by Rosie Harris
‘What if Owen dies?’
‘As long as we’ve completed our negotiations it won’t matter.’
‘It’s blackmail, and either way, once we’re rumbled they’ll make things bad for us.’
‘They’ll make it hot for us if we admit one of their lot has been injured.’
‘They must already know that… I can’t understand why they’ve not come looking for him.’
‘Because they’re afraid,’ snapped Llewellyn. ‘They’ll lie low and say nothing as long as we do the same.’
‘But why?’ frowned Prys Howell.
‘Why? Think, mun, think! They’re up against enough trouble as it is. Every mine worker in Ebbw Vale and throughout Wales and England would join the Chartists if they knew a miner had been attacked and killed by one of the owners. And that’s just what we’re going to let them believe has happened.’
Chapter 27
The rain which had threatened on and off all day came down in a blinding deluge as several thousand men, led by John Frost, assembled in the centre of Pontypool late on Sunday night.
Ever since early morning they had been gathering at mustering points throughout Ebbw Vale. Men who for years had listened passively to impassioned speeches were at last ready to act.
Kate had been astonished when she had made her way to Stack Square just after midnight, looking for Llew Lloyd, to find a crowd of some fifty or more people already there. Within half an hour the numbers had swelled to several hundred. A motley crowd of all ages, shapes and sizes. Men and young lads straight from their shifts, begrimed with coal dust, stained by iron, and smelling of sweat. Ready and eager to fight for their rights, and to overthrow the tyranny of the coalmasters and ironmasters.
They had an assortment of weapons. Those with guns and muskets were testing them out and the noise and smell of gunpowder incited the others. Impatient to be on their way, they shook off restraining hands, turning deaf ears to the entreaties of their womenfolk who were begging them to stay at home.
From the talk going on around her, Kate learned that in Dukestown, Brynmawr, Beaufort, Nantyglo and Blaina they were gathering in their hundreds, waiting for the signal from Zephaniah Williams to begin their march to Pontypool.
‘Over the other side of the valley, in Tredegar and Sirhowy, it’s the same story,’ one woman told her. ‘They’ve turned the Red Lion at Colliers Row, and the Colliers Arms in Park Row, into pike factories.’
‘The men from there are being led by Williams Evans, John Morgan and Thomas Morgan,’ said another.
‘Meeting up with John Frost at Blackwood, or so I’ve heard.’
Tongues wagged. Everyone was eager to impart their own snippet of information.
‘Rees Meredith and Dai the Tinker are leading a contingent a hundred strong from Twyn Y Star.’
‘And they’re joining up with men from Benjamin Richards’ Star Inn lodge at Sirhowy Bridge.’
‘By the time they all meet up at the Welsh Oak at Risca, there’ll be at least two thousand of them.’
‘And when they’ve joined with Frost’s forces, it’ll bring their number up to over four thousand!’
The sound of hobnail boots rang on the cobbled streets as the men of Blaenafon set off. Proudly they held aloft banners showing which benefit club or union they represented.
Full of grim determination, they ignored the rain that steadily streaked their faces and soaked their clothing and the gusts of wind that threatened to rip their banners into shreds. And they turned deaf ears to the pleas from mothers and wives, many with small children clutching at their skirts.
Boys too young and men too old or too disabled to join the march cheered the marchers on their way, inflamed and excited by the stream of light from their waving torches.
Kate clambered up into the large horse-drawn cart that brought up the rearguard. Its high sides were emblazoned with banners, giving it a bright, festive air, as though it was a haywain on a summer outing.
Hidden beneath the rough board seat she shared with Shonti Jenkins were documents and papers relating to the Chartist cause, as well as ammunition for some of the guns and muskets. A canopy had been hastily erected over the top of the cart and gave a modicum of protection from the rain.
Old Shonti was in his seventies but still indefatigable and full of fire. He sang lustily as they set off. Kate hung on grimly to the edge of her seat, afraid of losing her balance as the cart splashed through deep puddles and bumped over potholes.
