whose solidity bespoke the rich abundance of good stone and the little worth of human labour. There were no neighbours to make custom for the inn. The coach never stopped there. An occasional wayfarer, or holiday makers from the town, at times would call there, but mine host of the Buck would have fared badly but for his pigs and poultry. It was a little inn, remote, unaccustomed, unobserved, and only those would chose it as a meeting place whose business was one that shunned the open day and the eye of man. I put the letter carefully in my breast pocket, putting aside Mary’s questioning words and ignoring Mary’s questioning looks as best I could. And at this, after a while, Mary choose to take offence, tossing her head, and surmising that folk who had letters they could not show to their own cousins were up to no good.
I was at the Buck punctual to my time. The night was pitch dark. There was neither moon nor stars to light one along the road, and the road was bad enough in broad noon. A feeble light shone from the low window of the inn. The outer door was shut, and did not yield to my push when I lifted the sneck. It was opened from within by George Mellor.
“Yo’re to time, Ben,” he said in a low voice as he grasped my hand. “I knew tha’ wouldn’t fail us.”
“Who’s us?” I asked.
“Tha’ll know soon enough. They’re waitin’ for us i’ th’ room upstairs—but come into th’ snug an’ have a glass o’ ale. Tha looks breathed and flustered, an’ as if tha’d seen a boggart on th’ road. There’s a chap inside aw want thee to know—he’s a rare ’un. He’s a better scholard nor other thee nor me, Ben, and aw’se warrant tha’ll like him, when tha knows him.”
“Who is it, George?”
“They call him Booth, John Booth, th’ parson’s son at Lowmoor.”
“Is he one on yo’?” I asked.
“As close as th’ heft to th’ blade,” replied George. And I breathed more freely, for John Booth I had seen many a time at Mr. Wright’s, the saddler’s, in Huddersfield; and I, though I had had no speech with him, had heard much of his great learning and sweet temper. He was not one to harm a fly. His father was, I knew, the Vicar at Lowmoor Church, and a master cropper to boot. Surely the son of a parson and of a finisher was engaged in no enterprise that need daunt my father’s son.
He was sat in the snug, a pot of ale before him, scarce tasted; a youth not more than twenty–one or two years old, with pale face, long lank dark hair that fell on either side a high and narrow brow. His eye was dark and melancholy, his lip’s somewhat thin. His face was bare of beard, of an oval shape, and womanish. He had a low, soft voice, and spoke more town like than I was used to. But he had a sweet smile and a winning, caressing way that partly irritated me because I thought it out of place in a man. But it was very hard to stand against all the same.
“I am glad to see you, Mr. Bamforth,” he said, placing a hand that, despite his trade, was small and white, in my own big, brawny fist. He looked very slim by the side of me as we stood hand in hand, for I am six feet and more and big built, and thanks be to God hard as nails and little bent even yet. But it is mind, my children, not matter, that rules the world.See how he tickled me at the very start,—“Mr. Bamforth”—there was a whole page of delicate flattery in the very words and way of breathing on it. It meant I was a man. It meant I was of some place and power in his reckoning of me. I felt myself flush, and I grew bigger to myself. Why, I do not think anyone had ever called me “Mr. Bamforth” before. Even ’Siah, our teamer, called me “Ben.” The Vicar at the Church called me “Ben,” and ruffled me not a little by the patronizing way he had. Mr. Webster, at the Powle, called me “Ben;” but that I did not mind, for he said it as though he loved me.
“I am glad to see you. Any friend of George Mellor’s is welcome, but your father’s son is thrice welcome. George, do you go in and prepare our friends to receive a new member. Set all things in order, and I will talk meanwhile with your cousin.”
“And so, Mr. Bamforth,” he continued.
“Nay, call me Bamforth, or plain Ben,” I said. “Well, Ben be it then—And so, Ben, you, too, are willing to strike a blow for the poor and oppressed.”
“I don’t know about striking blows,” I said. “To tell the truth I am here because I said I would be here; but what I am here for I do not know, except that I am here to learn why I am here. It’s true enough my heart is heavy for the poor; but what I can do, and saving your presence what you can do, or George, or such as us, passes my wit.”
“We can try, at least, the force of union,” he made answer. “We can try what the force of numbers will do. We can entreat; we can threaten”—
“But what is a bark without a bite?” I asked. “And how can you bite without setting your own teeth on edge?”
