A Strange Likeness

by Paula Marshall

  ‘Golden Boy?’ repeated Eleanor, bewildered.

  Ned laughed. ‘That’s what Gurney calls him from what he’s done in London, let alone here. The other servants have taken it up. Fits him, don’t it? What a joke, eh? Sir Beauchamp back on earth as a businessman.’

  His change of mood was rapid. ‘Oh, Eleanor, if you want him, have him. He’ll lead you a merry dance—though not with other women. But you’re energetic, too, I suppose, and can join him in his duty.’

  Well, that was the coda to his tune, thought Eleanor, as Ned rose and walked away, whistling a melancholy song. If Alan asks me, I shall certainly say yes, but, oh, he hasn’t, and now I am fearful that he never will.

  On the way to Bradford Alan thought about his last conversation with Sir Hart and Eleanor. They had both understood that he had to do his duty.

  He shook his head ruefully. Duty! The word seemed to follow him about. He rode into Bradford to find the trouble there was worse than the recent small outbreak at Thorpe’s in Brinkley. Outhwaite’s was bigger and the men were angrier. They ran a little Chartist newspaper which urged them to action. It was edited by one of the union leaders named Brough.

  Alan was an outsider and was resented for that. It was thought that he had cheated Outhwaite out of the mill, and although Outhwaite had been hard, it was said that the new owner was harder. He had stood up to Ralf, even though he had been beaten, and had been ruthless with the hands at Brinkley when they had tried to strike.

  But they were hard, too, and more was at stake at Outhwaite’s, for the men had a bargaining counter which the Brinkley hands had not possessed. Outhwaite’s, whilst not remarkably so, was reasonably prosperous and was returning a small profit. That profit, though, would disappear if wages were raised, and Alan himself had more capital at stake here, unlike at Thorpe’s, which he had gained for a song.

  Men carrying home-made banners and shouting slogans stood in the mean street outside the mill. When they saw him they called after him, ‘No foreign maisters wanted here!’

  Those from outside the district were surprised by his size and strength and the hard indifference with which he pushed through them.

  Wilkinson was waiting for him in his office on the first floor. It was a small dark room with unclean windows; one overlooked the shop floor, the other on to the men assembled in the yard outside. With him was a stocky, muscular man with a strong pushed-in face and coarse black hair, typical of the district, resembling many Alan had seen about the moors, less elegant versions of Stacy.

  ‘Bob Sutcliffe,’ said Wilkinson briefly. ‘He threatens me with a strike and mischief if we do not raise our wages.’

  ‘Does he so?’ said Alan. ‘Has he a voice? Can he speak for himself?’

  ‘Aye, I can that, Maister Dilhorne. I use it to tell you that if you do not heed us I shall call all out. Men, women and children, too. We have had enough of starvation wages here before you came, and you are no better than those you tricked out of the mill.’

  ‘I pay you a fair wage according to the practice of this part of the world.’

  ‘But the practice is wrong.’

  ‘So you say, sir.’

  ‘I do say so. There were Luddites in this part of the world once. Armed.’

  ‘Do you threaten me, then?’

  ‘But you have threatened us. We cannot live decently on what you pay us. You merely lose a little of your profits if you give way to us.’

  Alan changed tack a little. Useless to argue economics with a determined man. Instead he came out with, ‘Our profits—when we have any, and we have little enough now—pay your wages. Do you think it wise that we should be at stand-off? Should not master and men work together as partners?’

  ‘Strange partners where one has all and the other nothing.’

  Alan sighed. ‘That may be true, but I warn you, the mill is barely in profit. To raise your wages would destroy even that. Tell me, what shall I do? For it is your choice. Will you carry out your threat to withdraw your labour? If you do I shall turn all the hands away. The mill will be stripped, and the building sold as soon as can be arranged. Withdraw your demands and work will continue as before.’

  Sutcliffe glared at him. ‘I’ve met hard men before, but I never thought to meet one as hard as you.’

  ‘This is idle talk. I do not wish to close, sir. It is you who brings on all. Choose what I shall do—and quickly. I am a busy man.’

