The Iron Master (36 page)

‘Aye, why pay an idle fellow to stay at home and get his wife with child?’ cried Alderman Brigge. ‘We have enough expense, keeping up the workhouses. It is all this industry that is causing poverty. Folk are coming into our valley that do not belong here, and when they cannot find work they come upon the parish for relief!’

‘Not fair!’ shouted Ernest Harbottle. ‘Not fair, Squire Brigge, sir. I employ them young people in the workhouse, and give them a home second to none. Mr Howarth might not, but I do.’

‘I have a proper system of apprenticeships, sir,’ cried William, roused.

‘Gentlemen, please,’ said the Mayor. ‘What of Mr Ackroyd’s suggestion that we raise the poor-rate again?’

It was unanimously turned down.

‘Was there anything else, Mr Ackroyd?’ asked the Mayor.

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Jack between his teeth, ‘though whether I am wasting my time in mentioning the matter I do not know. I should like the council to consider, once again, whether they could not allow the grammar school some money towards its evening classes for working people. Since we began these classes in a small way, some two or three years ago, they have grown to outstanding proportions. So far we have managed with voluntary help and donations, but our numbers are beyond our means.’ He remembered what. Charlotte had told him about losing his temper, and lowered his voice, saying peaceably, ‘If the council would consider a modest sum of money per annum I should be pleased to render a full account of our expenditure, which is largely materials for the purpose of reading and writing.’

There was a bored silence as he sat down.

The Mayor said, ‘Has anyone anything to say to Mr Ackroyd’s proposal?’

‘It’s a dangerous business, educating poor folk,’ said Alderman Brigge, as spokesman of the Tory party. ‘It makes them forget their place, and start poking about in matters that don’t concern them. I’m against it on principle.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Ernest Harbottle. ‘Reading and writing’s for them as has time for it. I never learned much, and look where I am!’

Jack Ackroyd leaned forward and seized him, none too gently, by his left lapel.

‘I have a third matter to mention that will concern you closely,’ he muttered. ‘You, and others like you, whose factories are a disgrace not only to this valley but to the whole human race!’

‘Mr Ackroyd!’ said the Mayor loudly. ‘Would you be kind enough to wait until this motion is carried? How many for the proposal? How many against? Rejected, by 2. large majority.’

He recollected that William’s sister ran a minor branch of the evening classes at her own expense, in her own house.

‘We don’t object to the classes,’ he added magnanimously, ‘and if folk want to help with them, or make a donation to them, that’s their own affair. But the council regards an evening
class
for working people as purely charitable. It isn’t public business, and therefore we can’t contribute public money to it.’

Jack Ackroyd sat very pinched and pale, waiting to hurl the next missile.

‘May I mention one thing more, Mr Mayor?’ he asked as reasonably as he could. ‘Should we not bring up the matter of Sir Robert Peel’s Act concerning the care and protection of pauper apprentices in spinning-mills?’

The council was disturbed on many counts, depending upon whether Mr Harbottle was any use to them or not.

‘Early days, I think, Mr Ackroyd,’ the Mayor offered. ‘The Act has only just been passed. We shall, of course, look into these matters and appoint inspectors, as required.’

‘I hope you do, sir,’ said Jack grimly, ‘because if you do not then I shall approach the highest authorities. And if Sir Robert Peel thinks fit to disclose the abuses in our midst then he must have some about him who will listen to me!’

‘Come, sir,’ said Alderman Brigge, ‘no one has said aught against the motion. You are too hasty.’

‘Not hasty, rightly suspicious!’ cried Jack, and now he was angry despite what Charlotte had said. ‘I have seen too much swept under the carpet, gentlemen, to accept that this council will look seriously into the conditions of certain mills in this valley. I have taken the trouble to fetch copies of the Act with me, in case any member has not read it … ’ and he began to distribute them.

‘Oh, Lord!’ said the Mayor, under his breath.

William hardly glanced at his copy. He did not care tuppence what happened to Harbottle, whom he despised, but he did not see why he should be dragged into open debate by Jack Ackroyd either.

‘For instance,’ Jack began, swaying to and fro on his heels, ‘all mills must have proper ventilation and a sufficient number of windows. Walls and ceilings must be whitewashed twice a year, for sanitary reasons. Each apprentice should be given two new suits of clothes when employed, and a further suit of clothes every year. And!’ Coming to the point he most relished. ‘And, mark this, gentlemen. All apprentices must be taught to read and write at the owner’s expense, and in time taken from their working hours, for the first four years!’

He looked round the table, nodding his head sarcastically at them.

‘Sir Robert Peel evidently does not share your opinion as to education of the working classes!’ he observed.

