World From Rough Stones

by Malcolm Macdonald

  Metcalfe called Burroughs and Hope up for a conference. They decided to give it fifteen minutes more and then let half of each picket go off for half an hour of refreshment.

  "This is quite extraordinary," Findlater complained.

  "Does he think," Fox added, "that if he ignores you, you'll go away?"

  Metcalfe gave a short, bitter laugh. "Oh—he's no man's fool, Lord John. Just look at our pickets. They're not the men they were at seven this morning. Nothing's worse than being ignored."

  "You told us what your grievance is," Findlater said. "But you didn't say what sort of an employer he is."

  Again came that short, bitter laugh. "It may sound…funny, you know, like, for me to be saying this. He's not been master here for more than…what? Three month. Until then he was a navvy ganger."

  Fox cleared his throat and nodded knowingly. "They're the worst. These lower-deck commissions. Tartars."

  "On the contrary," Metcalfe said, "you couldn't work for a better man. And it's me who says it. I've said it to his face. I said: 'This fight's not you against me. It's the working classes against the ancient regime and privilege!'"

  "That is put so exactly!" Fox said, wanting to make up for his earlier error.

  Findlater looked speculatively at Metcalfe, as if discovering depths he had not suspected. "What…first stirred you to the cause of unionism?" he asked. "Your struggle here is more than just wages I feel."

  "Our struggle here is about the right and dignity of the working man," Metcalfe agreed. "As to what first moved me that way, I can't say. I've often wondered. Often and often. Trying to think back to that moment when… the first moment when that…that rage heaped up in me." His eyes raked over the snowswept hills around, as if they held the secret. "I think it was in the village where I was born. Whitchurch in Hampshire—do any of you gentlemen know it?"

  All shook their heads.

  "My father was stockman there to the Earl of Portsmouth at Hurstbourne Park. It was a Sunday and we children had gone out of the church while the confirmed people stayed on to take communion. For some reason—on account of the heat, I suppose—they had left the door open. And I crept back alone to watch. I shall never forget that. I saw my father and the other labourers wait their turn while the peerage and gentry and the village worthies swigged and guzzled the blood and body of One who in life would have stood there, lower even than the labourers. That had its effect on me. A very powerful effect. My anger…I think it grew me up. My father had been as a god to me until I saw him there, taking part in his own humiliation—aiding and abetting it. But it wasn't his fault. It's what the working classes are taught from birth—to aid and abet their own humiliation." He looked at his small dispirited army, and said with little heat: "Aye. It's a holy war for me!"

  For a while no one spoke. Hope and Burroughs looked at him with a kind of reverence. At last Findlater said: "How very humble you make me feel." His companions muttered their fervent agreement. "You see, Fox—here is the book where we must learn to read."

  "Indeed," Fox said. "The true abstract of our life and times. What of you, Brother Hope?"

  Hope had no intention of competing with Metcalfe. "Haw! T'weren't like that for me!" His strong Northumberland dialect gave his words an incongruous edge of cheerful surprise. The upward lilt at the ends of his sentences seemed to his southern—and even to his northern—hearers to turn every statement into a question.

  "Even so," Fox said. "I'm sure we'd feel privileged to hear it from you."

  "I've never heard you talk of it," Metcalfe said. Reluctantly, Hope began, "I started work as a minin' brickie in Northumberland. An' that was when the miner was gettin threepence a ton. For hewin' the coal an' stackin' it 'n all. 'N firin' 'is own shot 'n makin' 'is own fuses wi' the straw in the fields after harvest 'n all, ya know. Thrippence a ton! 'N the Duke o' Northumberland, 'oo did fu'all but sit up there on 'is fat arse all day, was gettin a farthin' a ton for every ton coal that come up oot the ground. 'N he's still gettin it 'n all! By! I says it's scandalous. If they'd count the true cost of all they have 'n what they take! One damask tablecloth costs two families starvin' for a week. A fine new carriage—an there's four wee bairns dead o' ratbites. If oor struggle makes…"

  "Here comes someone, surely," Fox interrupted. They all turned, to see Stevenson standing in the cutting, talking earnestly with Thornton.

  "That's John Stevenson," Metcalfe said. "The taller one."

