by Jean Stubbs
Polly curled her lip at him and answered, ‘I warn’t talking to you!’
Charlotte turned her back on him, and said as though he had not spoken, ‘Could you bring bread and cheese and ale in for the men, and tea for me, if you please, Polly? Then if you leave the back door unlocked they can let themselves in, and you can go to bed as soon as you wish.’
Polly gave Jim Ogden a significant look, and clicked the door shut behind her.
‘There you are!’ cried Ogden, aggrieved. ‘No better nor me, and treats me like dirt!’
‘She is a deal better mannered than you, Mr Ogden,’ said Charlotte coldly, for she had long since given up any effort at friendship. ‘And I’ll thank you to allow me to conduct my own household. You are a guest here, not the master.’
He looked ugly then, crying, ‘We’st wipe out masters and servants, tha knows. Then thee can get thy hands mucky, along wi’ the rest of us!’
‘Provided they can act as secretary still, that will not matter.’
No one questioned her value in the post, nor her special knowledge, and so far she had proved irreplaceable. But that did not deter him.
‘I’ve never heard of a woman secretary afore. Bloody daft idea!’
‘There is a great deal you never heard of, Mr Ogden,’ said Charlotte, like silk, ‘and therefore I would always question your judgement on such matters. Ah, here is Mr Ackroyd!’
Her heart was sore that he should find her weary and quarrelsome, that they must greet each other formally and act the parts that were expected of them. He, too, was tired and apprehensive. The Red Rose had grown beyond their wildest expectations, and almost out of their jurisdiction. They had contacts with other and similar organisations throughout Lancashire and Yorkshire, and kept in touch with London movements through Ambrose. And since Jim Ogden had joined them they had corresponded with the highly secret union of weavers, which stretched from London to Nottingham and from Manchester to Carlisle. Ogden, as the expert at insurrection, was always pushing the society to act more forcibly. Sam Mellor, representing the valley’s coal-miners, a man as truculent as the weaver, was usually opposed to him. Their hatred was mutual, and Mellor as a local man resented Ogden as an outsider. Then there were half a dozen or so representatives of various artisan trades: a baker, a shoemaker, a chandler, a carpenter, two printers. And finally the founders of the society: Jack Ackroyd the president and chairman, Charlotte as general amanuensis and pamphleteer, her two assistants Alfred Horsefield and Edwin Fletcher from the grammar school staff, Dr Wilkins from the Millbridge Hospital, and Jeremy Birtwhistle from Hurst’s solicitor’s office as treasurer.
The others arrived in ones and twos, most having come on from their own classes along the valley. Each of them espoused a particular cause, aired a special grievance, brought personal problems and questions from his own group. Wrongs had multiplied and accumulated over the past years until Charlotte felt as though she were being pressed into the ground by injustice. And whatever they did, and they never ceased trying, matters seemed to get worse rather than better. Each petition was shelved, evaded or rejected by the authorities. Each strike quelled more harshly, punished more severely. Piece by piece, the laws, which had since the time of Queen Elizabeth prevented masters from exploiting workers, were dismantled. The long struggle with France, resumed eight years ago, seemed as though it would never end. In answer to Britain blockading Napoleon, America had banned British trade and hit the cotton industry. Prices climbed, wages froze or were reduced. Finally, even the weather declared war upon them again, as it had done in the bitter winters of the nineties, and harvests failed.
‘Not a very agreeable night, Mrs Longe,’ said Jeremy Birtwhistle, very agreeably, as she mended the fire.
‘It’s a damned sight worse if you’ve got no coal!’ Ogden remarked.
‘Shall we sit down, friends?’ Charlotte asked, taking her seat at the foot of the long table, with an assistant each side of her.
Jack sat at the head of the company. Ogden was on his right hand and Sam Mellor on his left. The others ranged themselves on either side, as they felt inclined, and Jack ran his hand through his hair and surveyed the paper before him. He was grey now, in the middle fifties, his face strongly lined. Thirteen years with Charlotte had softened his angularity, channelled his emotions, strengthened his purpose. Nowadays he held his tongue and thought before he spoke. He had learned to bank his fires and was more powerful in consequence, but they flared forth on occasion. He was in command, and Charlotte stood with him. Between them, even now when their energies and spirits were low, was the living bond. So she merely glanced at him, he raised his eyebrows, and each of them knew that the evening was going to prove rough.