“Ah! there’s the rub,” he said. “But we won’t jump before we get to the stile. One step at a time and await developments, say I. But come, we will join our friends. It will be a comfort to me to have one cool head in our number. We have no lack of madcaps.” The long low chamber which we now entered was in darkness, save for the light of two small lanthorns, placed on a long narrow table that ran down the centre of the room. Forms ran round three sides of the room. At the head of the table was an arm chair of ancient oak. In the centre of the table, flanked on either side by lanthorns, which turned their lights each to the other, was a human skull. In the chair sat one whom I felt rather than saw to be my cousin George. By his right hand was a Bible; on his left, one who acted as secretary and kept a roll of members, a precious document I would afterwards have given all I was worth to lay my hands on. The forms around the wall were close packed by masked men, in working dress, who rose as Booth led me into the room and placed me at the foot of the table confronting the president. All rose as we slowly made our way to that place, Booth holding me by the hand. I was in a cold sweat, and wished myself a thousand miles away. Booth left me standing there peering straight at him I knew to be my cousin.
“No. 20, I call upon you to explain to this candidate the principles of our order.”
“We are banded together,” said a voice from the line of figures on my right, a voice I knew at once to be Booth’s; for no other man I ever knew, scarce any woman, had a voice so gentle, so plaintive. “We are banded together to assert the rights of labour, to resist the encroachments and the cruelty of capital. We seek to succour the needy and to solace the sorrowing. We aim to educate the toilers to a sense of their just rights, to amend the political, the social, and the economic condition of those whose only wealth is their labour, whose only birth–right is to toil. Our methods are persuasion, argument, united representation of our claims, and if need be, the removal of those mechanic rivals of human effort by which callous and heartless employers are bent on supplanting the labour of our hands. But this only in the last resort, all other means exhausted, our righteous claims flouted, our fair demands denied.”
“Benjamin Bamforth,” came my cousin’s voice across the gloom.
“You have heard the statement of our aims. Are you willing to ally yourself with us and to aid us in our cause? If so, answer ‘I am.’”
“I am.”
“We are witnesses of your solemn obligation. Who vouches for Benjamin Bamforth?”
“That do I,” said Booth.
“That, too, do I,” said another voice that sounded familiar to my ears.
“Place before him the Book. Place your hands, Brother Bamforth, upon the Bible and fix your eyes upon these emblems of mortality. As they are, so be you, if you falter, or if you fail. Repeat after me the words of our oath.”
Then, phrase by phrase, in a silence only broken by the voices of us twain and the heavy breathing of that grim group, I repeated after the playfellow of my boyhood and my manhood’s friend the solemn words: “I, Benjamin Bamforth, of my own voluntary will, do declare and solemnly swear that I never will reveal to any person or persons under the canopy of heaven the names of the persons who comprise this secret committee their proceedings, meetings, places of abode, dress, features, complexion, or anything else that might lead to a discovery of the same, either by word, deed or sign, under the penalty of being sent out of the world by the first brother who shall meet me, and my name and character blotted out of existence, and never to be remembered but with contempt and abhorrence. And I further do swear, to use my best endeavours to punish by death any traitor or traitors, should any rise up among us, wherever I may find him or them, and though he should fry to the verge of nature I will pursue him with unceasing vengeance, so help me God and bless me, to keep this my oath inviolate.”
“Kiss the Book.”
I kissed the Bible.
“Show more light.”
In each quarter of the room a light shone forth, its rays till now obscured.
“Brethren, unmask, and let our brother know his brethren.”
I looked around me blinking in the sudden glare. There were many I knew not. More than one I knew. The voice that had haunted was the voice of Soldier Jack, who looked, I thought, somewhat foolish as my eye fell on him. There was William Thorpe, a cropper at Fisher’s, of the Brigg, and Ben Walker and William Smith, who worked at my uncle Wood’s. Thorpe, I knew, was a mate of my cousin George, and I was not much surprised to see him. Smith I knew only by sight, having seen him when I had taken work to be finished at the Brigg. Walker I knew somewhat better. His father was ever styled Buck Walker, having been somewhat of a gallant in his younger days, and even now fancying himself not a little. Ben o’ Buck’s was a young man of about my own age, dark and sallow, with deep set eyes and a sly fawning way. He had gone out of his way to be civil to me, and more than once in the summer–time had walked of a Sunday from Powle Chapel, where his father was a deacon, across the fields home with us. He was attentive in a quiet way to Mary to whom he spoke, I understood, chiefly about his sins, which troubled him greatly. Martha said it was his stomach that was wrong. She knew it by his pasty face and by his hands, cold and damp, like a fish tail. Martha was a lass of some prejudices. My father was rather partial to Ben, a quiet harmless lad, he judged, that would run steady and show no nonsense. I did not greatly care for him myself, but I wondered rather to see him where he was, not having given him credit for so much spunk. But most I marvelled, at Soldier Jack, yet did I gather courage from his presence, for I leaned on his stout heart and his worldly knowledge, gleaned in many strange scenes and lands.