The keen wind cut across her face and made her eyes water. She pulled her heavy cloak closer and found herself wondering what her grandmother would have thought about her taking part in such a wildcat expedition.
She wished now that she had plucked up courage and gone to Llwynowen. It was inconceivable to think that David, one of the gentry, would be in any way involved with the Chartists… except to oppose them. It had been foolish to give way to intuition.
He might be kindly and understanding, but his family wealth came from the black nuggets that were hewn from the earth. They had paid for him to attend university, kept him in fine clothes and provided him with money to spend at will.
She sighed, knowing she had let herself be carried away by her longing to find David. More than anything in the world she wanted to feel his arms around her, hear his deep voice gently reassuring her that he would take care of her.
It had been sheer folly to come on this march. If any of the men realized her true intent was to track down one of the hated coalmasters, expecting him to marry her, there was no knowing how they would react towards her. She’d heard some of the younger men boasting about what they would do once they met up with the Redcoats and it had frightened her.
‘Daro! We’re winners before we start. We outnumber the military by ten to one,’ they gloated.
‘If you believe that, mun, you’re a fool.’
‘Most of the military are on our side anyway and will only be putting up a token resistance.’
‘What about the others?’
‘Soon deal with them, boyo. Why d’ye think I’ve brought a pick with me!’
‘String ’em up and let ’em swing, I say.’
‘Shoot the buggers, then you know they’re dead.’
Listening to them, Kate grew increasingly apprehensive. She hoped fervently that since Shonti Jenkins would be the very last to arrive at Newport, any fighting would be over before she got there. It was all very well for these hot-blooded men to relish a set-to, and see it in terms of glory, but all she wanted was to find David.
She eased herself into a more comfortable position on the swaying cart, refusing to give up hope, still clinging to her conviction that this foray would lead her to David.
She wished that she could question some of the men who were on the march. For the most part, though, they were concerned only with their own forthcoming exploits, seeing themselves as valiant defenders of liberty and fair play.
They talked in fiery terms about their ideals, the solidarity of their union or benefit club, and how they intended to fight. Or they grumbled about their working conditions, the long hours, the gruelling conditions, the heat, the dust, the unfair treatment meted out by the managers and owners.
While she sympathized with their problems, deep in her heart Kate despised them. They allowed their wives to work down the mines, harnessed like animals to the trams at the coal face. And even while they bemoaned their poverty, and the fact that their children were starving, they flocked to the ale-house straight from work.
They complained about the scandalous wages paid to them and their families, yet many of them spent more on beer in one night than their children earned in a week. Surely they could see that if they drank less, their children need not work, she thought angrily. This was the state of affairs they should have been trying to put right, rather than being concerned about the right to vote, or to sit in Parliament.
Already the march seemed to be out of control. The singing and shouting swelled to a cr
escendo as the men trudged down the narrow valley. They made so much noise that she was sure the military in Newport could already hear them.
And all the time the procession grew larger and larger. Like some horrendous wild animal on the prowl, the column snaked through the darkness, ignoring rain and wind.
‘There’s three separate columns marching towards Newport,’ Shonti told her. ‘Jones the Watchmaker, the man who addressed us as we set out, is leading ours.’
‘John Frost’s leading one, isn’t he?’
‘He is. And Zephaniah Williams is leading the other.’
‘Are we planning to stay at Pontypool overnight, Shonti?’ she asked after they had swayed and jolted for what seemed hours.
‘Remains to be seen. Doubt it though.’ He drew hard on his pipe. ‘Press on to Risca or to Cefn, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Where is Cefn?’
‘Halfway between Risca and Newport.’
‘Do we join up with the other columns there?’
‘That’s right. Then we descend in a body on Newport either Monday or Tuesday.’
‘Do you know how they’re planning to attack?’
