by Adam Thorpe
You’ll see my gate, off to Oxford, from the saddle, right hand goin out. You’ll see her. Biggest gate I ever done. All chamfered for lightness, nice ripplin jowl, brace o’ best oak an thick as they come. Swings like the gate o’ Heaven for a infant, easy an wide an wi’ ne’er a squeal. An old Ben Bowsher hissed out some fancy wings at the forge for that one, for he knowed it were big an special. All splayed they are, an you’ll see the twirliest bit of iron ever twisted for the top o’ the catch, he were that keen. But a gate be ten hours’ work to the hour, an no messin. So where do we find them hours? Not down in the ale-house. Not here. Not a-snug wi’ my old woman neither. No. Every night, aye, an we weren’t on no spree if we weren’t a-home. No. We was in that shop, boots on the cobbles, an no splut from arn on us, acause we were a-feared, I’ll be frank, o’ that Abraham.
Aye.
He allus called me lad, right to his last breath. An me long past my sixtieth year! Aye. That were his manner. That were his way.
Aye.
I reckons as she oughta be bungin back the spile on this bugger. Air’s been at it. I’ll have another, though. Make sure she fills it slick to the top, no halves.
Thank ’ee.
I were younger then, surely. When I hangs that gate I be fit an hale, but no lad all the same. Now I be bad in the fingers I be a genneman till my dying day. Like your good self, sir. Nowt to go at, now. Aye.
Thy health, sir.
That Abraham.
Listen. He come up to us that mornin an he stands there a-straddle, an sucks at his teeth, an swipes the grass wi’ his stick, an nods summat, an he says, ‘Lads, thee’ll be comin along ship-shape there, I won’t deny it. But thee be summat gingerly wi’ that old creature of a gate. I’d expected thee to be up an away up to Manor by this hour. Thee’ll be havin sup wi’ the maids soon, at this rate.’ An one o’ the lads, a lump of a chap, he be linin up the harr agin the post, readyin it for the hammerin to true, when all on a sudden he stops stock still, an looks upperds, like a hare that’s heared summat, and stays so, while I be waitin for him wi’ my hammer hangin in the air, see, an the peewits makin a hell on a din, an the other lad stampin his boot down about the post as one ought, for a good hold, when Abraham says, ‘What be up wi’ thee, Ketchaside’ – for that were the big lad’s name, one o’ the Ketchasides from Maddle Lane – ‘what be up wi’ thee?’
Aye. I can see it all. My memory en’t be ramshackle. No.
An this Ketchaside, he stays like that, like a hare that’s sniffed summat, till I says, ‘Thomas, what thee be up to, then? I can’t be lollin about wi’ my hammer till the cows come. Hitch that old gal true an let’s be gettin up to Manor.’
I was allus behind the master, then.
An the other lad stops his stampin, an we all looks at young Ketchaside, an Abraham bein summat discomfited, like, turns to us an he says, ‘What be up with the old boy? He en’t goin soft in brain-pan, belike?’
An Ketchaside turns slow, see, an he lets go o’ the gate so as it near drops down on my boots, crashin down like, an he says, mortal slow, ‘Master, methinks I sees an angel up there.’ An Abraham, bein a church-goer, whips his head up an eyes the sky like it were rainin angels, though it be still green wi’ dawn, see, an there be I thinkin as how he’d give Ketchaside a good hidin for his cheek – for I knowed Thomas afore, an he’d allus been a original, a rascally kind o’ tongue to him – but no, old Abraham acts all gullible like, wi’ eyes upperds, but only the peewits be circlin an swoopin, hell on a din, so he looks agin at Ketchaside, half-suspicious like, an says, ‘What angel, lad?’
An Ketchaside acts right up, don’t he, an spreads his arms like this, an flaps ’em up an down, an says, ‘She were mortal big, an all golden, an smiles at I wi’ wings wi’ a touch o’ silver, like they be rimed wi’ mornin, master.’
An he plays it up so surely, as Abraham coughs, an spits, an wipes his mouth, an looks upperds agin, agin at Thomas, then at me, an the other boy, an says, ‘We’d best be on our knees, then, lads.’ An so we all sinks down about the gate, as be a-spraddle on the grass, an offers up our thanks to the Lord, an I be awmost bust from gigglin at the rig, as got the right side o’ old Abraham, make no mistake. An he crosses hisself till I thought he’d wrick his wrist, old Abraham.
But we gets to it straight ater, for sure. An stays that night at the Manor, hammerin till eleven, for the Squire be in Bath that week.
That were a ripper, certain sure.
