The Iron Master

by Jean Stubbs

  She had browbeaten Tom to drive her into Millbridge to visit Charlotte, and come home white and shaken from the ordeal. She had taken William’s refusal to let her attend the Lancaster trial very badly, sending Tom back into Millbridge to book a seat upon the mail-coach, and weeping all afternoon when there was not one to be had. Whereupon Nellie wound her shawl round her head and shoulders and hurried to the Hall, to convince William and Zelah that Dorcas was prepared to walk to Lancaster and sleep out of doors sooner than give up the idea of going.

  ‘Then thee must take her with thee, William,’ said Zelah, understanding.

  ‘But she could die of the effort, let alone the trouble!’ he said, aghast.

  ‘I’m feared she’ll die if she stops here,’ said Nellie, crying and wiping her eyes on the corner of her shawl. ‘Best let her die the road she wants, Mr William.’

  So on the appointed day William’s coach was fetched round from the stables and packed with every comfort and delicacy. And at Bracelet Nellie and Tom helped up the indomitable Dorcas, complete with her case of home-made medicines and ointments, her Bible and prayer-book, and a small trunk of clean clothing. In sorry triumph she sat opposite her son, the ironmaster, who contemplated her with love and resignation. She soon fell asleep, and the coach rolled out of Millbridge on to the great turnpike road, and headed for the north. Its boot was filled with gifts for Charlotte from Kingswood Hall, Thornton House and Kit’s Hill. A traitor Charlotte might be in the eyes of the world, but to the Howarths she was still one of them, and the family closed ranks to protect her.

  William and Dorcas made the sixty-mile journey in easy stages. She slept much and spoke little, conserving her energy for the trials ahead. But once, when they had dined and refreshed themselves at a particularly fine old hostelry, she said with a gleam of pleasure, ‘Why, we have not had such an adventure together since we travelled to Birmingham!’ Then she remembered the joy of that journey and the sorrow of this one, and her little satisfaction vanished.

  A friend of William had offered them private lodgings in Church Street, where every member of the household strove to anticipate their wants and treat them with sympathetic kindness. But Dorcas sat long at her bedroom window that first night, gazing towards the ancient castle and picturing her daughter lying alone in darkness there.

  Though William’s money had provided her with all the amenities a prison could offer, prison could not be disguised. There was a dank odour in the cell which clung to Charlotte’s clothes, tainted her flesh, pervaded the air, and it caused her lawyer to keep a scented handkerchief in his hand, and hold it now and again to his nose. Mr Pacey was a shrewd and agreeable fellow who would go far in his profession. He treated Charlotte with the courtesy due to a lady who has a rich and generous brother, but he was coming close to exasperation with the prisoner herself.

  ‘Will you please to understand, madam, that you are confusing the issue with abstract notions of truth and justice,’ he urged, ‘and are like to lose your life if you insist upon this course! Pray let me plead for your gentle upbringing and gentler sex,’ and here he cleared his throat and spoke in a mellifluous voice. ‘A good wife is her husband’s mirror, madam, reflecting his thoughts and moods, his aspirations and beliefs. She is an echo of. his own ambition, his closest companion, his most trusted counsellor. Should we blame her, therefore, if her womanly tenderness is turned into channels she would not have followed, left to herself? If that charity for the unfortunate, so amiably displayed by other female members of her family, should become in her an abiding obsession? If, in a word, she were misled, should we hang her for it?’

  He paused, head upon one side, bird-like in his contemplation of an invisible judge. His voice deepened.

  ‘In every other respect, Mrs Longe, you have been exemplary. A devoted daughter, a loving mother, a loyal friend. I believe you to have been carried away by your own virtues. It is your virtues that shall plead for you, and the weakness — the natural weakness — of your sex!’

  He became practical and brisk.