  "And the other's Mr. Walter Thornton, engineer to't railway board for this tunnel," Burroughs added.

  "I'm sorry," Fox turned back to Hope. "I believe I interrupted."

  Hope, looking directly at Stevenson, now approaching them up the path between cutting and turnpike, said: "Aye. I says, if oor struggle makes it just that mite better for folks 'n their families 'n all in years to come, then we'll struggle gladly whatever the cost."

  Fox just had time to say "Well spoken!" before Stevenson arrived.

  He stopped on the turnpike edge—as if he were one of the pickets—and, scrutinizing the three visitors, turned to the leader. "Well, Metcalfe. Your 'union secretary,' I take it. See 'ow wrong I was—a thin white cleric an' I promised thee a fat white clerk!"

  Metcalfe did not rise to it. "This is the Reverend Mr. Findlater…Mr. Spencer Fox…and…" He had forgotten the name of the silent third man, who stepped forward to introduce himself.

  "Mc…Mc…Mc…" he tried.

  "McLeish?" Stevenson asked. "Stuart McLeish? The Chartist?"

  "…Leish!" McLeish exploded.

  Understanding appeared to dawn on Stevenson's face as he looked again at the group. "Mr. Spencer Fox, attorney and Chartist. Reverend Thomas Findlater, Methodist and Chartist. Chartists all." He smiled.

  "You're well-informed, sir," Findlater said. They crossed the road to join him among the pickets.

  Stevenson turned to Metcalfe. "A minister, an attorney, and a gentleman! You're prepared for all chances."

  "They've come of their own will," Metcalfe said.

  "I wonder how they'll go!"

  "We'll g…g…go when j…j…justice is d…is d…" McLeish interjected.

  "Then ye've a long wait. There'll be no justice done here this day," Stevenson said. "I've warned him of that." He nodded toward Metcalfe. "He chose to enter against me after I told him. Now it's his affair."

  "So!" Fox said triumphantly. "You already admit injustice will be done here today!"

  "Not the least bit," Stevenson said to him calmly. "These bricklayers are fighting their employer for the mastery of this working. It's a fight they have no possible method of winning. They are bound to lose. How they lose is not of our choosing. Chance will determine it. And whether justice enters the matter in any way is also a chance determination."

  Metcalfe, controlling his anger, but only just, leaped in. "That's not what this struggle is about…"

  "Ye're trespassin', gentlemen," Stevenson told the two who were standing on the grass. His words cut across Metcalfe's flow.

  The two joined McLeish on the turnpike and turned back to face Stevenson and the pickets. Stevenson continued. "There's no right to loiter on a turnpike. I'll get them to remove ye if ye stop there." Findlater looked at the field on the far side of the road. "I know the farmer," Stevenson said, anticipating his movement.

  "As I said," Metcalfe's voice came from behind, "your union's all around us!"

  Fox now spoke: "Will you kindly point out to us the nearest common land."

  "Aye," Stevenson said with all the kindly good nature of a man directing a stranger. "They'd have a problem trying to turn ye off the old packhorse trail up there." He pointed up the hill and then directed their eyes down the turnpike toward the north. "And yon bridge, Deanroyd Bridge, is part of the former highway. Ye might stand there I dare say."

  Findlater skipped backward across the road, looking at both pickets as he did so. "Brothers!" he called. "Can ye hear me?"

  "Aye," came the response from the two groups of men. />
  Thornton nudged Stevenson. "Got to stop this." But Stevenson merely shook his head, implying that they should wait.

  "Brothers!" Findlater shouted in his grandest, field-meeting voice. "We are deeply sorry but we have no course other than to withdraw a short distance. But—anticipating some such turn of events, we have come prepared." He darted a hand inside his coat and drew forth a ship's spyglass. "See! Be assured—we shall be watching your and their every move through this from the bridge yonder. Remember only this: Offer no violence or obstruction and do not let them entice you from our view!"

  "What's all this?" Stevenson asked him. "Your view? What's this spyglass for?"

  "Witnesses, sir," Fox answered triumphantly. "We are witnesses. We are here in that capacity."

  Stevenson looked at him narrowly. "Ye mean—ye'll make no speeches?"

