Take Courage (23 page)

Next day the news came that the battle had lasted from eleven in the morning till four in the afternoon, and that the Bradford men had held the end of the bridge all day; but at the end of it all, the Fairfaxes had been obliged to retire towards Selby, for lack of ammunition.

“For lack of ammunition!” said John between his teeth, pacing up and down the room. “For lack of ammunition!”

Then suddenly he controlled himself; he took out his writing materials, throwing them somewhat heavily on the table, and sat down and began to write letters again about the collection of money for the pay and equipment of the Parliament's soldiers.

The result of this battle at Tadcaster was that the Royalists spread right down through the middle of Yorkshire; and the result of this was exactly as John had foretold it. The clothing towns were cut off from their friends in the east of the county, and cloth could not reach Hull; there were Royalists in Leeds, so it was not safe to take cloth to market there; there were Royalists in Wakefield, which barred our way to London. Trade was at a standstill, the pieces stood
piled up high in the corners upstairs; Lister, one day when one of the apprentices had felled his warp, actually came to ask John whether he should begin another piece or no, and John hesitated a long time before replying. At length he said: “Yes,” but in a perplexed and reluctant tone, and Lister went away shaking his head and muttering. Then, commodities began to be scarce in Bradford market. This did not affect us at The Breck much, for it was our custom to lay in good stocks for the winter, and we had already done so; besides, we had our own milk and eggs and fowls, and the oats had been good that summer. But the poorer people, who always live from hand to mouth, never having sufficient money to buy in quantity, began very soon to suffer, especially as the winter was proving a severe one. Sarah came out to The Breck again, on the pretence of informing me that her husband was safe, which we knew already, and she would not leave, but began to tell many stories of how she did this and that for me when I was a little girl, and how faithfully she had attended my mother in her last illness and cared for my father and brought up David, and so on. All this was very painful to me, reminding me of old happy days I had long succeeded in forgetting, and I answered her more sharply than I should. Then Sarah burst into tears and shouted out in a high rough tone that they were starving. I was grieved, and gave her eggs and a piece of ham and two bowls of oatmeal from the ark, and told her to come again when that was finished, and I saw Lister run after her as she left and slip a coin into her hand, so I felt she was well provided and thought no more of it. But a day or two later a woman from Little Holroyd village, wife to one of our weavers and a very decent respectable body, came to The Breck. I thought the maid was mistaken in bringing her to me, as probably she had a message for John from her husband, but I was wrong; the poor thing burst into tears and told me the same tale as Sarah. I gave her a bowl of meal and a couple of eggs. John chanced to come in as I was doing so, and hearing my voice looked into the kitchen, to the poor woman's great embarrassment;
she scurried off in a fright. John looked surprised and questioning, so I told him of the errand she had come on. When I asked him whether I had done right to give her meal, he said:

“Aye. It was right. But——”

He broke off, and I saw he was looking very thoughtfully at the meal ark. My heart jumped. We had always filled the ark with meal for our own use, after harvest, and sold only the oats which were left over. Now this ark at The Breck was very large—I had always thought it an ugly clumsy thing, holding far too much for our needs. But John's look made me wonder whether perhaps I should be glad of its size, before this war should be over. I was much troubled by this, thinking of the children.

Next morning early, before it was well light, a few minutes only after the children had set off for school, two clothiers came up the lane at a gallop and turned in to The Breck. They were both Parliament men, wearing their hair short; the elder of the two, a grey-haired man, was named Atkinson, and lived on the east side of Bradford, beyond Church Bank and Barker End; the other, Isaac Baume, a big heavy square man about John's age with a very red face and a homely way of speaking, was that neighbour of ours who had helped John about the ulnage seals. John had seen them from upstairs, and hurried down; they were hardly off their horses before they cried:

“Bad news, Thorpe!”

John stood very solid and asked what was wrong.

“Vicar Corker has run off to the Earl of Newcastle,” said Mr. Atkinson.

“Good riddance,” said John grimly. “Now we can go to Church with ease again.”

“Aye!” said Mr. Baume. “But it seems our Bradford Royalists have been to Newcastle too, d'you see. They've been out secretly and asked him to bring his army in.”

“What!” cried John, aghast.

“And they've come back with a letter from Sir William Savile,” said Mr. Atkinson, “threatening to plunder and
burn the town, unless we pay a tax towards the maintenance of Newcastle's army.”

