by James Fearn
Although Protestants did not condemn intermarriage on theological grounds, they did take a pragmatic view with respect to prospective children and discouraged such unions.
The two men had been lost in their discussion for at least an hour when they reached the old mill on the River Don. The conversation continued intensely as they made their way back along the shorter river path past the Shrewsbury Estate and home through the industrial area of North Sheffield. Again the heads appeared at the cottage windows. As the two men reached Harry’s place, the ladies came to the gate to greet them.
‘It’s tankin’ y’ very much Oi am, Sir Richard,’ said Harry excitedly. ’Oi’ll tark with Colleen an’ Anna, and let y’ know.’
Several days elapsed before John arrived home from Scotland. His first thoughts were to visit Anna to tell her all that was on his mind. Since it was a pleasant afternoon, John decided to walk to her place to give himself a little more time to rehearse what he wanted to say to Anna and her family.
Unhurriedly, John made his way in the direction of the O’Meara’s house, pondering the recent events of his life. His journey took him past the public library a stately Georgian building with a handsome portico at its entrance supported by six marble columns. He walked on into the park and around the lake resplendent with pink and yellow water lilies. He could see the large goldfish gliding aimlessly in their watery world and wondered if there was a piscatorial equivalent of the complexity of his own experience.
When John eventually reached Anna’s street, his mind was abuzz with things to say and courses of action to propose. He opened the flimsy wooden gate and strode optimistically up to the front door. He knocked with three arresting raps with his knuckles. There was silence. He rapped again. Still there was no response. Stepping back to survey the cottage, he saw no trace of activity at all. The windows were closed. The door was bolted. The curtains were drawn. The place appeared to be deserted.
‘Hello, Mr Oxley!’ came a voice from the garden next door. It was Greta O’Rourke, Harry’s neighbour. Her prematurely greying hair and lined face belied her thirty years, but nothing could suppress her indomitable spirit. A widow for the past five years Greta had raised her son, Danny alone and was glad to have Irish neighbours.
‘Are y’ lookin’ for Anna?’ she asked.
‘Yes, they appear to be out,’ replied John.
‘Oh no, they’ve gone. Left two days ago. They did and without sayin’ so much as goodbye either. A cart arrived on Tuesd’y mornin’ an’ took away their tings. Not a word! Strange it was. They’re usually so friendly.’
John stood there looking at Greta with open mouth. Gone? But where on earth could they have gone? Back to Ireland. Not likely! There was a sinking feeling in the pit of John’s stomach. He imagined that this was how one felt at the news of the sudden death of a loved one or close friend.
What could have caused them to leave so suddenly? And without a word to anyone. Didn’t they trust him enough to take him into their confidence? Had the landlord thrown them out? Questions and more questions came flooding into his spinning mind. John could tell that Greta was similarly perturbed and was missing her cheerful friends very much already. Something very traumatic must have happened to wrench friends apart like this.
‘Did you see anything unusual happening before they left?’ asked John. ‘Was one of them suddenly taken ill? Or did the landlord come and throw them out?’
‘No’, said Greta. ‘Not that Oi saw. Except your father’s visit, of course. We all thought that rather odd. Went for a long walk they did. ’arry seemed quite happy about it all. Colleen told me it was your father, that’s how I knew it was ’im. We was all dyin’ t’ know what it was all about but ’arry didn’t let on.’
Thanking Mrs O’Rourke and taking his leave of her, John walked sombrely away down the potholed street towards his home perplexed and angered by this unexpected turn of events. Why had Father visited the O’Mearas? He had no idea that his father even knew them. He felt so empty. Not only had he given up his fiancée, but now also Anna had disappeared. To have her wrenched away like this left him with an ache in his heart, which he found hard to bear.
John did not notice the passage of time as he ambled along staring blankly ahead. He couldn’t come to terms with his acute sense of loss. He wandered through Central Park and along the path by the river bank where he stopped to sit on a bench. The random movement of the leaves floating on the water caught his eye and he pondered the unpredictability of the lives of all living creatures.
It was several hours before he arrived home, and as he walked into the vestibule, he was greeted by James the butler, gliding gracefully down the sweeping staircase towards him. ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said. ‘You have visitors. I’ve shown them into the library.’ James proceeded down the long passage towards the library and pushed open the panelled doors for him to enter.
‘Hello, sir! You didn’t expect t’ see us again so soon, did y’?’ John was surprised to find Greta O’Rourke standing there holding the hand of her five-year-old son, Danny. She explained how the boy had been playing in the street when the O’Mearas had left so suddenly and how Anna had stopped to kiss him goodbye. ‘Cryin’ she was, an’ dreadfully upset,’ she added.