  ‘Now, madam, Mr Ackroyd is quite properly pleading guilty and will take full responsibility for this Jack Straw business. I have spoke with him, and he is anxious to give you every advantage. He will modify his evidence so that the length of time you were together and your knowledge as to the complete workings of this secret society are somewhat smoothed over. You will seem more sinned against than sinning. If we present your case in the way I suggest, and throw ourselves upon the mercy of the court, I think we may be reasonably sure of a light sentence.’

  She sat, hands manacled, head bent. She looked unutterably weary, possessed by a sadness which diminished her to a small grey woman on a hard chair.

  ‘Will you consider these things carefully, Mrs Longe?’ he asked.

  Charlotte said quietly, ‘Sir, I shall consider nothing but speaking the truth as I know it, and leaving my case to be decided as justice perceives it.’

  Mr Pacey allowed himself a sigh of frustration. Charlotte lifted her head and regarded him with considerable irony.

  ‘I do not wish Mr Ackroyd to distort his evidence, nor you to distort my character, sir, in the manner you have described to me. You may see it as a chivalrous gesture on your part, but I find it to be a vile calumny. I shall refute it utterly. Dear God, that you should make such a poor fool out of me! Why, how should I live after, having denied the very principles by which I lived at all?’

  He said, as persuasively as he could, ‘Then, madam, will you remain silent while I speak for you?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Charlotte. ‘I shall not.’

  The interview seemed to have given her strength, for her voice now sounded resonant and she sat more upright. Mr Pacey shook his head, and bade her good-day.

  But to William he said, ‘Sir, your sister is too human to have the makings of a saint, but she may well become a martyr!’

  ‘Then what do you propose, sir? For I expect you to do something for her.’

  Mr Pacey judged his man accurately.

  ‘Well, sir, we may roughly divide the trials into five sections. (Though I beg you to consider this as a reasonable guess rather than a definitive promise!) There are those whom they will hang: the male leaders of Jack Straw and Ned Ludd. They will be heard the first day. Then there are those who will be hanged or transported for life: such as used violence, are of poor character, or were seen to be in the thick of the trouble. That is the second day. On the third day there will be a mixture of good-hearted fools, and these will be sentenced to some years of transportation or imprisonment. The fourth day will see some imprisoned, and some pardoned. We shall save Mrs Longe to the last. She is the only woman, and for such a strong-minded woman she seems uncommonly gentle. If we could silence that articulate tongue, sir, meaning no offence, we might get her off entirely! However, she will appear when justice has been done and all are weary, and they wish to be merciful and go home again.

  ‘I suggest, sir, that we leave her character to her witnesses: her personal maids, a friend or two, who will paint the picture we want. Then I shall say what she will allow me to say on her behalf, and hope she will not spoil my impression. And we shall be careful to keep away from dangerous ground as far as possible.’

  ‘That does not sound much,’ said William slowly, ‘and there is much at stake!’

  ‘It is all she will let me do, sir. If you can persuade her differently then pray do so!’

  The newspapers were less charitable to Charlotte. The fact of her being the only woman on the committee gave rise to gross speculation as to her morals and intentions. Cartoons depicted her dressed as a French revolutionary, knitting at the foot of the guillotine, while heads flew into the air labelled, ‘Democracy!’ ‘Freedom!’ King!’ ‘Country!’ ‘Church!’ and suchlike emotive words. In London, her past as a writer for the Radical press, her friendship with Mary Wollstonecraft, her marriage to Toby Longe were all dredged up and furbished to fit the present image. Stories circulated which peo
ple loved to read, and her family would have loved to deny, and grains of truth swelled up into full wheat-stalks of falsehood. The Tory press denounced her entirely.

  In Wiltshire, the Jarvis Poles endured anonymous letters, knowing looks, and explicable coldness. They also discovered their true friends, and the strength which lies at the heart of a united family.

  In London, Ambrose Longe and all those who belonged to a Radical press began to hammer home the opposite point of view.