  "In view of our purpose here," Findlater said loftily, "that would hardly be to the point."

  To Stevenson's quick mind it seemed too good to be true.

  "Ye'll take no part, no active part whatsoever, in the events, such as they are, at this working? Though unevents would be a better word."

  Fox was an elaborate parody of courtesy and patience. "That, sir, would confound our aims entirely."

  Stevenson saw his chance. He had to get Metcalfe to accept the presence of these witnesses, unquestioningly and long enough for his own purpose. He turned to the strike leader and, with a sarcastic snort, said: "God spare me such friends in my hour o' need, Tom! They come 'ere knowin' not a scrap o' what may befall ye. But one thing they 'ave already determined is they'll lift no finger to aid ye!"

  Both Findlater and Fox protested loudly that this was a most scurrilous interpretation of their purpose but Stevenson turned laughingly to them, spread wide his hands, and said: "Gentlemen! Gentlemen—ye may stay. And welcome!"

  "Stevenson!" Only Thornton's voice broke the astonished silence. "Is that wise?"

  "I think so," Stevenson answered, turning to him calmly. "There's nothing'll happen here as we s'll have to answer for." And then, before the mood could evaporate he beckoned the three back to nearer the pickets. "Gentlemen," he said, turning to Metcalfe, "I call on ye to witness. Thomas Metcalfe, as contractor on this site and your master, I require you to go at once to your appointed place of work on the Oval Shaft and so fulfill your agreement with me."

  Metcalfe answered in a ritualistic formula that had clearly been well drilled: "I have no desire other than to work. And so I will when our terms are met."

  Had Fox drilled them in this phrase? Stevenson wondered. He'd had most of the morning to do it in. If so, had Fox anticipated the full ritual? "Ye wanted three and six a day and ye got it. Terms are met," he said.

  Metcalfe licked his lips and looked nervously at Fox. That was it then! "Not… in an acceptable form," he said hesitantly.

  Stevenson now went straight into his other broadside. "Then I must further tell you I propose to put on another in your place. To avoid a breach of the peace, I require you to tell me your intention toward such a man."

  "Do not answer that!" Fox blurted out.

  Stevenson rounded on him at once, triumphantly. "Aye. I thought ye would! Witness indeed!"

  "Fox," Findlater said in annoyance, "you jeopardize our whole position."

  Stevenson again addressed Metcalfe. "I require you, Tom Metcalfe, to give me assurance that you will let such man or men pass without…"

  "Blacklegs!" Metcalfe exploded. "Men! They'll be no true working men."

  "To let such man or men pass without let or hinder," Stevenson, the model of patient calm, repeated.

  Metcalfe turned sideways to him and folded his arms. "That we cannot do," he said firmly.

  "That we cannot do?" Stevenson quoted with a hint of surprise. "We! Ye'll note that royal word gentlemen: We." He turned rapidly on Burroughs. "Thomas Burroughs: as contractor on this site and your master I require you to…" He repeated the whole formula, not pausing, even when Fox, who had become increasingly agitated, finally burst out again.

  "Look, Findlater," Fox said. "I can't let this happen. Metcalfe's walking into a trap. If this goes on, Stevenson's going to be able to call us as witnesses for the Crown. Against these men."

  "Surely not!"

  "Don't say it!" Metcalfe and Findlater cried together.

  Stevenson continued relentlessly with his catechism of Burroughs.

  "What've we done wrong?" Metcalfe asked urgently. "Picketing's our right."

  "Mr. Fox! What do I say, sir?" Burroughs in an agony of indecision cried out to the attorney when Stevenson pressed him.

  "You must give Mr. Stevenson the assurance he seeks," Fox said unhappily.

  "No!" Metcalfe roared. "No! No! Never! We'll never stand idly here and let blacklegs by."

  "Fourth George the Fourth, chapter ninety-five," Stevenson said.

  Fox nodded dourly.

  Metcalfe looked from Stevenson's assured, smiling face to Fox's mask of worry. "What's all that?" he asked.

  "It says ye may meet to discuss and determine your wage; but any of ye who should 'by violence, threats or intimidation, molestation, or obstruction, do, or endeavour to do'"—and here he turned to the gentlemen—"or aid, abet, or assist in doing'"—smilingly back to Metcalfe—"and there follows a list as long as a short speech by Feargus O'Connor of all the things ye may not do—such as interferin' wi' a contract between man and master—anyone as does any o' them things shall be subject to a maximum of three months wi' 'ard labour."

