The Northern Correspondent

by Jean Stubbs

  The lot of our colliers on Swarth Moor is so harsh that they are brutal even to each other. Cruellest of all is the plight of their women and children. Little creatures of six work thirteen hours a day in the dark. Their mothers, even in an advanced state of pregnancy, crawl along tunnels dragging a heavy wagon behind them by means of a chain fastened round their waists. And all of them toil underground in conditions of total degradation, for the few shillings each week which keep them badly fed and badly sheltered.

  Have they committed some abominable crime to be treated in this fashion? No! They are suffering because they had the misfortune to be born poor and powerless! We have recently emancipated negro slaves in our colonies abroad, but here at home a vast army of industrial workers are slaving their short and wretched lives away in conditions as harsh as any negro suffered.

  What is the reason for this state of affairs? It is that a few rich and powerful men, standing high in public esteem, are making profits at the expense of an underprivileged majority. It is horrifying to think that we daily warm ourselves on the misery of our fellows. But if, knowing what we do, we continue to ignore their plight, we shall be as guilty of inhumanity as those who abuse them.

  In view of the evidence given here, we demand that the local authorities investigate the collieries of Swarth Moor. Furthermore, we urge the government to set up a Royal Commission to examine working conditions in all collieries, for our own cannot be the only running sore in the country.

  Then followed, George’s Flesh and Blood.

  The ironmaster flung The Northern Correspondent down upon Sam Pickering’s desk and stamped round the office in a rage. His mood, veering from the defiant to the defensive, was laced with venom.

  ‘That miner, whoever he is, is a liar, bribed by my nephew to damage me. Find him and sack him! For God’s sake, why did none of my own people tell me this? Do folk think I have the time to amble round Swarth Moor, inspecting my investments? Great Heaven, how will this sound in Parliament? Everybody knows that some of these are my collieries! Ah! I’ll have that nephew of mine hanged yet!’

  Then he wheeled upon his silent editor, crying, ‘Well, what are you going to do about it, Sam? Sit there with a smile on your face while this radical rag smears me?’

  Sam Pickering’s light green gaze remained cool. He pulled his moustache thoughtfully, watching his master.

  ‘We’d best investigate the matter for ourselves first,’ he remarked. ‘We can say nothing until we’ve got the facts right.’

  ‘Facts? Facts? This Longe fellow is out to ruin my political reputation! It is obvious that I am one of the men he mentions. He even makes a pun on the name of one of my mines! I call that libel!’

  ‘He hasn’t mentioned your name, and how do we prove that “Prospect” was a pun, Mr Howarth? He seems to be more careful than he used to be! What’s more, if it’s the truth then it isn’t libellous. But, either road, it does you no good, as you say.’

  ‘Snape is a model ironworks! I am among the foremost masters in the country for workmen’s benefits and improvements.’

  ‘It isn’t Snape he’s talking about.’

  ‘My collieries on Swarth Moor are merely an investment.’

  ‘If you make money out of them, Mr Howarth, you’re liable to be thought responsible for the way they’re run.’

  ‘Which, I daresay, is no worse than the way others are run.’

  Sam’s moustache was receiving an unusual amount of exercise.

  ‘If the other collieries are run like this,’ he remarked, ‘there’s bound to be a national investigation sooner or later.’

  ‘Stop telling me what I already know, for God’s sake, Sam.’

  ‘I’m thinking what I can do, you see, Mr Howarth. It’s no good me saying black’s white when I’m liable to be proved wrong! That makes the pair of us look guilty, and there’s the reputation of The Herald to consider, and all.’

  This silenced William.

  Then Sam said, ‘How about giving me a statement for The Herald, Mr Howarth? Something on the lines of being shocked and appalled to realise what’s going on, and you’re ordering an immediate enquiry. We’ll remind them what you’ve done for the district of Wroughton — workmen’s cottages at low rents, medical benefits, cricket club, brass band, public park, and all. Then we’ll run a series of articles on the improvements you’re making at Swarth Moor — which you’ll have to do, Mr Howarth, to get the story to stick. I can’t see any other way.’