  The Wyndendale Post and its chief influence, Lord Kersall, had been neatly gored by a dilemma. Were they to be vindictive about the Red Rose Society they would increase the number of questions as to why it had gone on so long, and thereby hurt the valley’s reputation. For was not the headmaster of its boasted and respected grammar school the leader of this society? Was not Charlotte sister to one of its richest and most powerful industrial magnates? Were there not a number of highly respected citizens on its committee? And yet, if they did not rant and rage and call upon heaven to witness their horror, would it not seem that they condoned these rebels? So they compromised: playing down the Red Rose Society and venting their spleen upon the weavers and Luddites.

  ‘You will, of course, naturally deny that there was any immorality on your part, should the prosecution — most unfairly — take the attitude of the popular press, Mrs Longe?’ said Mr Pacey in some anxiety.

  ‘I shall certainly deny the general charge of immorality,’ Charlotte replied. ‘But if they specifically mention Mr Ackroyd I must witness to the heart’s affection, sir.’

  He would have liked to have hidden his face in his hands for a moment.

  ‘With regard to other libels,’ he said carefully. ‘You would deny you were an atheist, for instance, I hope, madam?’

  ‘I am not an atheist for I believe in God, and in the merciful salvation of God. But I have not been to church for a long while, so I dare say they would read that as being the mark of an unbeliever.’

  ‘How would you read it, madam?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘That the preacher at my church was a hypocrite, and the members of the congregation more so, sir.’

  She was, he saw with terror, improving in her spirits: more than capable of producing the speech that would damn her to perdition.

  ‘Let us hope, Mrs Longe,’ he said without hope, ‘that these questions do not arise.’

  Dorcas visited her daily, smuggling in comforts, seeming to gather strength from the sight of Charlotte eating a fine pear and wiping her fingers on her handkerchief, or wearing a clean gown. She did not ask for details of the personal or political past, accepting that it was alien to her and would remain so. That she could love her daughter so deeply as to put aside all question of morality amazed and puzzled Dorcas. And Charlotte was humble in the face of such devotion, contriving to speak cheerfully of small things, so that great ones should not bruise it.

  Then, upon the eve of the trial, she found joy in another direction. For Ambrose arrived in Lancaster, with the sweetest and most steadfast of messages from Cicely and Jarvis and the children, and paid the jailer so handsomely that they were able to sup together. He had brought with him an artist who sketched for Ambrose’s newspaper, and while they talked over a bottle of wine the lad drew that portrait of Charlotte which is best known: chin propped upon her manacled hands, her hair a little untidy, one slipper coming away from her foot as she sits with her face turned towards her son, but having such an air of grace and brightness about her that anyone who knew Charlotte would say, ‘Ahl He has caught her admirably!’

  The jailer must have lined his purse well that evening, for Ambrose visited his former headmaster also, and carried the first private message that Jack and Charlotte had been able to exchange since they were arrested. And as the young man tactfully contrived to make a great show of opening another bottle of claret Jack read the letter twice. Then Ambrose folded it carefully, and put it back in his coat pocket, and the artist was brought in again, and executed a remarkable likeness: strong and brooding. And shook his hand, and wished him well, and left headmaster and pupil together.

  ‘Well then, my lad,’ said Jack affectionately, ‘how goes the world?’

  ‘Oh, upside-down and inside-out, as usual, sir.’

  ‘You can speak plain,’ said Jack. ‘I shall not come out of this alive, but we could save your mother — if she would let us.’

  ‘I fear not, sir,’ Ambrose replied. ‘The charitable machinations of my uncle, the ironmaster, have gone somewhat awry. I come as herald of news which will reach you officially tomorrow morning. You and my mother are to stand trial together, on the first day. Justice plans to begin, as it were, at the beginning, with Jack Straw. And to end with Jim Ogden and Ned Ludd. Thus bringing every insurrectionist into the net. They have more stomach for punishment than we had supposed … ’

  *

  The courtroom was already stuffy at eight o’clock in the morning, and many a lady would faint later on. Four judges sat in majesty, five counsel for the prosecution were ready to draw blood. The defence lawyers looked very collected. In the dock, decently separated, stood Jack Ackroyd and Charlotte Longe. Depicted in pencil by artists of the day they seem very human. He stands easily, with his hands chained behind the tails of his coat. She gracefully, with her hands chained before her. You cannot tell what age they are, except that youth has passed them by. They seem ageless, and although there is a space between them they stand together, the link is almost tangible.

