The Master of Liversedge (5 page)

FIVE: THE MARCHERS

Mary awoke with a start. Her whole body was tense, though her mind was still drugged by sleep. There had been something unpleasant in a dream — she had been frightened by the sound of tramping feet …

Suddenly, she sat bolt upright in bed. It had not been a dream, after all. Now she could hear the marchers quite plainly; they were advancing with steady, measured tread along the rough road that ran past the Vicarage. How many of them there might be, she could not guess; but they marched purposefully, relentlessly, as though they would never stop until everything that stood in their path had been crushed and trampled underfoot.

She shivered violently, then leapt out of bed. Her fingers groped around the unfamiliar bedside table until she found a tinder box, and was able to light her candle. Reaching for her dressing gown, she fastened it securely about her, and pushed her feet into the light sandals which she had worn earlier that evening.

The marching feet had drawn closer now; they must be passing the Vicarage. She moved across to the window, and, lifting the curtain a little, peered out. The wall surrounding the Vicarage was not as high as a man; she ought to be able to see the heads of the marchers above it.

To her chagrin, she found she could see nothing. After a moment, she pulled back the curtains, and, easing back the catch, quietly raised the window. Then she leaned out, a plait of warm brown hair swinging about her neck as she peered intently into the darkness.

A flurry of snow touched her face, and the icy air made her flinch. Gradually, shapes emerged out of the gloom. She could just discern the outlines of the tall elms which stood at intervals along the wall; behind them, shadows moved rhythmically to the beat of pounding feet. It was the marchers.

At once she drew back her head, and without stopping to close the window, hurriedly pulled the curtains across it. For a few moments she stood there, motionless, her heart beating unnaturally fast. How could she have been so reckless as to risk being seen by these men, whoever they were? After her recent terrifying experience, she was ready to believe that at any moment they might come pounding on the door of the Vicarage.

She almost jumped out of her skin as a low knock sounded on her bedroom door. In spite of the cold night, a prickle of perspiration started on her forehead.

‘Mary!’ She recognized her cousin’s voice, although it was only a whisper. ‘Are you awake?’

For a moment, fear kept her from answering. Gradually, the wave of terror receded, to be followed by relief. She picked up her candle, and tiptoed across the room to open the door.

John Booth was standing outside. She noticed at once how pale his face was in the candlelight, and that his lips twitched nervously. She recognized this mannerism from past years; it had always been a sign that he was labouring under some strong emotion.

‘What is it?’ she asked, in a low tone.

‘The light, cousin! Can you have forgotten what you were told earlier?’

She drew in her breath in dismay. Both her uncle and his housekeeper had warned her that she must not on any account show a light after ten o’clock at night. The Watch and Ward had strictly forbidden it, since the recent disturbances in the West Riding, and penalties for infringement were severe.

‘Oh, John, I am sorry! How could I be so foolish? Here, take my candle, and I will close the window. I’ve already drawn the curtains.’

He shook his head. ‘No, l-let me. I can find my w-way about the room in the dark — you do not know it w-well enough. You may hurt yourself.’

She stepped out on to the landing, and waited there with the candle while he went into the darkened room, closing the door softly behind him. After a minute, he joined her.

‘All’s right and tight.’

He stumbled over the words, as he had done before. She knew the symptoms of distress, and looked at him in concern.

‘What’s wrong, John? Why are you not abed? And who — who are they?’

She waved her arm vaguely in the direction of the front of the house.

He shook his head. ‘We mustn’t talk here. My father isn’t likely to wake up, but Mrs. Duckworth might. I’d best go.’

When they had been younger and were visiting together, Mary had unconsciously fallen into the habit of treating John as one of her younger brothers. Two years’ absence seemed to have made little difference in their relationship, for she found herself reverting to the role of elder sister, now.

‘No, cousin,’ she said, decidedly. ‘I don’t retire until I know what’s troubling you.’