“And Savile himself will soon be on their heels; the Earl's appointed him to reduce the clothing towns,” said Baume. “We heard it all last night.”

“Who are these Bradford Royalists, these malignants?” shouted John suddenly, very loud and strong. “We had best put them in custody, and garrison the town.”

“Giles Ferrand is one of them, John,” said Baume, sniffing. “Your uncle.”

“What difference does that make?” said John contemptuously. “Do you urge the Constable to apprehend all who've had owt to do with that letter, and we'll gather the well-affected together, and defend the town.”

“Aye, that's what we'd like. But how can we do it, John?” said the younger clothier doubtfully. “All our trained soldiers are with Lord Fairfax, and most of them in t'town that are fit for service as volunteers are off with Sir Thomas as well, d'you see.”

“We have neighbours,” said John stubbornly.

“They won't come without pay.”

“And there is little left to pay a garrison with,” put in Mr. Atkinson mournfully.

“Well!” said John, setting his jaw. “If Bradford won't pay a garrison, it will have to pay Newcastle's army. Let Bradford choose.”

The two men looked at each other.

“We shall have to pay, choose how,” repeated John. “Are we to buy cowardice and treachery, or courage and truth?”

“H'm. Well. There is much in what you say, John Thorpe,” said Mr. Atkinson. “It's true, too, that we might hold out against a troop of Savile's, for a time. We made a few bulwarks and such, you remember, when Sir Thomas was with us. But if the Earl turns his whole army on Bradford?”

“He won't do that, with the Fairfaxes on his flank,” urged John.

“You're very military on a sudden, ever since Black Tom spent a night with you,” said Mr. Baume, sniffing sardonically.

“And we'll send a message to Sir Thomas Fairfax for help,” concluded John.

The two men seemed to brighten a little at this.

“And who will you get to ride to Selby, with eight or ten thousand of Newcastle's scarlet coats in between?” said Baume.

“I'll go myself,” said John impatiently.

There was a pause.

“God's blessing go with you,” said old Mr. Atkinson suddenly. “Be off with you, John Thorpe, and we'll see what we can do here i' Bradford.”

They mounted their horses—Mr. Baume, who was a heavy clumsy man, threw himself over his saddle face downwards, as I have seen our Sam do, sliding down our stair balustrade; after all these thirty years I can still see the soles of his boots turned upwards, and the odd way he wriggled himself upright in the saddle—and rode away at a good pace down the lane.

John turned to me.

“It is your duty to go, John, and I will not say a word against it,” I said quickly before he could speak. “Will you eat before you go?”

“Nay, I must start at once,” said John.

I threw another log on the house fire, and fetched John's cloak and boots and set them to warm, for it was a very bitter gloomy day in December, with a hard black frost on the ground and scurries of snow in the air, and, as I told myself, trying to make a joke of it, if John risked the Royalists he need not risk a cold. By the time he had got out some money and put on his better suit and given the needful instructions to Lister, I had spiced a drink for him; I stood beside him while he drank it.

“It seems I am always leaving you, Penninah,” said John soberly.

I thought to myself: “Aye, there is a monotony in it!”
But I did not speak my bitterness, for I knew he was right this time to go; I said: “It is your duty. It is the war.”

“I shall overtake the children in the lane perhaps,” said John. “I'll turn them back—keep them at home till I return.”

I nodded, for I could not speak; my heart seemed in my throat.

John kissed me quietly and rode away.

The children soon came running back up the lane, Sam delighted at a day's truancy from school, Thomas more than half sorry, for he loved his book. I made them promise they would not leave our fields, and sent them out to play, then forced myself to perform my household duties. My heart was very heavy, and I moved about in a dejected spiritless fashion. Sometimes the boys ran round the house, shouting and laughing, their cheeks rosy with the cold; then when I looked out again they would be hidden by whirling snow-flakes. The snow began to lie on the ground, and the distant hills looked white against the sombre sky. After a time I heard a dull heavy thud, and was surprised that thunder should come with such big flakes of snow; usually in the winter it is hail that goes with thunder. Then I heard the same deep short thud again.

“It is cannon!” I cried suddenly in terror, and sprang to the door, calling wildly for the children. “Thomas! Sam!”