‘Capture the town, of course, and stop the mail coach to Cardiff from getting through.’
‘What’s the point of that?’ frowned Kate.
‘When the mail coach fails to arrive, every town and city, from Cardiff to London, will be alerted. By that time,’ he enthused, ‘we’ll control Newport. That will be the signal for two million other workers throughout England to rise up in rebellion as well. Diarch! A great day that will be in our fight for freedom.’
‘The military will never let us get as far as Newport.’
‘Daro! They’d have a job to stop us!’
‘Surely if we rest over at Risca they will either attack during the night or be waiting to waylay us when we resume our march in the morning.’
‘There’s rubbish you talk, girl,’ scoffed Shonti irritably. ‘Easy to see why no women have come on this march if they think like you. Foolish it was to let you do so, if you ask me.’
Kate bit back her angry retort. Since she might have to share the cart with Shonti for several days there was no point in getting on bad terms with him. He was an old man and a querulous one and, to her mind, if anyone would have been better left at home it was him.
‘To hear you going on you’d think there were no brains behind the movement,’ he snorted. ‘Leaders like Zephaniah Williams have been planning this rising for as long as I can remember. Long before you came to these parts, I can tell you.’ He refilled his clay pipe, shielding it from the wind with one hand as he lit up.
‘Has anyone ever told you about the time Henry Vincent met up with Crawshay Bailey in Brynmawr?’ he asked in more conciliatory tones once his pipe was going well.
‘Back in the early part of the year, around April, it happened,’ he went on without waiting for a reply. ‘This chap Henry Vincent, wonderful speaker he is. Charismatic! Goes all over the place. He’s opened up more Chartist lodges than any other man in Wales.’
‘Go on.’
‘The night I’m telling you about he’d just finished making a speech at the King Crispin pub in Boundary Street and was on his way to the Royal Oak. As he walked along the tramroad between them, Vincent met up with Crawshay Bailey.’ Shonti paused, took his pipe from his mouth and stared hard at Kate. ‘D’ye know who he is?’
‘The most powerful of all the local ironmasters?’
Shonti nodded. ‘Well, they exchanged words that were far from friendly. Crawshay Bailey told Vincent that he deserved to be thrown into the works pond. A couple of weeks later, Crawshay Bailey refused to employ any men he suspected of being Chartists and he declared the Royal Oak at Coalbrookvale out of bounds to all who worked for him. Not satisfied with that, a month later Henry Vincent, along with some others, was arrested.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He was taken off to Monmouth Gaol and imprisoned there.’
‘So what did his supporters do?’
‘Do! I’ll tell what they did. On Whit Monday thirty thousand people rallied at Blackwood to set up a petition for Henry Vincent’s release.’
‘And was he set free?’
‘Not on your life, cariad. Devils are those ironmasters. There was another rally at Coalbrookdale a couple of months later. Over ten thousand attended that. They signed a petition that was taken up to London, to Parliament itself.’
‘And was he set free then?’
‘What do you expect? It was rejected, of course. Over a million signatures!’
‘And they’ve done nothing more about it?’
‘Duw anwyl! Do you take us for fools? Of course there’s been action since then.’ Shonti sucked fiercely on his pipe. ‘Where were you, my flower, that you didn’t hear about what happened in August? People said it was the largest gathering ever known. Over forty thousand people met at Star Field in Dukestown!’
‘To sign more useless petitions?’ she asked derisively.
‘To agree that the Chartist Convention should be reconvened. Hardly a night went by after that without gatherings somewhere out on the mountains. So much fiery, spirited talk!’ he sighed.
Kate’s thoughts went back to the night she had been stranded on Coity, and a shudder went through her as she remembered the men who had met in the cave there.