  ‘And what about my damned committee and my damned shareholders? I don’t own Swarth Moor, Sam. I’m simply a major investor.’

  ‘Aye, but you can be — persuasive,’ said Sam, smiling.

  The ironmaster took a briefer, quieter turn about the office, and fetched himself up short at the window, hands clasped behind his back. The Northern Correspondent advertised its presence blatantly. He gazed upon its whitened bricks with furious eyes.

  ‘He couldn’t do it without her money behind him,’ he remarked.

  Ambrose had set forces into motion which were to prove beyond his control. He had expected the coal magnates of Swarth Moor to defend their position. Instead, they attacked.

  The ironmaster, too, was having his problems, for he found his committee far less sensitive to public opinion than he was himself. Due to the diligence of The Correspondent, and the new Factory Act, a number of members were being investigated already. Arnold Harbottle, one of the richest men in Wyndendale, had three cotton mills under government scrutiny and was the first to speak.

  ‘It’s time we put a stop to this social reform nonsense. If the Whigs and radicals have their way, we’ll all be poor. As it is, some of us has something!

  ‘There’s two good reasons why we can’t afford to alter the present colliery system. Number One is plain arithmetic. Shorter hours, higher wages, or the loss of cheap and unpaid labour — which is women and children — means less profit. Less profit means lower dividends to the shareholders. Lower dividends means they’ll take their money elsewhere. If we’re not careful, we’st be out of business altogether.

  ‘Number Two is common sense. You can’t deal with a factory worker or a collier the same way as you deal with other folks. They’re not human beings like us, they’re animals. They’ve got no morals. Their women are all whores, and their whelps are thieves. As for the men — why, I never knew such foul and filthy beasts. And all that prate about inhumanity! If you want to see proper inhumanity, you turn a working man into an overseer and see how he treats his own kind!

  ‘It beats me how anybody can print such bloody rubbish after what happened with the Luddites in 1812. It was villains like these colliers as set fire to my father’s mill, and burned his house down and murdered him. And I’ll tell you this: if we give our workers an inch less stick, or an inch more kindness, they’ll do it again.

  ‘Now, Will, let’s talk straight. It isn’t the first time we’ve had trouble from The Correspondent, and it won’t be the last. Ambrose Longe is related to you. Why don’t you stop his mouth?’

  He flung himself back into his chair, acknowledging the applause with a grave nod. He had spoken in the mood of the meeting.

  ‘So far, my nephew has failed to respond either to friendly or hostile overtures on my part,’ replied the ironmaster coldly.

  ‘Maybe you wasn’t hostile enough!’ remarked another member, and raised a laugh which was ugly rather than amused.

  ‘Well, blood is thicker than water,’ said Arnold Harbottle, smiling. ‘We can’t expect Will to try as hard as we might.’

  A curious sound, as of bees swarming, warned the ironmaster that the meeting was not on his side.

  ‘While agreeing in general with Arnold’s statements, I think it advisable,’ cried the ironmaster, over the hum of comment, ‘to prepare for investigation on a local and possibly even a governmental level. I suggest we inspect working conditions at Swarth Moor and then convene another meeting to discuss what needs to be done.’

  ‘Wh
y?’ asked Arnold Harbottle pugnaciously. ‘I don’t give a bugger what the conditions are like!’ He pointed one forefinger directly at the ironmaster. ‘I’m not going to spend time and money for the sake of whitewashing your reputation!’

  This was open war indeed. William Howarth, undisputed lion of every industrial committee in the valley for twenty years, now heard the roar of a younger lion.

  ‘Then what exactly do you suggest we do?’ he asked, biting off every word.

  ‘Hire the bully boys,’ said Arnold briefly, ‘and shut everybody up. That miner, for one. Ambrose Longe, for another. And anybody else connected with The Correspondent who could be persuaded.’

