by Jane Rogers
We went first to the forge, since kind Brother Taylor could then be an example to Fat Wrigley. The yard was awash with nuisance from the stables, which the lad was swilling out – so we watched the smith from the other side while he finished what he was about. While we waited, Rachel revealed that she has never been at the forge before. Her mother told her it is unfit for ladies. Considering the woman is no more than the wife of a hat-maker, she gives herself extraordinary airs. When Brother Taylor came out to us, flexing his shoulder and stretching his arms in the cool air, I asked if Rachel might draw closer to see, and he threw down some straw for us to walk across. The smoky heat, and taste of his sweat in the air, is delicious. The fire irons we were come to fetch were ready, but to please Rachel he took a rod which was red in the fire and, deftly bending it, beat it into a horseshoe, before plunging it into the sizzling bucket and hanging it to cool. She was full of childish excitment, and wanted to know ‘if it be not against the rules’, whether she might stay to watch while I went for the sewing stuffs. Seeing a soldier dismounting and leading his horse into the yard, I was about to refuse, when I suddenly recognized him.
‘Yes – yes, you may wait for me here.' I crossed to him quickly, before he came within earshot of the forge. He was watching me.
‘Is it Leah? Is it you?’ We both burst out laughing. ‘Whatever are you dressed as?’
John Saddler, one of the officers, whom I knew when I was courting Jack. He was looking thinner, and better for it, but for the addition of a black eye and a split lip.
‘You can talk!’ I told him. He touched his lips and laughed again.
We were able to chat for five minutes or more, while Rachel gazed into the furnace, and Brother Taylor hammered and sweated. The company are split up, and Jack is gone – as I was told – to Devon. Only John and two other officers are kept up here to train new men.
‘Why, are you thinking of running after your true love?’ he asked me. When I told him I hoped never to see Jack again, he looked astonished, but said no more. Thomas has been a well-kept secret. Seeing Rachel, he noticed the similarity in our dress and returned to his first question. He was most amused at hearing we are two of Mr Wroe’s famous seven virgins. Then I realized the danger of blabbing to him about my affairs. If he should start to talk about me in the camp, and the talk find its way back to Sanctuary members … when I was in Jack’s company none of them knew my home or connections. There was nothing for it but to ask him to keep his meeting with me a secret. At this he laughed again, and asked me what it was worth.
‘Please.’
‘Very well, I will keep a secret.’ He turned to make some adjustment to his horse’s bit, so after a moment I moved on. Then he called me in a low voice, ‘But shall I see you later, Leah? Tonight, maybe?’
Oh I love that moment! His eyes on me, serious, waiting: and me, after a pause, ‘Why not?’ with a lightness and a laugh that he catches straight from me, so that both our cheeks are suddenly flushed. He wants to turn and go about his business with the blacksmith now, but I have his eyes, he cannot move.
‘Ten o’clock, at the canal bridge.’ I turn on my heel quickly; I am light, I am pretty, I am on my way to Sister Wrigley’s. The pearl buttons and donation cannot fail.
Nor did they. And the buttons were sewn on, for ten o’clock at the canal – and there, wearing atop my muslin a black greatcoat I found in the outer office (belonging I suspect to Samuel Walker) I met him. Having left the outer office window open half an inch, so I could get in without too much disturbance, later in the night.
Oh it is a pleasure a pleasure, to be with a man again!
‘Would it be asking for trouble to take you where we could get a glass of ale?’ he wanted to know, as we walked along the dark towpath, past the barges moored with their flickering lights, and the tethered munching horses.
‘It would,’ I told him and he laughed, and said well the path was too dirty for such a lady as I, with the mud and horseshit. So I showed him my pattens, telling him I came prepared: and he pulls out a bottle of wine from his pocket, and says, ‘So do I!’
And then I teased him with wishing to ruin me, and he replied that he had only the most innocent of occupations in mind, and we both speculated on what those might be.