‘Since this is a special meeting, called on behalf of Jim Ogden who acted as our delegate recently at Manchester,’ Jack began, ‘we’ll ask him to state his case, and then put it to discussion straightway. Pass the ale, Matt, and a slice of bread and cheese, will you? I’ve had naught to eat since dinner. We are ready when you are, Jim.’
Ogden stood up, planting his hands on the table, smiling aggressively at them all, as though he had found a nest of vipers instead of an assembly of friends. He cultivated the poor man’s image, as the French revolutionaries had done, glorying in his lack of polish. Unlike Jack, who did not notice appearances and manners, Jim Ogden saw and deliberately flouted them. He began by blaming everybody.
‘I told you when I come here from Manchester, above three year ago, and I’ve told you many a time since, that I’m fighting for the weavers and I don’t give a bugger for the rest … So don’t expect a lot of fancy talk wi’ nowt behind it. I’m telling you now, once and for all, that there are close on half a million hand-loom weavers in this country as is facing destitution. Destitution!’ And he hammered both fists on the table for emphasis. ‘The price of wheat is already above a hundred shillings a quarter, and likely to reach a hundred and fifty by the summer. And while a weaver could reckon to make twenty shillings a week a few years since, he’d be lucky to get eight now. How do you feed a family on that?’
‘State your case, Jim,’ said Jack Ackroyd patiently. ‘We know the facts and figures as well as you do.’
‘Right! I’ll state it bloody now. The weavers in this valley and elsewhere is fed up wi’ signing petitions and stealing a sack of potatoes here, or a sack of flour there, to keep theirselves alive. And I’m fed up wi’ this society being run by a lot of educated folk as has never gone clemmed and famished in their born days. We’ve decided to stop asking and start taking. If the manufacturers won’t play fair wi’ us then we’ll make them smart. We’ll hit them where it hurts most. We want marches and riots, and notes that puts the fear of God into them. Burn the bloody mills down, we say! And to hell wi’ arsing about like you lot have done for the past twelve year. If you don’t like that you know what you can do wi’ it!’
Immediately the committee all began to talk at once, some directly to Jim Ogden in rebuke, some to each other, and none to any purpose. Charlotte held her tongue with difficulty, watching the struggle on Jack’s face. Ogden had aimed for his belly reaction, but the headmaster was a thinking man. Finally he rapped the table for silence.
‘Each member shall have his — or her — say, and then we shall put the matter to vote. But at the moment we are all a little too heated to come to any reasonable conclusion!’ He turned to Ogden, who was slyly grinning to himself, like a dog who has fetched back a stick. ‘I’ll summarise your points, my friend, while we are thinking, and add a note or two of my own.
‘There is more to the question of hand-loom weavers than you have stated. And it pertains to their way of life and their future, and was predicted by me — to them — when we burned down the first spinning-mill at Thornley, some thirty years ago. The mills are here to stay, and the power-loom is master. This is the age of machine-working not of handcrafting. However we help the weavers, whatever temporary reprieve they are granted, they are a doomed industry. So the
re is no question of breaking through some barrier, as you appear to suggest, and coming out the other side. The hand-loom weaver is finished as a moneymaking worker.’
‘Not if we act instead of talking!’ Ogden shouted. ‘Break the bloody power-looms! Burn the bloody mills down!’
‘Wait until I have finished,’ Jack cried, and the edge in his voice silenced the weaver. ‘The reason that the Red Rose still exists is because we have not openly provoked the authorities. I regret that you despise our education, for we should like everyone to be educated, and our ideals are the same as yours. But until we founded this society there was no organisation of workers in the valley. For the first time in the history of Wyndendale, working men and women have someone to whom they can complain, who will show them their rights, give them free schooling in a limited fashion, set up petitions and distribute political pamphlets. If we advocate violence we come out in the open, once and for all. The penalties risked will be extreme — and you have first-hand knowledge of how the Manchester Assizes deal with offenders! Wyndendale will be under martial law. We shall be hunted out and hunted down. And for what?