He swallowed, and turned his head away for a moment.

‘V-very well, if you will have it so. We c-could go down to the kitchen — there’s a fire there, and — and no one w-will hear us.’

‘You go, then,’ said Mary, taking the candlestick from his loose grasp. ‘I’ll follow presently, when I am dressed. Make a warm drink — some milk, or a hot posset, if you prefer.’

She returned to the bedroom, set down the candle, and hurriedly flung on some clothes. Her hair she left in the thick plait which was her usual style for sleeping. Not more than five minutes had elapsed before she entered the warm kitchen.

She found her cousin sitting huddled over the fire, which he had blown up into a flame with the bellows. A small saucepan of milk was set on the hob, and two pewter mugs stood on the well-scrubbed deal table. She sat down, and glanced at the clock: the hands stood at twenty past two. She listened for a moment; the sound of marching had now quite died away.

‘How did you come to see my light?’ she asked, for by now she had had time to think of this. ‘You must have been out of doors.’

He nodded. ‘I couldn’t sleep — I t-took a turn or two in the g-garden.’

‘In this weather?’

‘I didn’t notice the weather. I was too — too — ’

‘Occupied with your thoughts?’ she hazarded, in a gently quizzing tone. ‘Shall I give you a penny for them?’

‘They’d not be worth it,’ he replied, bitterly.

She waited, hoping he might add something to this. After a time, he seemed to have settled into a brown study, his eyes fixed on the fire. The milk began to simmer in the saucepan; she rose, and, lifting it from the hob, carried it over to the waiting mugs.

‘There you are,’ she said, handing him one, and returning to her chair with the other. ‘Drink it — it will do you good.’

She watched for a moment while he obediently sipped the milk. He seemed scarcely aware of what he was doing.

‘John,’ she said quietly, ‘who were those men out there? And where were they marching?’

‘Best not to know, cousin — else, like me, you might know too much for your own good.’

She started. ‘You don’t mean — John, you surely can’t be one of them — a — a Luddite?’

This remark roused him.

‘No,’ he said, vehemently, ‘no! Not in spite of all George Mellor’s persuasion, or my — my s-sympathy with their feelings! I’ve always refused to take the Luddite Oath — “twisting in”, they call it — ’

‘Who is George Mellor?’ asked Mary.

He looked frightened. ‘I sh-shouldn’t have spoken the name — even if I’ll have no p-part in their doings, I would not b-betray them — ’

‘You needn’t fear on my account. I should be a poor creature indeed if I couldn’t keep the confidences of my own flesh and blood.’

‘Mary, I know — I didn’t mean — f-forgive me!’ he said, wretchedly, leaning forward to place a hand over hers. ‘It’s just that it’s all so dangerous — for them, for you — ’

‘Tell me all about it, John. You know you can trust me — and I have a feeling that you are longing to be able to confide in somebody.’

‘That’s t-true, Mary. Sometimes I feel I shall go mad with keeping it all to myself. But there was no one, until you came. Very well, I will try to tell you — but not enough to hurt you, for they are wild people, Mary, although most times they don’t understand the harm they are doing. Most times — ’ He drew his hand away from hers, and distractedly pushed back a lock of fair hair that had fallen across his forehead — ‘b-but what about poor Ben Turner?’

She waited a moment, until his agitation died down a little.

‘Tell me from the beginning,’ she prompted, quietly.

Her manner had its usual calming effect.

He leaned back in his chair, and sighed deeply. ‘Who knows what
is
the beginning? I suppose it all started with George asking me to read the newspaper for them — most of them can’t read, you know, cousin. That isn’t right; why shouldn’t everyone learn to read, rich and poor alike?’

‘It’s difficult to see that reading would be of much use to working folk — ’ began Mary, wrinkling her forehead. This was a new idea to her.

He leaned forward eagerly, his thin, sensitive face alight with enthusiasm; she noticed that the stutter left his tongue as he spoke.

