CHAPTER VI.

It must not be supposed, because I have turned aside to tell of my own poor affairs, that the Luddites were idle all this while. Indeed it is very difficult for me to give any notion of the state of this part of the country at that time. Trade was as bad as bad could be. Nobody seemed to have any money to spend on clothes. It took most folk all their time to line the inside, and the outside had to make shift as best it could. It was cruel to see the homes of those who had no back set and depended on their daily toil for their daily bread. And yet some manufacturers persisted in putting in machines that could have but one effect, to turn adrift many of those who still had work. And with it all arose in the minds not only of the croppers but of all the working people for miles around a feeling of injustice, of oppression, a rankling sense of wrong. And the poor felt for the poor. They got it into their heads that the rich cared nought about them, that their only thought was to look after themselves, to fill their own pockets, and the working folk might rot in their rags for ought they cared. And added to this was a chafing sense of their own helplessness. They felt like prisoned birds dashing against the bars of a cage. You see they had no say in anything at all. They were Englishmen only in name their lives, even when times were fairly good, were none of the brightest. It was mostly work and bed and not too much bed. Hard work and scant fare and little pleasure. They had love and friendship, for these come by nature, but they had little else to bring a ray or two of sunshine into their lives. When people in those days met together to set forth their grievances they were persecuted for sedition; when they didn't meet and were quiet and law-abiding our betters said we had no grievances. Nay, if there was no violence both of speech and action the wise-acres in London said and thought all things were for the best in the best of all possible worlds. You couldn't talk sense into them, you just had to poise it into them. So what would you?

Anyway, before the Luddites had been banded together many weeks it was well understood that we existed for bigger things than to break shears and cropping frames. Booth was always dinning this into me when I hinted at the wastefulness of smashing costly frames and other such like mischief. "We must arouse the conscience of our rulers," he said. "They cannot, or will not, see how desperate is our plight. Besides, nine tenths of them have a personal interest in war, in prolonging shutting our ports. Their sense of right will not move them: we must frighten them." Then he would smile in his sweet, sad way and say something in the French which he explained to mean that folk cannot have pancakes without breaking eggs, and after that I never lifted a hammer to smash a frame but my mind went to Shrove Tuesday and I had a vision of Mary with sleeves rolled up and face flushed by the heat of the fire, her dress tucked between her knees, tossing pancakes up the big chimney, and catching them sissing as they fell with the browned side up into the spurting fat.

Not that I did much machine breaking myself. There is a canny thriftiness in my nature that made me dislike such wantonness. Besides George Mellor was really the soul of the whole affair: and where George was there was no peace. He seemed like one possessed. From the Shears Inn at Hightown to the Nag's Head at Paddock, from the Nag's Head to the Buck, night after night, swearing in men, arranging midnight visits, dropping into this shop, loitering by that, counselling one man, winning another, he seemed to be everywhere at once, to know every man's wants and every man's grievance. What master to leave alone, what to fley. How he did it all and when he slept is a mystery to me. And he never lost heart never wavered from his purpose and there never was a moment when we didn't, all trust him and all love him--save only one.

I say I didn't handle Enoch much myself. We called the big sledge hammer that we battered the frames with, Enoch, after Mr. Taylor of Marsden. George saw I did not like the work, and the distance of my home from Longroyd Bridge made a good excuse for me. But 'Siah gloried in the work and when I saw him of a morning dull-eyed and weary and his clogs dirty with fresh clay I guessed what he had been at, and so in time did Martha too. But I could not always shirk my share of this midnight work, little, as it was to my liking. 'Siah had brought an earnest, message to me from George. "Yo' mun go, Ben. Th' lads are talking," 'Siah had said.