  ‘Aye, busy at the big house. We all know that. They do not know what busy is. Soft, the lot of them.’

  They stared at one another, neither giving way.

  Sutcliffe said at last, ‘It is a pity Brough cannot be here today. He would have made you sing a different tune.’

  ‘No doubt—but he is not, and the choice is yours. Choose, and quickly. Strike and closure—or resume work at the same pay.’

  ‘I choose—not to choose, Maister.’

  ‘Good, you have chosen after all, Wilkinson, assemble the hands in the yard and tell them that they are turned away. Lock the doors behind you. Have the overseers fetch hammers and begin to smash the machinery. It is out of date and none would wish to buy it. Tell the clerk to pay the hands for work done before today. Inform the local auctioneers that the buildings are to go up for sale before Saturday. Any price is better than none. If no auctioneers are available before then I shall conduct the sale myself.’

  He swung on Sutcliffe, whose face was grey, before finishing, ‘I always cut my losses, sir.’

  ‘You would not dare.’

  ‘Indeed, I would. Remember the choice was yours—not mine.’

  Wilkinson said harshly, ‘I know him, Bob. I know how he got the mill and the shops. You do not know how hard he is.’

  ‘Wilkinson, do as I bid you,’ Alan ordered.

  ‘No,’ howled Sutcliffe. ‘I change my choice. The men will return.’

  ‘You are wise to choose so.’

  ‘Oh, the power is yours, now,’ said Sutcliffe bitterly, ‘but we shall see who wins in the end.’

  ‘Why, no one wins in the end,’ said Alan, ‘for we all die in the end, masters and men alike. I shall stay until tomorrow, Wilkinson, to see my orders carried out.’

  That following morning, though, he found the hands in the street again, and many from the town and the surrounding district with them. They hurled curses at him, but made no attempt to harm him, although one spat on his boots—to be reprimanded by one of his fellows, who told him severely, ‘You know what Brough said about violence, Jem.’

  So Brough was back, and all was doubtless to do again. For Brough’s reputation as a bargainer was known to everyone in the Riding, both gentle and simple. Alan found him in Wilkinson’s office, with Sutcliffe and two other men at his back.

  Brough was as he might have expected, dressed better than a mill hand, worse than a clerk. He had a hard shrewd face, and began to speak the moment Alan entered without waiting for an introduction.

  ‘Come, come, Mr Dilhorne. Let us talk sense. You know that you really cannot wish to close the mill down if the men continue to make their legitimate demands. That is the idle threat of a blackmailer designed to get what he wants.’

  ‘Interesting,’ murmured Alan, showing his teeth. ‘But if the men threaten to strike if I do not agree to their demands is not that also blackmail? It seems to me that we are at stand-off again if, through you, they renew their demands. They made another choice yesterday.’

  Brough thought for a moment, but before he could speak again Alan continued with, ‘My decision to close down if the men refused to return to work was not a threat, it was a promise. To concede what they ask would result in ruin and closure in the short run. Nothing has changed since yesterday afternoon. Like Sutcliffe, you must choose.’

  The look Brough gave him was one of hate, mixed with respect. Report had not lied. He was as hard as the devil, and did not waste words.

  ‘Is there nothing you can offer us? For I warn you, if you carry out this threat we shall call o
ut all the hands in the Bradford mills—and then you would have to contend with the anger of every mill-owner in the town. Think on, young man.’

  Alan sat down before Wilkinson’s disorderly desk and picked up the papers on it. ‘These tell me that there is little I can offer you. Make no mistakes, if I cut my losses here and close down I shall not lose much. Indeed, in the long run I will gain by losing a millstone.’

  Brough leaned forward and said hoarsely, ‘There you sit in your over-fed pride, disposing of us all. Does the thought of starving men and their families mean nothing to you? For starve they will; these are hard times in the North.’

  ‘Hard times everywhere,’ said Alan. He picked up the papers again. ‘I will look at these and see whether I can make you any sort of offer, however small. I am not hopeful.’