  ‘You realise, I suppose, that public opinion would be strongly against that sort of behaviour?’ William demanded.

  ‘I’ve said — I think you didn’t hear me, Will — I don’t give a farthing dip for public opinion. I’m not a Member of Parliament! I mind my own business. Let everybody else mind theirs. That’s my motto. Why don’t we put it to the vote?’

  The response was instant.

  ‘I will have nothing to do with this,’ said William decisively.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ said Arnold, counting the forest of raised hands. ‘I’ve told you. We’ll get somebody else to do the dirty work.’

  ‘So long as we can’t be charged with aught illegal!’ interjected a more cautious member, wavering.

  ‘We shan’t be within sniffing distance of the law,’ Arnold replied. ‘I know a chap who takes care that even he’s not found out, never mind us! If any of his lads get caught they take the blame, and he looks after their families until they get out of jail again. It’ll cost us plenty of brass, but it’s worth the expense.’

  They began with what they considered to be the least powerful link in the chain. Less than a week later, George Howarth was fetched up from the four-foot seam and left for dead on the floor of the boiler-house. By tacit consent everyone ignored him, but when he did not return from his shift at teatime, his landlady sensed that something was wrong. George had few friends, but she was one of them. In strictest confidence, he had reported his meeting with Ambrose Longe and had later shown her — in pride and trepidation — its result. So she waited for two hours in mounting suspense, and then sent her eldest boy to the offices of The Northern Correspondent with an urgent message.

  The ambivalence of the ironmaster’s nature was here most clearly delineated. His decision to take no part in the affair had been mainly a question of prudence. He had no objection to Ambrose and his accomplices being punished, but he intended to remain blameless. Indeed, he had already decided that he would condemn any acts of aggression in the columns of The Herald, thus giving himself and his newspaper a reputation for fair play.

  Another side of his nature unwittingly assisted his nephew. For a long time, he had been in favour of policing streets to keep them safe. When the London Peelers came into being in 1829 he had renewed his efforts, and Millbridge had recently become one of the first provincial communities to have its own small police force. Consequently, Ambrose Longe arrived at the ironmaster’s mine that evening with a couple of the ironmaster’s peacekeepers at his side.

  It is strange how the many are held in check by the few. The three men could so easily have been thrown down a disused shaft, and nobody would have been any the wiser. By himself Ambrose might very well have suffered that fate, but the sight of his two constables, top-hatted and smartly dressed, holding leather truncheons at the ready, caused minds to change and tongues to wag.

  George’s body was suddenly discovered, wrapped tenderly in a couple of old sacks and brought out on an improvised stretcher. Six miners were produced to give evidence of a roof-fall in the four-foot seam, from which they had rescued their comrade at the risk of their own lives. While they were giving false evidence Ambrose took down their words in shorthand, and the constables made notes. A hospital wagon was sent for, and George was jolted the six long miles to Millbridge Hospital, mercifully unconscious for most of the way.

  He came to for a moment or so when they arrived, recognised his mentor and tried to speak. Ambrose bent over to listen.

  ‘I were feared — when you called it — Prospect of Hell — as the masters’d guess — where I worked…’

  Ambrose’s face changed. He had been too clever for George’s good.

  He knelt and spoke softly into the bruised ear, ‘May God forgive me, George. I meant it to point to my uncle.’

  ‘Well — it pointed — the way to me — but dunnot fret thysen — that lot’d have found — a needle in a bloody ’aystack,’ George whispered. Making a final effort, he added, ‘Take care of thysen — they said as I was — only the first — and they mean it — cousin.’

  The information was given factually and without reproach, and George managed a nod before he foundered again.

  Ambrose drew back, ashamed and afraid. In truth, he had neither expected nor encountered such a savage reaction before. The weapons of newspapermen are words. So far, even the most pugnacious readers had contented themselves with knocking his hat off or pushing it down over his eyes. Only once had he been struck with an umbrella. It seemed that those gentlemanly days and ways were done. Mutely, he sat by the humble hero and waited for Jamie Standish’s verdict.