When I crept back into the house at midnight all was still, no one the wiser for my absence. We are to meet again tomorrow night, but he will bring his horse, and take me over to a public house in Oldham, where there is no danger of either of us being known. I must go carefully. He does not yet know of Jack’s child: nor do I know if he has a wife. There is a way to go before I may place any trust in him. He was urging me to say that I liked him as well as Jack ‘for I know what you did with him’. But I put him off with laughter, telling him, ‘I am a virgin now and have forgotten such things.’ To be honest I think of them all the time; but he shall not have me so cheap.
Rebekah and I have been in fits over the punishments, after Saint Joanna’s instruction. But their execution is another matter. This Sabbath past, Saint Joanna and I were led into Inner Sanctum and provided with the means of correction, then faced with a queue of some half-dozen sinners. Elder Moses, supervising, spoke so vividly of the everlastingness of the torments of Satan, that two of the men were reduced to tears of fright.
I do not like the work one jot. Hannah and Martha escape it, by reason of their not yet being full church members. It seems hardly fair that while I sweat and endure the visions of hell conjured up by Elder Moses, they are sitting at their ease at Southgate, with no one to watch them or tell them what to do.
When Brother Paine began to sob and cry out to God I ceased the punishment, and then Elder Moses turned on me; ‘Carry out your duty, woman! Why do you stop? Do you think you have any right to determine the duration of a wrongdoer’s punishment? Beware of presumption, beware of pride, for God hates these as much and more than other sins. Brother Paine! Savour the mental anguish of your regret, taste it well, it is no more than a shadow of the torments both mental and physical, awaiting those who do not truly repent. Come, Sister Leah! Help him to penitence!’
He does not scare me, Elder Moses. I am not scared of his ranting. But it is an ugly sight to see men cry. If it were me I should not repent, I should not give him that satisfaction. Besides, what are these crimes, to God? Brother Paine is only penitent since Ann Taylor has died. I am sure God neither knows nor cares what I do with John Saddler; I am sure He has greater concerns than me on His mind. The way Elder Moses looks is enough to make one’s flesh crawl. My head is stuffed with demons and hell-creatures, all wearing the triumphant, vicious features of Elder Moses. I will not think of these things, they are not to be endured. ‘No one escapes God’s eye! He sees every sin, both acted and imagined; He sees and He remembers.’ I will not be scared by this Bogey.
Saint Joanna walked back to Southgate with me. ‘Sister Leah, is it not moving to see the wringing of true repentance from stubborn waywardness?’
‘I do not like it, Sister Joanna.’
‘You are too soft-hearted, my dear. Think of this as the admonition – or maybe the gentle tap across the palm – which a caring mother will administer to a naughty child, to deter it from real danger.’
Nothing can get me till I die. There will be time enough to repent, when I am old and ugly as Saint Joanna.
Hannah
When Joanna comes into our room tonight she is sagging with tiredness.
‘You are working too hard,’ I tell her. But she shakes her head.
‘I am working for God, Sister Hannah. There can be no half measures.’ Her prophet is sitting cosily in his study with his Bible and his visitors, while she slaves to get the household running. She undresses and says her prayers in a whisper, and when she crawls into bed I tell her, ‘You may extinguish the candle.’ It is dark, I hear her turn over. I am in my seat by the window.
But after a few minutes, in which time I supposed her asleep, she says, ‘Tell me what happened to your father.�
� The quarter moon is up tonight, its crescent covered now and then by cloud, but now and then appearing sharp as a sickle against the deep blue sky. In the gaps between the clouds there is a scattering of stars.
‘I had a young man. Edward.’
‘Whom he disliked?’
‘No. Or at least, not at first. He is the son of one of my father’s friends. We have known each other since childhood.’
‘Go on, sister.’
‘He was apprenticed away in Birmingham for seven years – he is a cabinet maker – and it was when he returned … There is nothing to tell. We liked each other.’
‘You saw him often?’
‘Yes. We talked, attended meetings together –’
‘Church meetings?’
‘No. No. Meetings in the Mechanics Institute. Political lectures – Owenite meetings.’
‘And did he ask you to be his wife?’