But the next lot were better. This be a deep un. That Sunday, I meets the two lads by luck, like, a-lollin agin the bridge, Bottom Bridge, past Barr’s farm, an we walks up Chalky Lane to’ards Plumm Farm, an out atop Ewe Drop Hill, an anigh the Folly Clump, an that daft hut of her Ladybitch’s, they call a hermitage, as weren’t ramshackle then as ’tis now, an were lived in by Old Surley, as was in the military, an had a head as was agoggle from the wars, see, but she thought him parfit, an a-dressed him in a long white gown, like out o’ the Scriptures – daft, weren’t it? – an out on the ridge by hatch gate we sat us down on a tuffut, an said as we were jus about slick up to here wi’ old Abraham’s ways, an kepin us to eleven for the last week, an no sign o’ let-up, see.
Now I were summat older nor these two lads. My old woman was allus sayin to me as how I were a slow-worm wi’ old Abraham, an didn’t say as I ought to him, but bein past thretty it weren’t so easy for I to find work else, see, an like I’ve said I weren’t no master, though I could do any joinery you axt of I, an no mistake, but it weren’t like Abraham’s, it weren’t toppermost. No.
I’d bin wi’n for past twenty year by ’75, when this went on as I be tellin. An all that time Abraham had never not a snick o’ praise for owt I done. Not even for them two scrolls, as I cut for Squire. No. He were mortal near wi’ his admiration. He were allus larnin I, right to the last day. That be as how he seed it, by my reckonin. Aye. An I knowed as how I weren’t no lean o’ the trade, but no fat jobber neither, but summat betwixt the two – on account, as I sees it, of my hands, bein as they are summat dubby, though I allus had the strength, see, in my arms. I could snap a lop a-two the width o’ thy thigh, make no mistake. But I never had the touch that he had. An he knowed that, see, to be sure.
Aye.
I will an all.
Thank ’ee.
My old woman, she was onto me, see. As how I never spoke my mind. I was allus behind the master. I felt tart about it some time, his bally-raggin, aye. But I never spoke my mind. Never.
He got my bristles up once or twice, I can tell thee, surely. Aye. That he did.
Heh.
Dead an gone now, all on ’em. Dern it, I never spoke my mind to him. Aye. Now I’ve had a drop o’ two, I don’t mind tellin. This en’t a grizzle, though. This en’t a grizzle. You be a genneman, listenin so long. I be planin through to the heart, make no mistake. Pure oak, this tale. It be a ripper. Don’t you go now. Don’t you go. You be a-lush as you fancy, you don’t have far to rise, up them stairs. Stay wi’ me an drain that cask to the grouts, an you won’t hear no codger’s grizzle out o’ me. No. I tells you, there be one or two wenches here as I know ud fancy talkin to a genneman like you, sir. They be a-rampin for a genneman the likes o’ you, make no mistake. Fine good clean country wenches, aye. An young an lissom, as ud fancy wrestlin wi’ the likes o’ you, sir. I knows all about them as be rampin ater decent strangers like you, sir. Hear me out an I’ll tell ’em as you be game, sir, to have thy room warmed by a simple wench. Aye.
Make no mistake. You don’t want to touch them as be in here. No. They be dampen straw in here. These’d not douse a candle.
Aye.
Heh heh.
See she, like a drownded rat, agin the cask? She ud do it wi’ a pig if he paid her. In an out more times nor a nag shot out o’ the shafts. Bin whipped at the cart’s tail, that un, for thievin wine. Years ago, now. Didn’t make her aright, though. Be thievin men from their wives, now. The worsest kind o’ men, mind. The worsest kind. Aye. She be lookin ou
r way now. Cotched her one while past, out in the orchut, up to her anticks. Thought it were two lads a picky-back, till I saw it straight. Years ago now. Aye.
I’ll bet them ladies as rides up to the Hall, from Lunnen an abouts, I’ll bet their limbs be white an smooth as chestnut. Aye. I’ll bet.
Aye.
This gettin to be a rigmarole afore I’ve finished. Abraham allus said I lacked summat. It were allus my thoughts doin the meddlin. I never had his dedication, not to the work in hand. I were allus stuck for that. Mind, I could strip them oaks out their bark quicker nor he, at strippin-time. They’d mount up in the tan-yard thick as the ale-house on pay-night, certain sure. I were out an out the best o’ the boys at strippin.
Aye. That I were, certain sure.
He couldn’t deny me that.