And so, after milking time one night in the first week in April I told my mother I must go down to th' Brigg, and she must not be uneasy if I did not come home that night, as I should probably stay at my aunt's; and my mother must needs send by me a basket of eggs and a cream cheese for her sister, and a rubbing bottle for her rheumatism with full directions for its use. I saw a look pass between Martha and Mary when I said I was going to th' Brigg, and Mary said:

"Mind yo' don't bring a black eye home wi' thee, i' th' mornin', Ben. But if th' art so set up wi' thissen for feightin', do it by daylight. It's ill wark that winnot bear th' sun's face," and then I knew Martha had been talking. But I reckoned not to understand her, and off I set with as poor a heart for my job as if I were going to be hanged.

Up by Kitchen Fold I came up with 'Siah and Soldier Jack. It was a darkish night, wet, drizzling and cold. We made off over by Crosland Moor, and never a soul did we meet till we were falling into Milnsbridge where Justice Radcliffe's house was. Then we passed a patrol of horse. They challenged us, and each of us had to tell a different lie. But they had no ground for stopping us, and they went their way over the moor, their horses pacing slowly and the riders peering on either side into the darkness of the night. I never knew those horse soldiers one bit of use all the time, and with their loose ways they did much harm. Those that had a tale which could pass muster would walk past them bold as brass. Those that couldn't face them just avoided them, which was easy enough whether by day or night, for stone fences are good for men to hide behind, and at the best it is a hard country for men on cavalry horses.

At the Nag's Head, at Paddock, we found George Mellor, William Smith, Thorpe, Ben o' Buck's, his brother John, Tom Brooke, Bill Hall, and two or three others who worked at Wood's. We had a glass apiece, and we needed it, or thought we did, which comes to the same thing in the end. These new-fangled teetotal fads hadn't come in then, and when folk didn't drink it was because they couldn't get it. Anyhow a glass of hot rum and water, on a perishing night, warms the cockles of your heart, and for my part I should have been well content to stretch my legs before the big kitchen fire at the Nag's Head and caress my stomach with another glass. But George was impatient for us to be off. So we up Paddock, by Jim-lane to the bottom of Marsh. There is a two-storied stone house there looking over to Gledholt, with a mill at the back of it. I knew the owner by sight well enough, a little spindle-shanked man, with a squeaky voice. I had seen him many's the time at the Cherry Tree. Fond of his glass he was, and a great braggart when warmed with liquor. He was a foremost man in the Watch and Ward, and I had heard him boast oft enough of what he would do if the Luddites ever came his way. So I sniggered a bit to myself when we came on to the road in front of the house. The windows were all dark in front. We went up the house side to the mill yard. Here was a door barring the way into the yard.

"Give us a leg up, Ben," whispered Thorpe, and over the top of the door he went, dropping heavily, and with a curse, on the other side.

"Did ta think aw were a cricket ball?" we heard him say. "Throw us a hammer."

Then there was a sharp blow or two, the rattle of a chain, the angry yapping of the yard dog. The door fell open on one lunge, and in we pushed pell mell. We could see a light spring out of the darkness in the chamber window, and we began to bray at the kitchen door. Someone had fetched the dog a crack with a stick, and it had limped whining and growling into its kennel.

"Open the door," cried George.

A bedroom window was opened about half-an-inch, and a piping voice, all tremulous, faltered, "What mean you, good gentlemen? What is your will? For heaven's sake go away quietly. The Ward are on their rounds. They may be here any minute. My missus is shouting for them out o' th' front window. Go home to bed, good masters, and I'll never tell."

"Go stop her mouth, and come down and let us in. Quick now, or it will be worse for you," said George, sternly.

We waited a while, only giving a reminder by a hammer tap on the door panels and breaking a window or two out of sheer mischief. Then there was the fumbling at a chain, the bolt shot in its socket, and the kitchen door was opened. And there in the kitchen, where the embers of the fire were still glowing, stood little Mr.------(I won't tell his name, for he was a worthy man, only with words bigger nor his heart) in his shirt, his pipe shanks all bare, and his knees knocking together quite audibly. Well! it was a cold night. Say it was the cold. And his hand that held the metal candlestick shook so, the tallow guttered all down the candle side, making winding sheets. At the bottom of the steps leading upstairs, I caught a sight of a vinegar-faced woman in night-dress and a filled cap.