  He had no wish to see those for whom he was responsible suffer because he had not sufficiently considered every possible way by which he could agree to meet at least some of their demands—but he did not tell Brough that. Nor would he appear to give way easily. But he must not behave like Sir Beauchamp.

  ‘You may come back tomorrow, at noon, and what I decide will be final.’

  Brough thought to argue with him, but changed his mind. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘at noon.’

  ‘So noted.’ Alan smiled. ‘And now you must all leave, and quickly. I dislike wasted time, and I have work to do before I decide whether to close or not to close—as I please. You cannot coerce me.’

  ‘Oh, I think,’ said Brough, smiling, ‘that somehow you will come to terms with us.’

  Alan’s grin was like the teeth-baring of a predatory animal. ‘Don’t tell me what to do, Brough. This is my mill. I shall decide.’

  Brough looked at him queerly. ‘By God, boy, you need a lesson, and Bradford might give you one. A touch of hardship is what a pampered young devil like you needs. You might feel a little for your fellows then.’

  Alan’s answering laugh was a genuine one. ‘Hardship, is it, Brough? You do not know me, I think. Be off with you all—until noon tomorrow.’

  His determination, which they could not shake, enraged them. He heard them cursing all the way down the rickety stairs, and he laughed to himself when he sent Gurney, Wilkinson and the clerk away, refusing all offers of help.

  He stripped off his fine coat and worked in his rolled-up shirtsleeves without eating or drinking. He thought, calculated, went to the window, stared through its grime, and pondered on whether he was hard enough to destroy the livelihood of all at Outhwaite’s in order to save his pride.

  Against this was the knowledge that to raise wages at Outhwaite’s much further would drive it into bankruptcy. What he and the hands had half agreed before the news from Brinkley had reached them might have been possible. To fulfil all their demands meant ruin.

  By half-past ten that night Alan had covered sheets of paper with his calculations and had arrived at a conclusion which might just bring agreement. He was bone-weary, and ready for bed at the inn where he had left Gurney.

  It was only a short way away, and he walked slowly towards it. They might listen to reason tomorrow if he showed them his calculations, and the basis on which he had made them.

  Tiredness, and the feeling of safety which living at Temple Hatton had given him, was his undoing. He kept his mind only on the morrow, so that when they took him at the end of the road—they had been waiting for him for hours—he was not ready for them, and he was their captive without a struggle.

  Chapter Twelve

  They were gentle with him—which surprised him. They seized him by the arms from behind when they caught him, put a knife to his throat and told him to obey them or worse might befall. Their faces were covered in coal dust so that he could not recognise them. Then they blindfolded him and walked him rapidly for quite a long distance, before he was led up a steep hill.

  Part of Alan was exhilarated in a mad way—danger always affected him so. Another part, the stronger, was beginning to fall into the thrall of the berserker rage, although what use that might be, outnumbered as he was, he did not know. Nor could he imagine what they were going to do with him—although he was sure that he would not like it!

  Finally they spun him round and removed the blindfold. He was on the moor, above the town. There were men carrying flambeaux and the place was lit like day. There was a mass of people assembled there, and they cheered when he blinked at them in the light after enduring the lengthy dark.

  ‘A big bruiser,’ shouted one. ‘You had the right of it, lads.’

  Their leader came forward and thrust his dirty face into Alan’s. He thought that some of them were probably colliers, joining the mill hands in comradeship. The face opposite to him had shining teeth, and the whites of its eyes glinted in the light of the flambeaux.

  ‘So, you made Bob Sutcliffe choose again and again, my fine young gentleman,’ he said, his accent so strong that Alan could barely understand him. ‘Now it’s your turn to choose.’

  A cheer went up then. ‘Choose! Choose!’

  Alan wrenched away from the men who were holding him, still lightly, and he wondered why. He had expected blows.

  ‘Choose?’ he said, and his voice surprised them. There was neither fear nor anger in it, only a kind of savage joy. ‘Tell me what I must do, and I will gladly choose.’

  ‘Oh, it’s a hard choice,’ said their leader. ‘Either we give you a good hiding to pay you back for trying to close the mill, or you fight Jem to entertain us. A good choice, boy. A thrashing for you either way.’