I don’t recall as who first thought on it. Belike it weren’t I, but Ketchaside. Out on that down, past Ewe Drop. It were a slappin piece o’ mischuf, whoever thought on it. The other boy, name o’ Sheppard, he were a mite slippy about it, an wanted nowt to do on it, but when we telled him it were to stop our work bein so tardy, like, he come round to us soon enough, up there on that down. It were deep, that piece o’ mischuf. Heh heh.
Poor old Sheppard, the lad thought as how he’d end up at the cart’s tail, or worse, transportashin, for goin agin Abraham. It were awmost worth transportashin, the way I seed, it. It were deep, an all. Aye.
Heh heh.
Lay the dust in that throat an listen to this. There be a tree, a gurt fine oak, haafway atween Stiff’s place an here. It be right agin the road, an all splashed white in the wet, an good’n thick in the leaf, so as thee can hide up there an narn don’t ever sees thee. You can be a right King Charlie up there in that oak. Belike it were the same one as he used. I dunno. Anyways, early next mornin, bein back on the job, like, we comes to the tree, on the way to Stiff’s, an shins up it, an sits in all them branches, hearts a pit-a-pat, an we watches the old sun do his bit, an we giggles, an gets sittin easy, like, on them gurt branches, an minds what we’ve to do, that we’ve gone over yeserday, an sits tight, waitin.
For Abraham, see.
Now I weren’t a lad, but I feeled like one up there in that oak. I used to get pleasure from climbin trees as a lad, if you gets my meanin. I were allus shinnin up an down, as a nipper, an wonderin why I were gettin damp in the britches, like, an it so pleasin. An this, I’ll be honest, were the same kind o’ pleasure, this piece o’ mischuf. I were in great spout, up there in that oak, waitin for Abraham Webb.
For I had the deepest voice, like. It were I as had the job in hand. My heart was a pit-a-pat, I can tell thee, waitin.
Aye. I be dry, thinkin on it. Fill her up.
You’ll recall what it be like, up a tree. Thee be king, up there. Thee be master. All spread pokey aneath ’ee, an thee gurt proud, an tall, up there in them branches. Like the old tree be spreadin through thee, growin up through thee, king o’ the world, master o’ the fields, up there in that tree. Aye. Thee be God, up there.
God.
Aye.
For thee be the one a-rustlin now, with thy gurt proud limbs o’ pure oak!
Aye.
A-comin to it. I’ll find thee a wench, don’t fret. Plenty o’ time for that. A clean squishy wench. Give me a spell more an I’ll seek one out wi’out a splotch on her. Let I finish.
Gin-trap, see. That be what it were. Gin-trap for master. To be struck by he. Narn else.
So he comes, don’t he? – bang on church strikin six he comes over the brow, on his way to Stiff’s, checkin up on us. An I cups my hands about my mouth all ready, see, like this, big dubby hands about my mouth, an I sits bolt up, an the other two anigh me sits stock as a hare, an stops their breathin they be so still, an lo behold Abraham’s step be comin nearer an nearer, his boots a-clippin them flints like old Bowsher in his forge, see, an my heart be hammerin louder an louder, an all three on us creamy-faced an a-muck with fear, but stock still up that gurt tree like three dead men, only our hearts a-goin, an lo behold Abraham be under us wi’ the top of his head an I hears the whistlin through his nose an smells his sweetness an through them leaves I sees him an I sings out, like, I don’t blare I sings out, like:
‘A-bra-ham …!’
Jus like that, see. Heh.
‘A-bra-ham …!’
Heh.
And he stops bang in his tracks, an he looks up, an I thinks I be for a whippin or worse, I feels so a-feared, but astead o’ that I hears him say,
‘Yea, my Lord?’
Wi’ such a gingerly look on his face I well nigh bust out laughin. For I knew I had done him, then.
It were like the squawk of a hare when the trap strikes. It were tip-top.
Aye.
An then I says, all sing-song like, but mortal strong an more bellockin it out this time:
‘If thee keepest thy lads at work till eleven,
Thee shalt not enter the kingdom of Heaven!’
An then the two old boys, they gives out a great sigh, like as if God were closin off into the clouds, out of the mortal world full of sin, into His Kingdom, leavin old Abraham starin upperds, up at the sky, as though he have a-had a big crack a-top o’ the head.
An he says, all quiet, but wi’ a mouth big as a saw-pit:
‘Dang un.’
Then he comes to it, like, as though he be on a sudden doushed in cold water, an gets down on his knees, an claps his two hands into one, an makes a gugglin noise out o’ his throat, an coughs, an starin upperds he says:
‘Lord, dost thou forgive me?’
Aye. An we were quiet as the grave. I tells thee. Sir.