The remains of the supper were on the table, a very frugal supper, some cheese and haver bread. An empty pitcher was on the table. George Thorpe got another candlestick from the high mantlepiece and went down the cellar steps, and we heard him blowing up a spigot and coaxing a barrel, and the ale coming into the pitcher with a gurgle, like you may fancy a man would swallow if he were half-throttled. It was a lean shop, I warrant you.

There was an old oak armchair by the Dutch clock, and George drew it to the fire.

"Sit down, Mr. S----," he said. "And you, Mrs. S----, go back to bed and keep warm and quiet. It's no use shouting. Th' soldiers are away over bi Crosland Moor, th' constables are over Lindley way. You'll only catch a cold and spoil your sweet voice. But mind you, no noise, or I'll send a man to keep you company. And now, Mr. S our business is with you."

Poor Mr. S----. I smile even yet as I write of him. He trembled so, the rails rattled in the chair, and kept looking this way and that, and jumping at every movement. And yet how he used to strut about the Cherry Tree yard, cursing the ostler, and cuffing the boys that pestered him for pence.

"You have some of the finishing frames in the shed there?" said George.

"Y-e-e-s, good Mr. Ludd, y-e-e-s, but only little ones."

"How many?"

"One, or mebbe two."

"How many more?"

"Well, mebbe three or four."

"How many men have you sacked lately?"

"A two or three."

"And how many more?"

"Well, mebbe a score."

"And how are they living?"

"I dunnot know."

"And their families?"

"My missus gi'es 'em summot to eit whenever we'n more nor we can eit oursen?"

"Haven't yo' a pig?"

"Ay, well when th' pig's fed of course."

"Yo're one o' th' Watch an' Ward. Where's your staff?"

"By th' looking glass there, with th' lash an' comb; oh! dear, oh! dear."

John Walker pocketed the constable's staff. "Where's your gun?"

"I' th' chamber."

"Fetch it, No. 20."

And Soldier Jack hopped up the stairs, and we heard a shrill shriek and a cry of "Murder! Thieves!" and then Jack limped down again, whilst Mrs. S---- stood at the stair-head and hurled threats and bad language at his back.

"Where's th' key o' th' mill door," went on George, as cool as if he were eating his dinner.

"Oh! dear, oh! dear, you surely winnot harm th' frame's. They'n cost me a hundred and fifty pound apiece, an' I owe to th' bank for 'em yet."

"The key, the key."

Then from a drawer in the dresser he drew the big, heavy key.

"No. 22, 23, 25. Do your duty."

And John Walker, Thorpe and Bill Smith stalked across the mill yard with a lantern. The dog sprung at his chain again, poor animal. There was the creaking of the lock. Then after a pause a voice from the dark sounded:

"Stand clear, Bill," and bang, came the hammer, crash went wood and iron, and the costly frames were wrecked beyond repair. Poor Mr. S-- groaned as if his heart were breaking, and his wife at the stair head gave a shriek every time the hammer fell.

"And now," said George, producing a horse-pistol, "but one thing remains. Here is a Bible. You must swear never to make complaint of what has been said or done this night, lest worse befall you."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Ludd, I'll swear. I'll swear anything only go leave us. Oh! my poor frame's! And if I don't die of rheumatism after this night, it'll be a miracle."

"And to take back the men you have sacked?"

"Yes, yes."

"And never more to put up machines to take the bread out of honest men's mouths?"

"Never, never, so help me God. Oh! do go, good Mr. Ludd."

And go we did; but not before George had very politely gone to the foot of the stairs and drunk out of the pitcher to Mrs. S----'s health, and said how sorry he was that business had compelled him to pay his respects to so worthy a lady so late at night. Then we hurried off, over the fields, into Gledholt Wood, where we took off our masks, and went by different ways to the Nag's Head.