‘Well, in the end he did. But –’
‘Yes, tell me.’
‘He is – he was … He is in America now, Sister Joanna. He is gone to America to live in one of Mr Owen’s new communities, founded upon principles of freedom and rationality.’
There is a silence now, I wonder whether she has fallen asleep. Or whether she knows what on earth I am talking about. Her interest in freedom is limited, I suspect, to the Second Kingdom. The sky is full of clouds now, I can see two stars, no more.
‘Do you share his beliefs, Sister Hannah? Are not the Owenites against marriage? I have been told they hold their women in common.’
Why is it that the most salacious rumours about a system of beliefs travel like wildfire, while its sober truths, and the great benefits it may confer upon humanity, are ignored?
‘No, Sister Joanna. Some of Mr Owen’s followers have spoken out against marriage, as an institution which imprisons and degrades both parties, and which – in law – reduces the woman to no more than her husband’s property. But Mr Owen himself is married. There are no licentious intentions behind their thinking – indeed, they seek to improve, morally, upon the present sorry state of society. What virtue can there be in love that is not freely exchanged, between equals?’
Joanna does not reply to this. After a while her gentle voice says, ‘I am glad that Mr Owen is married. Did your father disapprove of Edward’s beliefs?’
‘How could he? He himself formed my views; he set me on the path that led inevitably in that direction. He urged me to imagine the day when every man – and woman – should have a voice in government. Edward’s views are no more than the logical extension of his own.’
‘Well then, Sister, I cannot see why …’ Her voice is slow and sleepy.
‘No. Never mind it now, Joanna. It is time you were asleep.’
‘I know. But the day runs through my head … Tell me, do you think Thomas should be taken from Sister Leah’s care at night? She is so determined for it that I do not want to distress her – but –’ It is true, the child is crying again. We listen for a while.
‘Why does she want him with her at night?’ I ask.
‘She tells me that she herself sleeps so poorly that it will be no difficulty to tend him. But – ah, he has stopped.’
‘But why should she take that responsibility upon herself?’
Joanna sounds surprised. ‘Out of care for others, Sister Hannah.’
Leah does not strike me as a woman principally motivated by care for others. But Joanna may keep her kindly illusion – I have nothing to put in its place.
‘Will you pray with me, Sister Hannah? I know God can help you, I am sure of it. Only kneel here beside me, and see how your heart will be eased.’ Her bed creaks and rustles as she heaves herself out and kneels on the floor. After a moment I go to join her; it seems churlish not to.
*
When we went to Huddersfield was the first time I listened to Mr Wroe preach. He speaks every week in Sanctuary (three times a day, on the Sabbath) but I never listen there. The fine sound of his voice, together with the incense, the bright candle flames and shining wood and brasses, and the after-effect of that heavenly music, put me into a trance. I think I am not the only person to feel so, I am sure half his congregation could not tell you what he says.
On that day it was different. Our journey was terrible. All seven of us crammed in William Lees’ wife’s carriage pulled by two white horses with uncut manes and tails, which were so much bedraggled in the mud by the time of our arrival that I doubt Samuel will ever get them clean again. We did not set off till late afternoon. Wroe and Samuel travelled ahead in a chaise, and were able to make better time due to the lightness of their vehicle. The highway was deep with mud, in which we were bogged several times and which splattered up on all sides, finding its way in through loose windows and rattling doors, till we were all quite filthy. The air in the carriage was close and foetid, and Rachel was sick through the jolting motion, which added unpleasantly to the stench.
We jolted and slithered on across the moors till darkness fell and we pulled up outside a coaching house. I have never been upon these moors in darkness, and they are a terrifying sight: an unending expanse of flat or undulating blackness, with never a light or a dwelling nor even the outline of a tree to punctuate it. I saw two shooting stars, and a greater number of constellations than I have ever imagined. The sky here hangs low and brilliant, as if in pity of the bleak place beneath.
We slept in infested beds, and got up red-eyed with scratching and sleeplessness, to take a poor breakfast of watered milk and stale oatcakes. These last could not be broken between the fingers, but cracked like dried clay when tapped against the table.