‘Afterwards, the weavers will continue to starve, the government to ignore their condition, the manufacturers to prosper. And what might be called the weavers’ only benefit society will have been wiped out.’
A murmur of approval made Jim Ogden look sullen, but his tongue was always ready to rebuke.
‘Benefit society!’ he jeered. ‘Aye, that’s about the long and short of it! A bowl of soup for the poor to keep them quiet and keep them under. Well, Mr Jack Straw Ackroyd, if you won’t help us we’ll break away. We’ll have us own revolution. The Luddites have been breaking frames in Nottingham since March, drilling and arming theirselves, and if you want to see organisation you have a look in that direction! They can’t hold them. Bloody troops, bloody magistrates, bloody nobody can’t find them nor hold them. Masked and disguised. Working at night. And shall I tell you why the bloody government can’t catch them? Because of the solidarity! Folk is solid behind them because they know summat’s getting done. That’s why. And if you wasn’t feared of getting your feet wet you’d do the same for this valley. Nowt but a bloody laughing-stock you are! All piss and wind!’
‘By Christ, Mr Ackroyd, but I’ve had enough,’ roared Sam Mellor. ‘Being spat on by a tuppenny foreigner that’s all mouth! I’d fetch a pick-axe to thee — ’
‘Sam!’ cried Jack, in the voice which could still a grammar school assembly. ‘That will do. I said we should state our views objectively, reasonably. You shall be answered, Ogden.’
‘Nay, I’m not wasting my time. You’re either for Jack Straw or Ned Ludd! Let me know which, and I don’t give a bugger either road. I’m oft.’
And with that he snatched up his battered hat, pulled his jacket together against the cold, and departed into the dark. They sat smarting with defeat.
Then Matt Redfern said, clearing his throat apologetically, ‘He used language as shouldn’t be used afore a lady, and I’d like to say we’re sorry about that, Mrs Longe.’
‘It does not matter, Mr Redfern,’ she replied. ‘I do not listen to the language, but to what he says.’
‘Mrs Longe takes the rough with the smooth, my friends,’ Jack added, humorously and easily. ‘Being the only woman on a male committee necessarily incurs certain social hazards, which will not be found in the tea-parlour. Well, what do we think of Jim Ogden’s proposals?’
‘He has a point,’ said Jeremy Birtwhistle surprisingly, for he was the mildest of men. ‘The Red Rose seems to be dragging its feet in the matter of action. We are not helping the weavers except in hand-to-mouth charity.’
‘We can’t help the weavers,’ said Hal Middleton. ‘Like Mr Ackroyd says, the weavers is finished.’
‘Aye, but how do you tell a dying brother that you’re going to leave him to die, while you save your own skin?’ asked Matt Redfern.
‘If we decided on Luddite-style action,’ said Edwin Fletcher, ‘is there any chance of our getting away with it?’
‘Only upon one count,’ said Jack. ‘If the movement grows into a national one, and fetches all the radical organisations with it. Then we should be too powerful to touch.’
‘Aye, it only took one mob at the Bastille to start off the French Revolution,’ Hal Middleton observed.
‘Mob is a word I do not care for,’ said Dr Wilkins, who usually listened most of the time, and then brought up the point which had been worrying everybody. ‘Mr Ogden was also talking about arming and drilling, and I like that even less. The thought of a crowd of untrained and angry men waving free muskets about is an anxious prospect. We stand as much chance of being shot by our own people as by the troops!’
‘Yes, those who can use a gun mostly have one,’ Alfred Horsefield remarked. ‘We should be careful of handing out weapons.’
‘I agree,’ said Jack. ‘A show of force always invites force, and too many innocent people get hurt. What do you think, Madam Secretary?’
‘I abhor the notion of mob violence, and Mr Ogden takes too narrow a view. He thinks only of the weavers, whereas we work for all. I believe we should consult with other organisations, and make sure we are in control of our own people. It is not true, as Mr Ogden seemed to suggest, that the general opinion leans towards forcible action. The Manchester centre is divided in its councils, and so are others.’
‘Aye, and Glasgow is determined to fight test cases in the courts,’ said Jack. ‘They pursue a peaceful — though no less onerous — course, and will not follow General Ludd. As he is called.’