Now could you believe that the very next Market Day I saw Mr. S---- at the market dinner. He was telling to a group of listeners how he had been roused in the night by the crash of machines, how he had jumped out of bed, seized his flint lock carbine, rushed down the steps into the mill yard, laid low one of the gang with the stock of his weapon, being anxious to avoid bloodshed, and the whole thirty or forty had fled before him carrying off their wounded, but not alas! till his machines had been broken.

It must have been some other night.

But Mr. S---- kept his promise. He put up no more frames, even when the troubled times were half forgotten and the Luddites no more a terror. Perhaps he had difficulties with the bank.

But that is ahead of my tale, for I have not done yet with the night we broke the poor man's frames. Going down from Marsh to the foot of Paddock, Ben Walker must need fasten himself on to me, though with half an eye he might have seen, even in the dark, that I wanted none of his company. But he linked his arm in mine, and put on that fawning way of his that fair made my flesh creep.

"And how's thi father, Ben, and yor good mother an' all the friends at Holme?"

It was in my mind to tell him none the better for his asking, but remembered in time that civility costs nought, and so made him as civil an answer as I could fashion.

"And how's Mary, sweet sonsy Mary?" he went on, taking no note of what I was saying about my father's touch of asthma, which was plaguey bad at the back end of the year.

It was just sickening to have him mouthing her name as if he were turning a piece of good stuff on his tongue, so I answered him short enough.

"Yo cannot tell, Ben, how my heart warms to Mary and to you, Ben, for Mary's sake, and to all that's kin to her, even to the third and fourth generation," he added, after a pause, to make it more solemn and convincing like.

"Aw'm sure we're much obliged to you," I said; "but yo'n a queer way o' showing your liking."

"Yo mean leaving her when Long Tom was so unmannerly. It isn't like thee, Ben, to bear malice nor to cast up things in a friend's face. Let byegones be byegones. Aw know aw'm not a warrior, Ben. Aw'st never set up to be a man o' wrath. We'n all our failings, Ben, an' feightin's noan my vocation, that's flat."

"Well, say no more about it," I said. "Let's talk o' summot else. It's lucky for Mary she's got somebody to stick up for her that'll noan turn tail an' leave her to do her own feightin'."

"Meaning thissen, Ben; aw heard about th' setting down tha gave Long Tom."

"Nay, aw weren't thinking o' missen," I said, "tho' yo' may count me in. But it's no business o' thine. Talk o' summot else, aw say."

"But it is a concern o' mine, Ben. It touches me quick does ought 'at touches Mary. How would ta' like me for a cousin-i'-law?"

"A what?" I said.

"A cousin-i'-law. Aw reckon that's what aw should be if aw wed Mary."

"Thee wed Mary!" I cried, half vexed but tickled withal "Thee! Why, Ben, lad, if aw know ought of a woman she wouldn't look th' side o' th' road tha'rt on. Besides she's noan for thee, Ben."

"Happen she's bespoke nearer home?" he said.

"Aye, nearer thi own home," I said, for George and Walker lived not so far off each other.

"What, George Mellor?" he cried.

"Aye, George Mellor," I said, and strode on faster and would have said no more. And if I said more than my knowledge warranted me, I spoke no more than I deemed to be true.

"Nay, Ben, dunnot be angered wi' me. It's no shame to anyone to lose his heart to such a lass as Mary. Aw know tha's set agen me, Ben. Aw know aw'm noan fit for her; an' if it comes to that where will ta find th' man that is?"

I never liked Ben Walker half so much in my life, or I'd better say I never disliked him half so little as just at that moment, for false as he was and mean, one glimmer of truth and nobleness he had about him, and that was his love for Mary. And yet it galled me to have him speak of Mary at all. But he would not have done.

"Aw could do well by her," he said. "Better nor yon fine spark we call General. Why, man, his head's full of nonsense, just pack full. All about the rights o' man, and reform and striking down the oppressors of the poor. As if such as him can do owt! We're all melling wi' things too big for the likes o' us, Ben, an' fools as we all are, George is the biggest o' th' lot, for he hasn't sense enough to know he is a fool."