  ‘This man’s injuries are unlikely to be the result of a roof-fall — that would damage a particular portion of the body, and they are too multiple and diverse. Also, he bears the marks of different weapons. I would say he has taken a professional beating, administered by fists and boots, a chain, and blunt instruments.’

  ‘Would you be prepared to testify to that in court?’

  ‘I would. In fact, when I have prepared a detailed report, I can send you a copy.’

  ‘Did they intend to kill him?’

  ‘He would have died if he had been left without succour long enough, certainly. But I think not. I believe they meant to incapacitate him and break his spirit. He will bear some of these marks for life.’

  ‘Poor George!’ said Ambrose to himself. Then to Jamie, ‘Do the best you can for him. No expense spared. Send the bill to me.’

  In view of George’s warning, he ordered and waited for a hackney-coach to take him safely home. Nothing and no one stirred in the early hours of that Friday morning in Middleton Street. Ambrose entered the offices of The Correspondent unhindered and unscathed, double-bolted the front door and took refuge in his eyrie at the top of the house. There he spent the rest of the night writing a new leader, and had a nap at daybreak.

  Shaved and breakfasted, he considered the situation from every possible angle. He was not only shocked but also puzzled by the physical violence. The ironmaster’s tactics, though they could be dirty, were usually more subtle. Well, The Correspondent had set her course for good or ill. There was no turning back.

  ‘…but we shall not be intimidated!’ Ambrose told his assembled staff. ‘Our Saturday edition will publish full details of the affair, giving the identity of the miner involved, and urging an official enquiry into the supposed accident at Prospect Mine. By this evening, we shall be able to include a detailed medical report from Dr Standish, and his professional opinion as to the true cause of George Howarth’s injuries. Finally, we shall ask our readers why this man should be beaten almost to death, and what his attackers could hope to gain from it.

  ‘Now, while our enemies pursue their present policy, none of us can consider himself safe. Even The Correspondent herself is at risk. Machines could be broken, the offices damaged or set on fire. We must find ways to protect ourselves. There are two obvious ones. No one must enter this building without his business and identity being checked — and no one must leave the building, except in the company of others. I shall presently be conferring with Mr Bullock, Mr Ormerod and Mr Ainsworth about this. In the meantime, if you have any good ideas of your own — speak up!’

  The silence that followed was most eloquent. Then the least important member of staff did speak up
, and poignantly.

  ‘Who’s going t’help me punce that lad on t’Herald, Mr Longe? He’s bigger nor me, though I can run faster!’

  Laughter relieved them all. They patted Jimmy’s head and slapped his back, and pretended to square up to him in sporting fashion.

  ‘I wasn’t referring to The Herald, you blithering young idiot!’ Ambrose cried, though he could not help smiling. ‘And if I catch you saying so, I’ll box your ears properly!’

  Arnold Harbottle may not have been concerned with public opinion, but others were or had to be. The ironmaster, through the columns of his newspaper, professed himself amazed and horrified by the reports of bad working conditions at Swarth Moor, reminded everyone of the earthly heaven he had created at Snape, and promised to enquire into the matter personally.

  The assault on George Howarth he regarded in quite a different light. Though George was William Howarth’s nephew the relationship was never mentioned, and The Herald dodged the tell-tale surname by referring to him as ‘a collier’. At first, Sam Pickering hinted that the injuries were probably sustained during a drunken brawl. Then, as evidence to the contrary mounted, he chose to ignore the embarrassing implications of George’s affair in favour of a general campaign against hooliganism, with special mention of the ironmaster’s part in establishing a local police force.

  The Correspondent proved that George was attacked, but was unable to find the attackers. No case could be made in court, nor could they on such slight evidence accuse the Swarth Moor magnates of conspiracy. This left them open to harassment. So Ambrose elected to join The Herald in campaigning for safe streets and, under cover of his own leading article, told his enemies that The Correspondent was on guard, and that the police were keeping an eye upon its premises at night.