‘Mr Ackroyd,’ said the Mayor, pained, ‘I find your manner highly disagreeable. And I would remind you that you have a seat on this council purely because you are the headmaster of our grammar school. It is not your business to bring up matters which have nothing to do with education — ’

Jack slammed his hand down upon the table in his temper.

‘Show me a document which states that fact!’ he cried. ‘Order, order, gentlemen, please,’ the Town Clerk begged.

‘I’m not a-sitting at the same table with a man like that,’ said Ernest Harbottle loudly.

His colour and voice were high, and he prepared to leave as though choked with rightful indignation. Jack Ackroyd lifted up his hands in a gesture of acceptance, and looked to William for a little justice.

‘Mr Howarth,’ he said quietly, ‘I do not mind who takes up this cause, so long as it is won. You can have no interest in suppressing, evading or otherwise shuffling off this most excellent piece of legislation. Will you at least stand with me?’

‘The next point concerns the roasting of a bullock in the market-place last October, to celebrate the end of the war with France,’ said the Mayor loudly, over-riding him. ‘The farmer who supplied the beast says it hasn’t yet been paid for … ’

William lifted his eyebrows, and shrugged to show that the opportunity was past. Ernest Harbottle watched the pair of them with frightened eyes.

‘Sir,’ said William deliberately, ‘I should be afraid to stand as your ally though your cause was the most merciful in the world. You have too great a knack of making enemies — and the worst of them is yourself.’

Jack sat as though all the wind had been knocked out of him.

‘That’s telling him, Mr Howarth,’ said Harbottle, relieved.

‘As for you, sir,’ William continued, in the same deliberate manner, ‘I would suggest that you clean your own doorstep. For an Act is an Act, and however long it takes to catch up with you, catch up it will.’

Then he caught the Mayor’s eye.

‘Mr Howarth?’

‘Two very small matters, Mr Mayor. The first, permission to build a Quaker meeting-house on private land … ’

Very white, the headmaster collected up his papers. He heard Ernest Harbottle defending himself to his neighbour in a hurried undertone.

‘ … all them clothes, and the education, and only working twelve hour a day. Why, if I’d only worked twelve hour a day where would I be now? It means I’d have to shut the mills down at night, or part of them. That’d make a tidy hole in the profits. Then all that rubbish about male and female dormitories, and not sleeping more than two to the bed. Why, we can never let the beds get cold at our place. As one workshift comes off to sleep t’other one goes on. And don’t tell me as the poor ones haven’t slept six and seven to the bed, brothers and sisters, at home! And then talk of fetching a doctor to them at the owner’s expense. Oh yes, it’s all at my expense, ain’t it? I never heard of such a thing. Give the buggers a dose of worming powder and a kick up the backside is what I say … ’

All that Jack wanted at the moment was to be able to walk into Charlotte’s parlour and let her put him to rights again. William’s rebuff had hurt him more than he would have believed possible. But he had seen that the ironmaster’s horse was tethered outside Thornton House. So when the meeting finished he must go back to his rooms, and nurse his defeats alone. And he wished he possessed Dr Standish’s temperament, which thrived on disappointments. For Jack had always strived to right matters. It was the right he wanted, not the battle.

The meeting was simmering to its close. William had been granted his requests. Harbottle brooded, sustained only by thought of his profits. The headmaster sat silent, head upon hand in a gesture of temporary defeat.

‘Well, that seems to be all, gentlemen,’ said the Mayor, relieved.

They rose in twos and threes, turning to chat and smile, to frown and growl.

Alderman Brigge said idly, ‘We have not been plagued by our outlaw friends for a while, I notice. Of course, the weather is warmer and the nights lighter. They seem to venture abroad only in the cold and dark!’

‘Aye, it is a curious business,’ William replied, uninterested, for he had not been visited as other members had.

‘They are very well organised, for sure. And we do not seem able to apprehend them.’

‘That is hardly surprising, sir,’ said William, more animated, ‘for we have not the law-force in this valley that is necessary to keep order.’

‘All law-abiding citizens,’ the Mayor reminded him (for he did not want difficulties over the law-force as well as everything else), ‘all good citizens, Mr Howarth, take their turn at patrolling. We cannot do more.’

And, lest William thought they could, he left the council chamber quickly.

‘They are not violent, at least,’ said Jack Ackroyd, recovering a little as he heard his society mentioned, ‘and they do not steal, as such, nor harm anyone as far as I know.’

‘But they are outlaws, nevertheless,’ said Alderman Brigge, ‘that you cannot deny, for all your nonsensical notions, sir!’