  "That true?" Metcalfe asked Fox.

  Fox nodded glumly.

  Stevenson, speaking over Metcalfe's head to the pickets—all of whom had now wandered up to the group—said, "In my opinion, any leader 'oo'd take 'is men into this sort o' pickle ignorant o't law is worser nor a general 'oo'd send soldiers into battle ignorant o't terrain an' country."

  "No one's interested in your bloody opinion," Hope said, but it was the only support for Metcalfe that anyone offered.

  "And what games have you been playing, Mr. Fox, attorney-at-law?" Stevenson continued. "I gave ye all the best part of the morning for them to cool off and you to talk some sense to 'em. D'ye imagine I want trouble for these men? What sort of master d'ye think me to be? If you gentlemen will go quietly back to your books and flocks now, and these men here return to their appointed tasks, I'll forget the whole thing ever happened." Fox looked uncomfortably down and stirred the snow with his boot.

  "Wait now," Metcalfe said, feeling every initiative drain away. "What was it thou said in yon list—not by violence…molestation…what was it?"

  "Violence, threats or intimidation, molestation, or obstruction," Stevenson said.

  "We'll offer no violence, no threat, we'll not intimidate or molest…what constitutes 'obstruction'?" he asked Fox.

  The attorney grew even more uncomfortable. "It is not determined," he said.

  "It means whatever the magistrate wants it to mean," Stevenson said.

  "If we don't block the way of the blacklegs? If we just…reason wi' them?"

  "That…might be considered obstruction," Fox said.

  "If we just hold up…I don't know…placards or papers or some such thing with our demands and grievances listed?"

  "That, too, might be held to be obstruction," Fox was forced to say. "It depends on the magistrate. Where are we here, Lancashire or Yorkshire?"

  "This highway's Lancashire; the railroad is Lancashire." Thornton pointed out the succession of features on the valley floor to their east. "The canal is in Yorkshire. The boundary is a little stream in between. Not visible from here."

  "Lancashire," Fox's pessimism deepened still further. "Ye'd come up in Rochdale, before Reverend Prendergast."

  "But he's a director of the railway," Metcalfe protested. "I've seen him out here inspecting these workings. He'd have to disqualify hisself."

  "It's not a railway dispute," Stevenson said.

  "Not a railway…!" Metcalfe began to shout.

&
nbsp; "It's between an independent contractor and 'is servants. Me an' thee."

  Fox, shaking his head, concluded, "If you were simply to breathe in the path of these…'blacklegs'…as you call them, I fear that Reverend Prendergast could—indeed, would—consider it obstruction."

  "If thy breath stank as bad as thy planning of this lamentable occasion," Stevenson added, "it bloody would be an' all! Can't ye see, man—it's the kind of law that forbids treason, murder, rape, arson, and breathing."

  Metcalfe looked from one to other of them in anguish. "What may the working classes do?" he asked. "Where may we turn? You say we may meet to determine a wage, yet you also say we may not lift a finger—we may not even breathe, you say—to make that determination real. We may speak to none, communicate with none. Such rights as we may have are worthless. While you may do all you wish. There is no law to harrass and imprison you!" He turned to his men. "Brothers!" he said. "If we must fight iniquity, we must fight it now. If we must smash oppression, we must smash it now! If we must cast off the yoke of our slavery, we must do it now! Now is the hour of our struggle. If we fail, if we let this chance slip by, if we surrender, having taken up the burden, we strengthen not ourselves but them. We hand them swords to wound us with, irons to brand us with, chains to bind us with. We lie down before them and ask to have our faces ground in the dust like whipped curs. We should end like those wretched souls as shuffle into the mills each morn. Without hope. Without pride. Without future. Brothers! I say to you and I say it most solemnly: Your future starts here and it starts now. Your pride in your craft…your future as craftsmen…your place—your honoured place—at the spearhead of the great working-class struggle, starts here and it starts now. And I say they shall not pass. Whatever the cost! Whatever the sacrifice!"