They came running towards me, their eyes wide, their little faces awestruck. I gathered them to me, and we stood at the house door, looking down towards Bradford. Lister was already at my side. I shaded my eyes with my hand, and peered through the winter murk, but I could make nothing out that looked different from usual. While we stood there, watching and waiting, a few flakes of snow began to drift through the cold heavy air, then they came faster, and soon we were in a snow shower so thick we could no longer see the town. Thomas shivered, and I turned aside to take him in, when suddenly there came a tremendous great report, sharper than the others, and far exceeding
them in noise. The very air seemed to quiver with it, and our ears felt stunned. We stared at each other affrighted, and waited; we thought we heard some faint cries; but then only a long silence. I could not help remembering how Sir Thomas had called Bradford a very untenable town.

For the children's sake, however, I put a good face on my fear, and when Thomas sneezed I drew them in to the fire, and rubbed their hands and comforted them. There was a pinched look on Thomas's gentle face, and even Sam seemed subdued and inclined to ask when his father was coming back, so as there came no more sound from the cannon, I decided we would eat our dinner earlier than usual, to take our minds off what we had heard. While we were at table, one of our apprentices, who had been down in Bradford on an errand that morning, rushed in and told us all the news.

It seemed a troop of Royalists, some in buff-coats, some in scarlet coats and feathered hats, had ridden down towards the town from the direction of Leeds, whereupon some of our men, under the direction of Mr. Baume, had hastily planted themselves in the church steeple, and shot at them. They seemed vexed and surprised at this resistance, which they did not expect; and they drew out two great guns and planted them on a hill near the church, and fired a shot from each—great big iron balls, said the apprentice, marvelling; he had seen one of them lying half buried in the ground, in Kirkgate. But God so ordered it, that the snow-shower fell just then, and the snow falling on the barrels of the guns while they were still heated with firing cooled them too suddenly, and one gun burst. (This was the third, sharpest and loudest, sound we had heard at The Breck.) This bursting of the gun so disheartened the Royalists, said our lad, that they had gone away of their own accord—there was a rumour that one of their officers was hurt; for one of the scarlet coats had been seen to fall to the ground at the bursting of the cannon.

“They've gone away?” I breathed.

“Yes, Mistress—but it's thought they will be back again
before long,” said the lad. “They will go and fetch more companies from the Earl of Newcastle, likely.”

I sighed in relief, and looking round the table found that the others were all sighing too.

“Will my father be home before the Royalists come again?” asked Sam.

Thomas said nothing, but like Sam he fixed his eyes intently on me, so I, with a confidence I did not feel, said quietly:

“Yes.”

After we had left the table, I kept the boys indoors for a time, in fear, but soon they grew restless, so I allowed them out again, on a promise to keep close to the house and come instantly if called. For myself, I took up a stocking I was knitting and sat down by the hearth. The maids were in the kitchen with the door closed, Lister was upstairs, the house seemed very quiet; outside the sky loomed low and dark and grey, or was hidden in a snow whirl.

Then somehow my spirit failed me and I began to weep. Sarah with her talk the other day had brought old times to my mind; they had been in my mind ever since, and this bleak sullen afternoon seemed to me just like that Lord's Day when Will was carried off to Starchamber and my dear father died. How far things have moved since then, I thought; to what a pitch this quarrel has reached! What would my poor father think if he saw England now? And I consoled myself for his death, thinking what anguish this war between Englishmen would have caused him. But as I sat thus by the fire, alone, my father was very present to me, with his tall body and his kind grey eyes and his clear courteous speech, and I thought of his tender love and care, and my childhood, and how I used to read to him at night; and then I thought of my life in The Breck now, my husband away, a hostile army threatening, myself (as I felt at that moment) worn and old. How easily John had left me! My life nowadays seemed to me suddenly unbearably dreary, an endless round of anxiety and care; with a strong uprush of feeling I rebelled against it, and longed for some
brightness, some joy, some laughter, or at least some ease. At once I took myself to task for these wanton, wicked, worldly thoughts; I sprang up and paced the room with my hands clasped, wrestling with my soul in prayer; I reminded myself of the Lord's great mercies; I went to the door and looked out thankfully at my treasures, my two dear little sons. They ran past me full tilt towards the beck; Sam's pugnacious little nose and Thomas's clear gentle forehead were very dear to me, but still I could not stop the tears from flowing down my cheeks. I closed the door again and took a book of sermons from the window-sill and tried to quiet myself by reading, but the letters seemed big and blurred through the tears in my eyes. The book slipped from my fingers, and I bowed my head on the side of the chair, and sobbed aloud.