‘There you go, you see — you, a governess! Even you can’t see the need for educating the common people. Have you ever stopped to think how much of their misery, how many of their hardships, are due to ignorance and stupidity? Yet they are the salt of the earth — as Lord Byron said in that speech of his not long since, they have enabled this country to defy the world! Those of us who’ve been lucky enough to have received any kind of education ourselves, ought to make it our business to pass something on to these less fortunate folk. It’s a Christian duty — ’

‘I’m afraid I hadn’t ever thought of it in that way,’ Mary answered slowly. ‘There seems no practical use for reading and writing in the lives of, for instance, the mill-workers. Such accomplishments wouldn’t help them to earn their bread; and they have little time to read for pleasure.’

‘But we must change all that,’ said John, vehemently, ‘for it is wrong, Mary, wrong! Have you ever heard of Robert Owen of New Lanark?’

She shook her head.

‘He is a cotton manufacturer who believes that by providing good conditions for his workers, he will benefit both them and his manufactory. You won’t believe what he’s done there, cousin! He’s built pleasant houses in a kind of garden village, for his workers and their families; he’s set a limit to their hours of work — no one in the New Lanark mills is forced to work twelve or more hours a day, as is usual in other parts of the country — and, to crown all, he’s educating children and adults alike, but especially the children. How I wish it were possible to see this done throughout the length and breadth of England! That is my dream, Mary.’

She smiled sadly, touched by his eagerness.

‘But — forgive me, John — it’s not very likely to be realized. This man whom you speak of sounds to me uncommonly like a saint. I can’t imagine Mr. Arkwright, for instance, following his example.’

‘That’s because he doesn’t see. Arkwright has one aim — to keep the mill going as best he can until the time comes when there will be an expansion in trade. He believes firmly that this will happen.’

‘Do you agree with him?’

He nodded. ‘I think I do. He’s a shrewd man, although he came late to his trade. But it’s in the Arkwright blood — generations of them were in the textile trade. It’s a pity that he’s set up the backs of so many people hereabouts.’

‘Why has he?’ She finished the milk, and rose to place her empty mug on the table.

‘Chiefly by being obliged to turn off some of his men because of trade depressions: but also by his autocratic ways. He’ll brook no question — Sam Hartley, one of his men, recently protested at the employment of a new man from another town, when there were local men who needed jobs. Sam all but lost his own job for it — Nick Bradley managed to save him, by the skin of his teeth. They — the Luddites — hate Arkwright, too. He’s the only manufacturer in these parts who dares oppose them.’

‘And I admire him for that!’ exclaimed Mary, warmly. ‘Why should he allow himself to be intimidated by a gang of bullies? For that is all they are!’

The anxious look came back into her cousin’s face, and he began to stutter again.

‘N-no. Not all — though they d-did m-murder poor Turner. Because of that, I’ve s-sworn not to do anything that brings me into c-contact with them again — though not all who come to hear the
Mercury
are Ludds, cousin, I’ll tell you that.’ He broke off, and she could see that his forehead was damp with perspiration. ‘But I doubt very much if they’ll let me go — there are things I’ve heard that could be a danger to them. George trusts me, and stands my friend with them as far as he is able, and he is in sort a leader — ’

He stopped again, and cast an imploring look at her.

‘I’m saying too much, Mary — I knew I would — you l-lead a chap on so, with your quiet understanding — ’

‘You have my promise,’ she reminded him.

‘Perhaps you might not be able to keep it — perhaps — ’

He stiffened in his seat. A low tapping had sounded on the window, which was securely shuttered from the inside. Mary, too, jumped, and stood staring in the direction of the noise.

The tapping was repeated. It sent a shiver of apprehension down her spine. John came reluctantly to his feet, his face working in agitation.

‘It’s them,’ he mouthed. ‘They — they’ve come for me! Save me, Mary, for God’s sake!’