‘Does General Ludd exist?’ asked Edwin Fletcher curiously.
‘As Jack Straw does, I dare say,’ Charlotte answered, smiling. ‘He serves his purpose, whether man or legend.’
‘And what if the weavers are vociferous enough to start a national movement?’ Jack asked them. ‘We must accept that they have strongholds throughout the country, and in Scotland and northern Ireland. Luddism could touch them all alight. Then, whether we like their methods or no, should we hang back still?’
Some looked reluctant, others dismayed. Then Charlotte, judging her committee from past experience, gave an answer which served for all of them.
‘If we see that Luddism lays a foundation for a Radical society and political reform, we should declare ourselves for that society. But we must hold to peaceful principles, so far as we are able. Else shall we have the guillotine erected in the Strand, and thus exchange one tyranny for another.’
With this they agreed to watch, wait and hold themselves in readiness.
Charlotte and Jack lay in each other’s arms, but neither made love nor slept.
He said quietly, ‘I am too old and fearful, Lottie, to relish what is ahead of us. Five-and-fifty has not the stomach for a flight that five-and-twenty boasts. I have acquired a taste for peace and privacy. I should like nothing better, my lass, than to set up house with you at the grammar school, and later to retire together. We should do well enough, I think,’ clasping her fingers and giving them a loving shake. ‘We could read our books, and talk and write on politics. Some of my old pupils would come to visit us. And the Howarths might not mind so much. It is late in the day for all of us, Lottie. I cannot think that any would grudge us a modest happiness.’
‘I wish we could tell the truth of ourselves,’ she said with regret. ‘I remember when Willie was a little boy and my father whipped him, not for stealing one of Betty’s pies but for lying about it. And my mother said that the virtue she most admired was courage. But my father said no, it was truth. Above all else he held truthfulness to be the greatest virtue, and said it was strange that they did not include it in the seven virtues of mankind.’
‘Truthfulness requires courage, Lottie. And, in our case, so does continual deception. There is another paradox for you!’
‘But I am sick of paradox,’ she said wearily.
‘Aye, I know that, too. Well, when this last skirmish is over, we sh
all think of ourselves for a change, Lottie. Jim Ogden is not to your taste, I know, but he is the new kind of man that the Radical movement is producing. And he has a point about the society being conducted by intellectual rather than working people. Perhaps the Jim Ogdens will go one step further, do better than we can. We shall retire together, Lottie, anyway. What say you, my lass? I think sometimes what a firebrand I was, and know now that I am old-fashioned. We belong to the radical past, Lottie. Does that occur to you?’
He felt her smile against his cheek in the dark and tightened his embrace in answer.
‘Shall I tell you what I have been thinking, in the past weeks?’ she asked. ‘I have been remembering how my parents raved over Toby’s ideas and politics, and what a turbulent spirit he was in that quiet world of thirty years since. But when I look back now — poor Toby! Such a gentlemanly fellow, with his coffee-house speeches and his neat wig and laundered ruffles! How Jim Ogden would despise him! He belongs now, like us, to yesterday. And yet … ’
‘He died for his beliefs,’ Jack finished. ‘Who can do more?’
‘You are very gracious, Jack.’
‘I must have learned it of you.’
They heard the long clock in the hall chime five. Charlotte sat up and fumbled for the tinder-box to light her candle. She shivered in the icy air, and Jack reached for her shawl. Then began, stiffly, to get out of bed.
‘I must go before Polly and Sally wake up,’ he said, pulling on his stockings. ‘I have a touch of rheumatism — well, more than a touch! — in this leg.’
He was apologetic, for it does not become a lover to limp like an old man from his mistress’s side.
‘Oh, Lottie,’ he said, smiling, sighing, ‘my ambitions have shrunk to a sound night’s sleep, an honest day’s work, and peace of mind!’
‘You shall have all three when the revolution is over! Jack, why do you not try the new remedy of cod liver oil? Old Dr Standish is a great believer in it, and you know how he suffers from rheumatism!’ She was sitting up, wrapping her shawl about her. ‘But I warn you, it stinks worse than any pig!’