Now there was just enough in this to make it sting the keener. So I pulled up short and said:

"If that's your opinion about George, go tell him so thissen. An' if yo've ought more to say about our Mary go say it to hersen. Yo'll get your answer straight." And I spoke so rough any other man would have flared up; but Ben Walker could swallow more dirt when it suited his purpose nor any man I ever came across.

"Oh! it's easy enough for thee to talk, Ben Bamforth," he said. "Tha cares nowt about her. Aw thowt happen tha did. An' yet aw might ha known different. Come to think on it, yo'd eyes t'other neet for nobbudy but Faith Booth. An' yo'll find her willing enough, an' one man's meat's another man's poison. A pawky ailing wench, but if yo' fancy her it's everything. Aw wish yo' luck, Ben, aw do indeed."

"Ha' done with yo," I cried in anger. "Faith Booth's as much aboon me as our Mary is aboon you. And never speak again to me about such things as this. I want no secrets from you, and I'll tell none to you. We're in th' same boat as far as this business we're on to-night goes, but beyond that we've nought in common; and so, Ben Walker, without offence, give me as wide a berth as I'll give thee." And I fairly ran off and left him.

In the kitchen of the Nag's Head, George Mellor and Soldier Jack and some score or more of those who had joined the brotherhood, mostly men of the neighbourhood, but some from Heckmondwike and Liversedge way, others from Outlane and the Nook, were already in warm debate. The fire was roaring in the grate, pipes had been lighted, pewters filled, and the buzz of conversation and bursts of laughter filled the low room. George was in great fettle that night. He was always best and brightest in action. Indeed he had much to put his head up. He was obeyed, without question, by many a hundred men; all bound together by a solemn oath, who had implicit trust in him. The military and the special constables were only our sport. They were never any serious hindrance, at first, to anything we took in hand. The mill owners were in fear for their machines, and would rather any night pay than fight. And for the great mass of the people, those who had to work for their living, they believed in General Ludd. In some way they could not fathom nor explain the Luddites were to bring back the good times, to mend trade, to stock the cupboard, to brighten the grate, to put warm clothes on the poor shivering little children. It is not much the poor ask, only warmth and food and shelter, and a little joy now and then. They are very ready to listen to anyone who will promise them this, and if they do not see exactly how it is all to come about, are they the only ones who mistake hope for belief? And George liked the people's trust. When an old hag stopped him in the road and praised his bonny face and bid him be true to the poor, anyone could see the words were sweet to him, and he would empty his pocket into her skinny, eager hand. And he liked too the sense of powers. To command, to be obeyed, to be trusted, to be feared--by your enemies who does not like it? Find me the man who says he doesn't and I'll find you a liar.

Where George got his money from to treat as he did I don't know. He nearly always had money with him, and when he hadn't he had credit with the landlord. We never stinted for ale on the nights we were out on such jobs as that at Marsh, and this night was no exception. And his good humour was shared by all of us. Those who had been up to Marsh had to tell the tale to those who hadn't, and there were roars of laughter as Soldier Jack showed the scratches left on his face by the sharp nails of Mrs. S----.

"We're winning all along the line," George cried. Th' specials is fleyed on us. They take care to watch an' ward just where they know we're not. Th' soldiers don't like their job. It's poor work for lads o' mettle hunting starving croppers. Th' people are with us. But we must strike a decisive blow that will once and for all show our purpose and our power. Every frame in the West Riding must be broken into matchwood; every master must learn that he has resolute and united men to reckon with. Let us once show our strength, and we will not rest till things are bettered for all of us. But we must strike a blow that will be felt the length and breadth of the land. It is baby work that we have been on to-night. We must go for the leaders of the masters, for those who hearten up such men as S----, of Marsh, the men who have both the brains and the pluck, curse 'em, not for the sheep who follow the bell-wether.

"Cartwright, of Rawfolds," cried a Liversedge man.

"Horsfall, of Ottiwell's," said a Marsden cropper.