John felt a lump in his throat as he stared at the little lad standing beside his mother. His ragged clothing and bare feet brought home to John the desperate plight of so many of these Irish immigrants especially the children.
‘Go on, Danny. Tell the kind gentleman what Anna told yer,’ she said, pushing him forward. John gazed at the little lad as Danny approached and beckoned him to bend down as if to hear his secret. Cupping his hands around his mouth, Danny stretched up and whispered in John’s ear. ‘It’s a secret,’ he said. ‘Anna’s gone to the Demons.’
‘Demons? What on earth do you mean?’ John blurted out with a stunned expression on his face. ‘Do you mean . . . Van Diemen’s Land, Danny?’ he queried. Without waiting for the child’s response, John jumped to his feet and stared out of the window, his brows deeply furrowed. ‘Of course, Van Diemen’s Land. That’s it!’ said John oblivious to all around him. ‘But where did they get the money?’ A feeling of desperation gripped him and a deep sense of loss that only the truly lonely can know. Where was his Anna now?
Suddenly, the awful truth of the situation dawned upon him. There was no other logical explanation. His father’s visit to the O’Mearas had something to do with it. Struggling to contain his fury, John thanked Mrs O’Rourke, gave Danny sixpence, and showed them out of the house.
John determined to have it out with his father there and then strode angrily towards the drawing room, where Sir Richard, pipe in hand, sat perusing the evening newspaper. Stepping into the room abruptly, John slammed the door behind him. The windows rattled in their frames. Sir Richard looked up somewhat startled.
‘Father!’ shouted John. ‘You have some explaining to do.’ With an aggressive tone of voice, John demanded to be told what his father had done to cause the sudden departure of Harry’s family to Van Diemen’s Land.
‘You were making a fool of yourself and demeaning the family name,’ Sir Richard responded in a surly tone. ‘That family had to go. Surely you can do better than that!’
John was livid with rage. ‘How dare you make that judgement?!’ he shouted.
‘I’ll make that judgement because you seem incapable of making rational ones these days,’ yelled Sir Richard, his face reddening with anger. ‘I’ve paid their passages to Van Diemen’s Land and given them £100 to set themselves up when they get there.’
John exploded, ‘What gives you the right to interfere in my life like this?’ He was shaking with rage as he continued. ‘I’m no longer a little boy, Father, to be organised and pushed around at your whim and fancy. And it’s about time you woke up to the fact. I’ll accept your direction in matters of business, but you can keep your nos
e out of my personal affairs.’
One could have cut the air with a knife. Somewhat shaken by the ferocity of his son’s tirade, Sir Richard stood to his feet and, throwing his newspaper on the table dramatically, glared out of the window. He was not accustomed to being spoken to like this by the people he had dealings with and certainly not by one of his own family.
‘You seem to have landed yourself in some pretty hot water this time.’ Sir Richard was, of course, referring to the business with Charlotte, which was obviously distressing him greatly. He had hoped for the union of his and Robert Hedley’s family ever since the children were babies. Such an association seemed so appropriate—a bonding of two significant industrial families of the English Midlands. ‘Have you no respect for the family’s reputation?’ he asked. ‘What has a respectable family such as ours got in common with the Bog Irish? The idea is preposterous. You must be out of your mind!’
Sir Richard turned to face his son. But John was nowhere to be seen. Deeply hurt by his father’s scheming deviance, John had walked out of Sir Richard’s life just as his beloved Anna had disappeared from his own.
John had been planning for some time to travel to Lancaster to find out more about the Chartists, so he decided to leave immediately and put this whole sorry affair with his father behind him.
John was confused by the traumatic events of the recent days and wanted some time to sort out matters in his mind. The low sun cast long shadows across the road as he strode towards the Blue Pelican, a tavern in the centre of Lancaster. Outside the tavern, he noticed a gipsy covered wagon and would have walked right past it had not a small colourfully dressed man stepped out in front of him. ‘Want to buy a watch, squire?’ John stopped and foolishly let his eyes make contact with those of this skilful salesman. ‘Perhaps a bangle or a coat?’ he said with an appealing gesture. ‘Look!’ he said, holding up a child’s coat. ‘Just the thing for the winter. Going cheap too! Only half a crown!’ John recognised this as a real bargain, and remembering the dreadful poverty of Danny O’Rourke and his mother, he purchased it from the cheerful little man. This would make a fine birthday present for the young fellow.
The tavern was a welcoming place on a cold afternoon. The panelled walls and heavy oak ceiling beams still had the remains of decorations left over from last Christmas, happy conversation and an air of warm conviviality pervaded the atmosphere.