‘Oh yes,’ said Jack sombrely, surprising them by acquiescence, ‘they are outlaws, sir, I grant you that. And I am sure they feel themselves to be such. Good-day to you, sirs!’

Jack Straw Riding By

Twenty-one

The warehouse was fairly isolated on its black wharf just beyond Millbridge, lapped by black water. Once, small boys had sat on that bank when it was green and broad, and fished with homemade rods and lines, tempting the silver swimmers with a bit of bread impaled on a crooked pin. Now, bank and boys and fish were an old story, swept away by time and progress. Now, Joseph Dewsbury, Corn Merchant, had raised a brick and timber depot which was soon sullied by smoke, and stocked it full of grain. He was in no hurry to sell. The weather, as well as the war, was sending up the price. His sacks were making profit for him, even as they sat there. But human nature being what it was, and envy always ready to point a finger at him, Mr Dewsbury had taken care to purchase the stoutest locks and bolts and bars he could find; and he paid a couple of strong fellows to guard the place, and kept a fierce dog loose in the yard at night, to deter thieves.

The stars glittered in a black heaven, brilliant and cold. The moon shone like polished plate. Down below, a hard frost nipped flowers in the bud, froze meat in the larders of those who had it, killed new-born lambs. No one and nothing stirred in the glacial landscape. There were few signs that it had been a rural village some fifteen years ago, one of a necklace of such little places, linked by the winding river. The air smelled of sulphur. Tall chimneys, pit-head gear, cranes, etched strange shapes on the horizon. An orchestra of sounds, some near and some far off, played upon the ear; producing a mechanical composition of hums and roars, clanks and shrieks. From time to time the fires of Belbrook and Snape lit the sky for miles around. Mills gleamed like many-windowed palaces. And clustered round each factory a disorderly collection of houses, cramped and filthy and ill-smelling, swarmed with their human vermin.

Wagons were rolling along the Black Road as they always did. That broad thoroughfare was as busy as any London street, day and night. Three or four which were covered with tarpaulin turned down towards Mill Wharf, and stopped a few hundred yards from Dewsbury’s warehouse. One driver got down, swiftly and silently, and crept to within a stone’s throw of the black yard. There, he appeared to throw a stone, though it made no sound in falling beyond the softest of flumps, and the brindled guard-dog slunk forward to examine it. In a minute or two the driver beckoned, and two men who had hidden beneath the tarpaulin joined him. This pair scaled the wall and were lost in the shadows. Only the faintest tinkle of glass betrayed their whereabouts. In another few minutes one of them was up on the wall again, signalling. The wagons rumbled forward. The doors of the yard were opened for them. More men emerged from the belly of the vehicles, running soundlessly into the warehouse. Presently they came out with sacks of grain and began to load the carts.

Inside, the watchmen lay bound and gagged, but would be none the worse for their fright in the morning, apart from the matter of sore heads. The guard-dog lay sprawled on the floor of the yard, and would not waken with them.

There was no furniture to speak of in the back room of No. 5 Babylon Street, unless you so described a broken-legged table and two crazy chairs. On a heap of rags in the corner lay four small children asleep. By the hearth a young-old woman huddled over a handful of dull coals, wrapped in a shawl. She had been waiting up for a long time now, listening for the quiet knock on her door. When it came she was ready, opening barely a slit in order to peer out, whispering, ‘Who is it?’ For everyone must be careful, on pain of death or transportation.

‘All right, missis,’ came the answering whisper. ‘It’s Jack Straw the baker. Let us in, wilts? Else the neighbourhood’ll sniff us out!’

She opened the door hastily, but the summons of fresh-baked bread was there before him, waking the little lad of seven who had eaten rarely of it.

‘How many in this house?’ asked the messenger, hurriedly.

‘Twelve rooms, twelve families, Jack Straw,’ she replied. ‘I’ve laid the paper on the floor over there.’

He was one of the men who had loaded the wagons with grain the other night. Since then it had been milled by three millers, free of charge they said; but nobody would blame them if they kept a sack, considering the risks involved. The same organisation had then transported the flour to sympathetic bakers, who probably took a similar fee, and from thence to the houses on the list.

‘Quick!’ the messenger whispered, and two other men, also muffled up to the eyes, began to pile loaves on the paper against the wall.

‘Sign for No. 5 Babylon, missis,’ he whispered hoarsely.

She made a cross on the paper, which trailed awkwardly.

‘I shall be back tomorrow night at nine by Millbridge clock, missis. You’re the shop-keeper for this house, so reckon up and have the money ready. Tuppence a loaf this time. A bit more, but the war’s to blame for that, starting up again! Any road, you wouldn’t get the same for a shilling if you had to buy from the shops. Now,
your
bread’s free, along of being shopkeeper, that’s five loaves. And here’s a sixpence for the trouble, and the risk, and cutting into your night’s sleep.’