  The crowd shouted again. ‘Choose, Maister Dilhorne, choose.’

  Now Alan understood why they had held him so lightly, for they wanted their fun, and Jem was the Brinkley bruiser whom Ned and Robert had seen overcome the man from London.

  He came forward laughing, ready to fight, stripped to the waist, saying, ‘Choose, Mr Dilhorne, sir, choose.’ And the crowd cheered again and again.

  At that Alan threw his head back and laughed with him, saying, ‘There is no choice, and I’ll not keep you waiting like Bob Sutcliffe kept me. Since it’s a beating either way, I’ll have my fun if I fight—and I hope to make your head sing a little, too, Jem.’

  Without more ado he peeled off his fine coat, cravat and waistcoat. He sat down and pulled off his splendid boots from Lobb’s, which Ned had helped him to buy, and his silk socks. After that he stood ready when Jem came for him and the crowd roared at them both.

  It was far harder than fighting Ralf, for Jem was his age, and savagely fit and ready, while Alan was hungry and tired. He had neither eaten nor rested since breakfast. He knew that he was bound to be beaten in the end, but he meant to make it as hard as he could for Jem to win.

  He would be dam’d if he did anything to disgrace himself, or the gentry whom he was supposed to represent. Sparring and then fighting with Ralf had sharpened him, and he had the advantage that Jem probably thought that Ralf had had the easy beating of him. Alan had no illusions, though: he was facing a fighter at the top of his powers—and at the top of the tree.

  Jem began by being a little careless with the gentleman amateur, and Alan swiftly caught him with two punishing lefts before Jem became more wary and the fight began in earnest. The berserker rage which had gripped Alan on the walk came to his aid while he held Jem off, laughing at the other man’s frustration that he was not the easy meat he had expected.

  The crowd, which had thought that he would be felled straight away, fell silent. Suddenly there were some who cheered him when Jem came in too soon and was caught again. After that there was uproar, with cheering and counter-cheering. The crowd was relishing the battle.

  Nevertheless, for all his skill Alan knew that the end was simply a matter of time—and Jem knew it, too.

  ‘I’ll down you yet, Maister,’ he whispered at Alan.

  Alan grinned at him when they came together, and retorted, ‘Not until I’ve marked your face for you, too.’

  Salvation came suddenly, and sa
ved him from a coup de grâce worse than the one he had received from Ralf when his tiring legs had begun to betray him. His damaged body was one vast ache. The cheering stopped. There was a noise and a roar. The Peelers had arrived, alerted by the inevitable informer.

  The crowd scattered, and Jem, from being an enemy, became a friend.

  He seized Alan’s hand, pulled him along, and they and the men who had organised the kidnap ran down the hillside and into the town, the two bruisers still barefoot.

  They stood, panting, under a dim lamp. Jem shook Alan’s hand and said, ‘You’re game, Maister, I’ll say that for you, bastard though you are. I doubt whether I could do for you if you were trained and fresh.’

  ‘And that’s a lie,’ said Alan gaily. He had never felt more alive than he did then, half-naked, with his body damaged and aching. ‘If only I had my purse I’d buy you a drink on it.’

  His captors had changed towards him because of the way in which he had accepted the fight and his performance in it.

  ‘Here’s your purse, Maister,’ said one. ‘We are not thieves.’

  Another handed him his coat, but his shirt and boots were gone. Yet another, regretfully, handed him his watch, and he slipped it in his pocket.

  There was an inn nearby and he bought them ale, throwing his purse to the landlord and telling him to spend it all on drinks for the house.

  Some twenty were with him, and one of them, as he had thought, was Brough, his face and hands black. Sitting there, his body burning with pain, shivering slightly when reaction set in, Alan caught Brough’s eye on him as he drank, not sparing the liquor for once.

  ‘You’ll not blackmail me, Brough,’ he said, smiling through his pain.

  ‘No,’ said Brough. ‘You’re a right bastard, Dilhorne, but you’re a man for all that. What in God’s name do they make of you at the Big House?’