  ‘ ... in that the Accused, and a great number of False Traitors whose names are yet Unknown, did secretly Form an organisation known as the Red Rose Society, later Called after its Password — Jack Straw. And over Many Years did unlawfully, viciously and seditiously Pursue … ’

  Dorcas took out her smelling-bottle and contrived to sniff it without attracting William’s attention. And though she was pleased to escape his notice she could not help thinking that Ned would never have missed that surreptitious dip into the velvet reticule. The courtroom was exceedingly noisy. Folk were walking about and eating oranges, chatting to their neighbours. A child cried and was hushed. A dog was chased out, but not before he had urinated against the door-post.

  Counsel opening the case for the prosecution rose, giving the impression that he needed no evidence whatsoever and could convict on sight. Still, he must satisfy those who did not know as much as he did about politics and people.

  He had decided to use Jack Ackroyd as a stick with which to beat social reform, and Charlotte as an example of the monstrous new woman. He would begin, he said, with the man known commonly as Jack Straw. The court would notice that he did not say gentleman, for gentility was foreign to such a person. Jack Straw had been the youngest son of a weaver, better to have remained in that station of life to which it had pleased God to call him.

  He then painted an idyllic portrait of Millbridge before the Fall, which those who had lived in lower stations would by no means have recognised as their own. He waxed eloquent upon that good but eccentric academic, Mr Henry Tucker, a gentleman who believed that by gorging the poor with education you improved them, helped them and changed them. Here he paused emphatically.

  ‘Changed them?’ he asked, upon a rising note. ‘Does a snake change when it sheds its skin? Does a change of clothes make a difference in a man’s nature? Does a smattering of grammar, or the ability to tot up a column of figures, or the acquisition of a few Latin tags alter a poor-born villain?’

  The court was very much quieter now, and the Honourable Mr Runciman dropped his voice to a purr.

  ‘Why do I say villain?’ he enquired of them poignantly. ‘Does low birth mean villainy? Not at all. There are those now tilling fields who will, in a better world than this, sit among the angels. Good men, honest men, better men than some of their masters, and poor men all. It is not of them I speak.’

  Having made sure that the country would not suffer from lack of service, he whipped round to where Jack regarded him sombrely, and pointed his finger at th
e dock.

  ‘But there stands a villain!’ he announced. ‘Was he grateful for that excellent scholar’s charity? Did he thank God upon his knees each night? Did he labour to instil a proper sense of values into his pupils? Did he endeavour to serve his King and his Country? Did he, in any way whatsoever, show the smallest gratitude towards the society which had so graciously taken this viper to its bosom?’

  Dorcas frowned slightly, and put her handkerchief to her lips. William sighed and crossed his legs. Mr Pacey smiled sarcastically. Charlotte and Jack stood in cold dignity. They had been warned to expect this, but it was more difficult to listen to than they had imagined.

  ‘NO!’ roared counsel for the prosecution, thus effectively silencing the last chatterer. ‘He did not. This creature does not believe in God!’ A gasp went round the courtroom. ‘His morals are his own. He makes his own rules. Good and evil are not decided in Heaven Above!’ His finger pointed up at the dirty ceiling. ‘They are decided by a worm who does not know the difference between them! And he does not care for social order, nor King nor Country. He would change it to something’ — here he fluttered his fingers to indicate that Jack had not quite made up his mind — ‘something more to his taste. Such as a place where honest men are robbed of the fruit of their labours, where property can be stolen or destroyed, where women and children can crouch shivering in their beds of a night, where weapons are stolen and used against one’s own friends and kin, where the Mob is King!’