And then men laid aside their pipes and drained their pewters. And a man was set at the door to see no strangers entered, and we saw to the fastening of the shutters, and that no clink made a spy-hole into the room. And those who spoke hushed their voice, and those who listened strained an anxious ear. It was no child's play now.

"Taylor's have sent out a big order of finishing frames for Cartwright," said one Marsden man.

"Aye, and Cartwright swears he'll work them if not another mill owner in England dare," said William Hall, of Parking Hole.

"I like his mettle," said George. "That Cartwright is a game cock, and we must cut his comb or he'll crow over th' lot on us. If we can only settle such as him, we'st have no bother wi' th' others. Na, lads, my mind's made up. Yo' all know what this Cartwright is doing. Aw've nowt agen him except th' machines. If we let him put up those frames he's ordered, and work 'em, we might as well chuck up. One encourages t' other, and if one succeed another will, nay must, follow suit."

"There's nowt to choose between him an' Horsfall," said the Marsden man. "Aw cannot tell what's come over Horsfall. He allus used to be a decent master till this new craze came up. But naa' he talks o' nowt but machines, machines. An' th' way he raves on about th' Luddites is enough to mak' a worm turn. If he's not lied on he said t' other day at th' market that he'd ha' his own way i' th' mill if he had to ride up to his saddle girths i' Luddite blood."

"Well, well," said George with an ugly gleam in his eye; "Horsfall can wait. What do you say, Ben?"

"Aye, Horsfall can wait," I said, and would have said more if need were, for I shrunk from having part or parcel in any attack on Ottiwell's.

"Well there's an easy way to settle it," said William Hall. "Let's toss up."

"Aye, that's fair enough," said several voices. "Heads for Horsfall, tails for Cartwright." And so it was settled. I live again that moment of my life. Forty years roll away as though they had not been, and clear and vivid I see the group of eager men gathered round the hearth, with George erect and masterful in the centre.

"Who'll call for Cartwright?" said George.

"That will I," said Hall.

"Then here goes," and George balanced a penny on his thumb and forefinger.

"Cry before it drops," he said, and span the coin in the air.

"Tail," said Hall, and every man held his breath as George tossed the coin and caught it. He had to stoop over the fire to see the face of the coin after he caught it.

"Tail it is," he said, and thrust the penny into his fob.

"By jinks I'm fain," said Hall. "Aw owe the b------ one, and now aw'll straighten wi' him. He'll rue the day he sacked Bill Hall for drinking."

And for me I too was fain. For Rawfolds seemed a long way off, but Ottiwell's was close by home.

"We'n got our work set," said George. "It mun be a reight do. Cartwright sleeps in his mill every night. He has soldiers there, too, in the mill with him. The gates and doors have been strengthened. There are other soldiers billeted in the village. Th' mill bell will alarm the country. But we can do it, lads, if yo' are the men I take yo' for. No flinching and we'll strike such a blow at Rawfolds as will make old England ring again. And now, lads, to business."

It were quite beyond me to tell all the plans we made that night. We fixed Saturday the 11th of April for the job, and a man called Dickenson promised to let his mates on that side know our arrangements. We were to meet at the Dumb Steeple by the Three Nuns at eleven of the night. There were to be men from Liversedge, Heckmondwike, Gomersall, Birstall, Cleckheaton, and even from Leeds; and on our side we promised a full muster. Soldier Jack was to see that everyone was warned, and such arms as could be begged, borrowed or stolen were to be got together. The boys were keen enough for work, and nothing doubted of success. We had had it all our own way up to now, and who was Cartwright that he should check us?

It was in the small hours when we stole out into the raw morning air, taking our several ways homewards.

I had not far to go, for I was to sleep with George at the Brigg.

"I'm glad it fell on Cartwright," I said to my cousin, as we doffed our things that night.

"Aw thought tha would be," said George.

"It wer' a weight off me when it fell tails," I added.

"But it were a head," said George with a quiet smile.

"A head!"

"Aye, a head. But I knew tha wanted tails, so I turned it i' my palm when I stooped o'er th' fire."

And yet men talk about fate.