An when he gets up an walks all gawky, like, off, as we thought it, to Stiff’s, lookin up now an agin, a mite a-feared, it seemed, o’ them old clouds o’ early mornin openin wi’ a big voice agin, we shins down an runs like the Devil be ater our souls the crow-way across the down to Mapleash Farm – for the road way do a dog-leg, don’t it? – an old Abraham, well, we be hid from him by that hedge as were jus about tall enough by then, though it be a mite thicker now, an by the brush as were north o’ the road them days.
So we gets a-pantin to Stiff’s afore he do, an gets to on the browsins in the cow-stalls, as we were hammerin up afresh, an tryin to clap our mouths up, we were that gleeful, but there be no Abraham that mornin. An we gets over to the Manor an lays the last three steps, an fixes the ballusters, for the Squire’s ascension, like, but no Abraham. An we be a mite worrited now, an when it be time we gets over to the shop, a snick glum-faced, for we be reckonin as how Abraham might’ve spied us, an be workin his revenge, when eight strikes on the church, an in walks he. An he looks at all on us, an we looks at him as innocent as milk, like, an he says, like the words were skrunged together, an he were puilin ’em a-two wi’ his lips:
‘Put thy work away, lads. Put thy work away.’
An that be all he says. But spot on eight each day, till the day he kecked his last a-bed, he’d say the same.
‘Put thy work away, lads. Put thy work away.’
Like he was a-feared we mightn’t, see.
Aye.
A-feared we mightn’t.
Heh heh.
That Abraham.
7
Deposition
1830
I DON’T KNOW who they were against the ricks. The lanthorn was doused by one of them. There was a great press of the men in the yard and one holloed ‘Never mind Harry let us set the blaze off.’ Then one I don’t know with a brown smock on set his tinderbox to the straw beneath the iron Plough and it were set alight. Then I went with the mob into the Barn & in the middle was the drum of the machine and there were four men including Alfred Dimmick & John Oadam who were breaking the said machine. I don’t know the other two men. As they were beating the machine Alfred Dimmick said to Tom Knapp who was standing a few yards from him ‘This is a hard job Tom’ – and Knapp answered ‘Never mind Ally if you are tired I am willing to take your place.’ They were smashi
ng the machine with sticks and an axe. Then I saw Farmer Stiff with a lanthorn. He threw a smart little lot of shillings to John Oadam as he came out of the Barn into the yard, very nearly two hundred. I heard Farmer Stiff say as he would mark that d—d ploughman another day (meaning the Prisoner John Oadam). Then we left the Yard by the big gate. I saw about a hundred persons by the light of the burning Plough.
Then we went to the Malt Shovel at the crossroads on the brow and had a pot of beer apiece. The men demanded of the landlord some bread & Cheese. The landlord set candles on the tables as it was not yet light but the men took the candles with them as they left. Some men staid the main of the day there but most of the mob departed at about six o’clock to press more persons. They pressed the occupants of the dwellings on the turnpike into Ulverton. Two carters came up: these carters are James Malt and Harold Tagg. They were willing to come with them on their donkeys. Some of the Mob talked with those in Withy Field & Ley Dean: the said men left their Ploughs in the stitch and joined us: about twenty in all. They carried one stick apiece that were cut from the hedgerows and two had mattocks. One of them was William Bray. He said to me ‘Hannah what beest thee doing here?’ I replied that I wd not stand aside. We came back into Ulverton to break open the blacksmiths but he (Richard Bowsher) opened it for us: we took the hammers and a sledge-hammer and crow-bars. The horn was blown before the Church and again by the main well. It was not yet light & I was unable to see many Faces I knew: I did not know whether they were willing or unwilling.
Then they went to Barrs Farm and I heard Giles Griffin demand 40s in silver from Farmer Barr for each machine broke. I heard John Oadam say to Farmer Barr that they would be having half a crown after Ladyday or the wind would get the bettermost. This was by the Ricks in the Court. It appeared to me that he meant by this as farmers would have more than their machines broke if no satisfaction in wages was to come. They were about two hundred by then. I should think they staid about twenty minutes in Barrs Farm & were given more bread. Farmer Barr brought out a lanthorn and I saw by that light Edward Pyke and James Malt and Solomon Webb who were against the Door of the Barn. They entered with Farmer Barr and he said he would be glad if they Broke his machines, for they threwed men upon the Parish. They beat and smashed his threshing Machine and chaff-Cutting machine and they drew out his iron Plough and took all of the other pieces out into the Court in a pile. I don’t know who the others were as broke the machines. I did not see the £4 given.