But George was speaking to me again.
“There are signs in our Order, Brother Bamforth, and I will now communicate them to you. The first, the right hand passed behind the neck, thus, signifies ‘Are you a Lud?’ The party challenged should reply by placing two forefingers on his chin, thus. We have also a password which will admit you to our meetings, and to those of others in our movement. It is ‘Work, Win.’ You will now take your seat among the brethren and the business of the meeting will be resumed. ‘Any reports?’”
“Enoch Taylors taken on six more men,” said a Marsden man. “They’re making frames as fast as they can. Orders are rolling in. Horsfall’s putting them into Ottiwells as quick as they’re made. Th’ owd hands are told they’re no use, an’ young ’uns is being browt fra’ no one knows where, to work th’ shearing frames. Aw’n seen some cloth ’ats been finished on a frame, an’ it welly broke my heart. Aw’n been a cropper, lad and man, for thirty year, an’ aw nivver turned aht owt like it. It were as smooth as a babby’s cheek. An’ th’ frame can do th’ work of four men awn heerd th’ mester tell. It’s ruination, stark ruination, an’ me wi’ five childer an’ yar Emma lying in.”
“That’s noan hauf o’ th’ tale—Horsfall’s fair wild wi’ joy. He says he’ll feight Napoleon wi’ a finishin’ frame. He cries shame on th’ Nottingham police. He says th’ magistrates there owt to be drummed off th’ bench. He says they’re a pigeon–livered lot, an’ if he’d been there, he’d a ridden up to th’ saddle girths i’ th’ blood o’ th’ Luds before he’d ha’ been baulked o’ his way.”
“Shame on him, shame on him!” broke out fierce voices.
“Reports come from Liversedge that Cartwright, of Rawfolds, has ordered a set of machines from Taylor. William Hall, have yo’ owt to say?”
A man about thirty, dirty and slovenly, with a blotched face and slouching look, who it turned out lived at Hightown and had been dismissed from Mr. Jackson’s there and had been taken on at Wood’s, then rose. He had a great deal to say. He spoke of Mr. Cartwright: more of a foreigner nor an Englishmen, he called him. A quiet man with a cutting tongue. Had ne’er a civil word for a man an’ down on him in a jiffy if he looked at a pot o’ beer. Drank nowt himself, which Hall looked on as a bad sign and unEnglish. Was sacking th’ owd hands and stocking Rawfolds with machines and Parson Roberson was worse nor him. I had a sight of that same fighting parson not many months after, and Bill Hall was not far off the mark.
“Has any brother owt more to say anent Horsfall or Cartwright?” asked Mellor.
“I move they’re warned,” cried one.
“I’ll second it,” said another.
“Give it ’em hot,” cried a third. “Tell ’em plain we mean business. I’m sick o’ letter writin’. They laugh at our letters.” “Let them laugh,” said George; “they’ll laugh at wrong side o’ their mouths afore we’n done wi’ them. And now, lads, enough o’ business. Th’ landlord ’ll be thinking we’re poor customers. Let’s have some ale and drive dull care away. A song, boys; who’ll sing us a song?”
“That will I, George, but I mun drink first. My belly’s beginnin’ to think ahn cut mi throat.”
A brother had left the room, and now appeared with an immense jug of ale, and tots were handed round. Cutty pipes were produced and coarse tobacco. Who paid the shot I do not know. But I have heard tell that some masters who were threatened paid quit money, and others even gave money that their neighbours’ mills might be visited. But this I know not of a certainty, and only set it down as a thing that was said. This I know, there was no lack of ale among the lads, and money, too, came from somewhere.
“Now for your song, Soldier,” said George, and the men settled themselves for a spree and a fuddle. The croppers were ever a free lot given to roystering and cock fighting and bull baiting and other vanities.
And thus sang Soldier Jack, and all that knew the song joined lustily in the chorus, for that wild moor there was no fear of intruders, and our host had not love enough for the justices to set them on good customers.