‘That’s when they decided that if they were ever going to defeat the gentry they’d need to arm themselves. Clever, they were. Evan Edwards, the clockmaker in Tredegar, and James Godwin, who’s a mason at Brynmawr, turned out bullets like hot cakes. Puddlers and colliers made muskets, men working at the forges or smithies made pikes for themselves and their friends. At the Victoria Works in Ebbw Vale, John Wiles made over fifty, or so they say. They hid them carefully…’
Shonti’s voice droned on and on and despite being stiff and cold from the driving rain, Kate dozed as they travelled through the night, waking only when they halted to fortify themselves with ale and the resulting roistering made sleep impossible.
Landlords were brought from their beds by the clamour and demands of the marchers. Those who supported the Chartists opened up willingly. Anti-Chartists were pushed to one side and their pubs raided.
At half-past six on Monday morning, drenched by rain and shivering with cold, they reached the Welsh Oak at Risca and joined up with Frost’s forces.
The clamour as the men greeted old friends and comrades was ear-shattering. Every ale-house in Risca was drunk dry, the shops raided for food.
When the order came for them to form up in ranks the noise was deafening as men argued and jostled for strategic positions.
Six abreast with a gun at the end of each line, they waited for the signal to begin the final part of their march.
A loud cheer went up as John Frost gave the order. A motley band of men, five thousand strong, armed with pikes, guns, coal picks and sticks, they set off for Newport.
Chapter 28
The Chartists arrived in Newport just before nine in the morning.
There was an uneasy calm over the town. Normally on a Monday morning the place would have been alive with activity, but throughout the weekend rumour had been rife and as a result there was a general air of unrest.
Wealthier townsmen had taken the precaution of packing their families off to the safety of the countryside. Shops remained closed. Anxious townsfolk, peering from behind their shutters during the early hours of the morning, had seen special constables bringing in a trickle of prisoners and taking them into the Westgate Hotel.
At half-past eight that morning they had also witnessed Lieutenant Gray of the 45th Regiment, accompanied by Sergeant Daley, march twenty-eight young privates into the square. They had wheeled right and filed into the Westgate Hotel.
Just after nine o’clock, the tense silence was broken by shouting and cheering and the sound of men marching down Stow Hill towards the square. Six abreast they came, the men at both ends of each
row carrying firearms. They marched like an army, oblivious to the fact that their rain-drenched clothing clung like a second skin.
At their head was John Frost, once mayor of Newport and a magistrate, now the Chartist leader. He strode out boldly, his red cravat a flag of defiance.
Shonti Jenkins followed the marchers down Stow Hill and into Westgate Square. He halted his cart across the road from the Westgate Hotel and tied the horse to the wrought-iron railings that flanked the porticoed front. He filled his clay pipe and waited patiently for his next orders.
Stiff and sore from the long ride, Kate climbed down, steadying herself against the side of the cart as she stepped into the rutted roadway. The rain had stopped and a thin, watery November sun winked from between the cloud banks. She pulled her cloak closer, shivering and wondering apprehensively what would happen next.
Local people watched from the safety of their windows. A frightened-looking woman and small girl scurried across the square towards the house where the cart stood. The woman stared hostilely at Kate as she shepherded the child inside and slammed shut the heavy oak door.
More Chartist supporters continued to arrive in the already crowded square, jostling those on the periphery as they tried to form up in line.
All eyes were fixed on the entrance to the Westgate Hotel knowing that the mayor, Thomas Phillips, had set up his headquarters there.
Word spread that he’d summoned every one of the town’s five hundred special constables to the support of the local regular police force. It was also rumoured that he had demanded the assistance of more special constables from throughout the county and was awaiting their arrival before making a move.
The square was crowded almost to suffocation. Kate had never seen so many people. Their own contingent had joined the orderly ranks of Chartist supporters already drawn up facing the Westgate Hotel.
Other marchers were still pouring down Stow Hill, crowding into the square until it was packed solid with men of all ages, from brawny colliers to red-eyed puddlers, educated engineers to unschooled lads, standing shoulder to shoulder with tradesmen.