The prophet breakfasted separately and left a full hour before us, Samuel Walker having settled our accounts with the landlord. And so it was a sorry, bedraggled clutch of virgins who were delivered at last to a large, well-appointed house in Huddersfield. The servants ran about to provide us with hot water, and we made such repairs as we could to our appearances. Our travelling clothes were hopelessly soiled, but the white dresses carried in the trunk on the roof of the carriage were unharmed, only rather crushed. Mr Wroe was to preach in the market place in the afternoon, and wished us to accompany him.
No danger of falling into a trance over this; quite the reverse! As we filed out of the house of Huddersfield’s most prosperous Israelite (owner of a small woollen mill, whose chimney reared up behind the mansion as an unabashed reminder of the source of its owner’s wealth) into the street, I found myself horribly wide awake and aware of the world around me. The seven of us were dressed from head to foot in white, walking in twos behind Joanna. Mr Wroe followed us at a distance; behind him, members of the Huddersfield meeting. Handbills had alerted the population to our arrival, and the streets were lined with working people who stared at us as if were were a freak show from a travelling fair.
When we seven were ranged on the town hall steps, and Mr Wroe ascended to stand in a central spot between us, I did not know where to look for shame and embarrassment. The earnest local Israelites stood directly before us, distinct in their robes and uncut hair (the City Mark, they call it); but behind them lounged a growing number of smirking men and women, chatting and pointing out individuals among us to one another, as if looking at the giant and the dwarf and the wild Jamaican. I was convinced that as soon as Mr Wroe opened his mouth, bedlam would break out.
I glanced across at the others. The only faces I could see were Joanna, who was staring out at the crowd with a beatific smile, and Martha, head drooping like an ox, too stupid to know she had been led to the slaughter. I looked up at Mr Wroe and caught his eye: he winked. Then he looked out over the muttering, hissing crowd and slowly raised his arms (the right hand clutching his iron rod) like great wings above his head. And they fell silent.
He held it a moment, lifting the silence up through the bodies and over the heads of the crowd in his raised arms, until it was full and round as an O, and then he tolled his deep voice into its centre.
‘Br
others and sisters in God: I come with glad news, from the mouth of the Lord himself. This world is in its final days: we shall see it end.’
They stood silent, round-eyed, waiting for him to continue. Again he let the silence mount and swell, before beating into its climax with masterly precision, so that it seemed the boom of his voice was created out of silence by the strength of our desire to hear it.
He spoke commandingly in more simple language than he uses in Sanctuary, setting clearly before us the signs described in Revelations as indicating the imminent end of the world, and then showing how those signs are fulfilled in our own time. He directed us to look about us.
‘Look at earthly signs. Look at the poverty and starvation among the working people – brought about by greed of the ungodly, and the power of their machines, machines which are the work of the devil himself.’
At this a slow groan rose from the crowd, low at first as the wind in bare branches, but gathering in force.
‘Machines: machines made with the devil’s cunning to steal work from the hands of our good weavers, spinners, woolcombers. Machines, valued by those who govern us at higher than a God-given human life, for the man who raises his arm to them, to protect his child from starvation, must hang. Look, brothers and sisters in Christ, look at the world around you. Our young mothers are wage slaves in the mills, while their suckling babes are left drugged and fasting from dawn till noon-time. Who can show me the animal so depraved that it will poison its own young? Is this God’s will? Or that a child, of eight years old, should labour all night in the contagious heat and hellish noise, till even the blows of the brutal overseer cannot keep him awake and he stumbles into the path of the monster machine: the strap whirls him along and up, screaming in terror, and smashes his innocent body against the rafters? While his able-bodied father can find no buyer for his labour, no market for his cloth, and slumps in the alehouse for very shame. Earthly measures cannot prevail against this evil: your strikes and combinations will fail, as the woolcombers did, according to my prophecy, until every working man and woman among you is reduced to starvation. Is this God’s order?’