As softly and rapidly as they had come, the three men disappeared into the night. The woman hid the coin in her bodice, looked longingly at the bread, and prepared to rest.

This involved taking off the shawl and fustian gown which she then used as extra coverlets. The lad made room for her, and though their breath smoked on the air they contrived to warm each other.

‘I heard Millbridge clock strike two not long since,’ she said, ‘and we’ve got to be at the mill by six. Get your sleep while you can. I don’t want you falling into them machines while you’re minding them.’

‘What about you falling asleep then?’ the boy whispered, for he had become both bread-winner and protector since his father was killed, falling from a high building at Snape twelve months ago. The money paid to them, in lieu of his death, had not replaced his earnings, and there was no follow-up.

‘I’ll manage. I’m older than thee. And it’s worth the wait to get the bread and the sixpence.’

They lay with open eyes, staring into the bitter dark. But the scent of bread was as beautiful as a meadow full of clover. Tomorrow, today, they would eat of it before they went to work.

‘Warn, why don’t you bring our Betty along to Babylon Mill with us? She’s gone five year old. It’d fetch a bit more money in.’

‘Aye, but who’d mind the other two while she were away? It’ll be easier when Jennie’s growed up.’

If we live that long, she thought, but did not say so. ‘Main, shall us have a corner of crust?’

She hesitated, feeling his hunger as well as her own, but resolved against such unorthodoxy.

‘Not ‘til morning, love.’

‘I could eat all that, Main.’

‘So could I, love. We’st wait ‘til morning.’

‘Mam, who come to the door just now?’

‘Oh, nobody we know. Nobody we must speak of. We’st have bread for breakfast, my lad. That’s all we need to know.’

‘It were Jack Straw, weren’t it?’ he whispered, trying to discern the expression on his mother’s face.

He smiled, in answer to the glimmer of a smile on her mouth.

‘Aye,’ he whispered, turning over to sleep, ‘that’s who it were. Jack Straw. Jack Straw come riding by!’

The Town Clerk had received the usual letter in his morning’s post. Though poorly spelled it was dean, well-printed and explicit.

TO THE TOWN OFFISERS OF MILLBRIDGE. A WERHOWSE ON MILL WORF BELONGIN TO JOS DEWSBURY WAS EMPTID OF GRANE LAST NITE WICH THE MERCHENT AS BIN SELLIN AT 127 SHILLINS A QWARTER. WE HAV LEFT A FARE PRISE OF 50 SHILLINS A QWARTER AND WIL RETERN THE SAKS! NO HURT WAS DONE TO THE WOTCHMEN. WE DAMAJED A SIDE WINDER FOR WICH WE LEEVE 2 SHILLINS TO REPARE IT. THE GRANE WIL BE GIVIN TO PORE PEEPUL HOO HAVE PADE THE FARE PRISE FOR IT.

It was signed simply JACK STRAW.

A week later, one of the nightwatchmen found the sacks, neatly folded, correct in number, in a back room which he had checked not more than an hour since. In spite of the fact that no one had wounded or attempted to kill him on the previous raid, he shivered at the thought of those eyes watching in the night.

And at the same time, further down the valley, a steampowered flour-mill, one of Lord Kersall’s enterprises, was being relieved of its contents. The Red Rose Society was working its way systematically down a long list of those who profited by other people’s misfortunes.

The eccentric nature of these coups, the thought and planning invested in each foray, worried the authorities more than the events themselves. For who knew when the organisation might change its ways and methods? Human nature being what it was, as Alderman Brigge remarked, one of them might become over-ambitious, or a Jacobin agent could use them for his own purposes. But the town council never came to any satisfactory conclusion on the matter, and as the raids were sporadic and scattered throughout the breadth and length of Wyndendale, no one quite knew how to deal with them. It would be an admission of defeat, as Lord Kersall himself said, to put the matter before the Home Secretary. No, no, they would wash their own dirty linen! They did not want the government ferreting into their private affairs. And so, betwixt incompetence and difference of opinion, nothing was done.

The society’s true name was known only among its peers, but the watchword, chosen on the spur of a moment, became its symbol and took on flesh and spirit. Children in the crowded dwellings, wakened perhaps at night by the muffled rumble of wheels, hearing whispers at the door, would be told sharply to ‘Lay down again! Jack Straw’s piking off!’ And in their minds a giant, both great and good, rode the valley from Garth to Millbridge, distributing his bounty to such as themselves.