John was about to sit down to enjoy an ale with his fellow patrons when suddenly members of the local constabulary burst into the tavern. ‘Everyone up against the wall!’ ordered the officer in charge, banging his truncheon on the bar to emphasise his authority. The patrons looked at each other in disbelief. John thought it was some sort of practical joke. But his good humour suddenly turned sour.
The officer’s roving eye spotted the little coat that John had just purchased from the gypsy, lying on the table where John had been sitting moments earlier. Ambling over to the table, he picked up the garment and said, ‘And ‘oo might be the proud owner o’ this fine piece o’ wearin’ apparel?’ Holding the coat high with his left hand, he stared suspiciously at each of the patrons in turn.
‘It’s mine!’ called John innocently. ‘I’ve just bought it.’
‘An’ I s’pose you’ll be askin’ me t’ believe that you didn’t know it was stolen.’ John stiffened in alarm.
‘You, sir, are the receiver o’ stolen goods, and I’ll thank you to accompany me to the station.’
‘But I’ve just bought it from that gipsy outside the tavern,’ protested John. ‘What gypsy?’ inquired the constable. John leant over the table and strained to peer out of the window. The gypsy and his covered wagon had vanished.
Half an hour later John stood handcuffed to the constable in front of the sergeant’s desk. ‘Name?’ he demanded. Anxious to protect his real identity John responded, ‘John . . . er . . . Francis.’
‘Age?’ asked the sergeant.
‘Nineteen,’ replied John.
‘Turn out your pockets!’ ordered the sergeant. John placed the contents of the three pockets of his jacket on the table in front of him, together with the signet ring his mother had given him on his sixteenth birthday. There were a few notes and coins, a gold watch that his parents had given him as a graduation present, a pencil, and a few pamphlets promoting the Chartist Movement.
‘Ha!’ said the sergeant, eyeing the pamphlets. So we’ve got a Chartist ’ere, ’ave we? That won’t go down too well in court.’ The sergeant looked disapprovingly at John. His moustache twitched as he puffed on his reeking pipe. ‘All right, take him to the cells’, he barked.
The cell to which John was assigned was one of three at the back of the police station in the main street of Lancaster. A hard bunk against the wall and a bucket in the corner were the only concessions to the basic necessities of life that John could see. The iron bars on three sides of the cell afforded no privacy and the food, consisting of hash heated up by the constable, was barely edible. John’s cultured speech betrayed his educated background and called forth barbed taunts from the ruffians in the adjacent cells, awaiting their fate at the Lancashire Assizes due to begin the next day.
‘Ya toffee-nosed bastard!’ yelled one the other prisoners. ‘Is this what they sent ya t’ Grammar School for? Learnin’ won’t do ya no good in this ’ell ’ole.’ ‘Leave the pretty boy alone!’ mocked the fellow in the opposite cell. ‘He’s probably missin’ ’is muvver. This lad’s been brought up proper. Ya might ’urt ’is feelin’s.’ The cells echoed to the derisive laughter of the other two inmates as they had their fun at John’s expense.
‘Eh! The constable tells me this lad fancies little boys,’ said the prisoner in the cell on John’s left, referring to John’s alleged theft of the child’s coat from the gipsy.
‘’E won’t find too many little boys where ’e’s goin’.’ There was more distasteful humour to John’s discomfort, interspersed with bouts of raucous laughter.
John realised the futility of verbal response and was frustrated by his inability to shut them up with physical force because of his confinement. The embarrassment and misery of his situation were hard for John to bear and only served to exacerbate the sense of loneliness he felt at his loss of freedom and his separation from Anna.
Early next morning, John found himself being handcuffed unceremoniously to one of the constabulary and hustled like a criminal through the oak doors, which led directly from the police station into the courthouse. This was an imposing hall with a high ceiling supported by stained oak beams and panelled walls. At one end was a dais some three feet above the floor, and on it, an ornately carved bench and chair for the dispenser of justice. A large feathered quill was visible in the inkwell on top of the bench.
On the left of the dais was a slightly raised dock, where the accused stood flanked on the right and the left by two poker-faced constables. Opposite the dock, stood the prosecutor gowned, bewigged and monocled like some Shakespearian actor awaiting his cue. There was another small desk near the dock where the defence lawyer sat. This was the setting for the Lancashire Assizes, the court where crimes and misdemeanours of all degrees were tried at law and punished appropriately.
John’s case was to be heard before Mr Richards, Justice of the Peace, a man of ample body and stern countenance. He was attired in a black gown and red stole of authority and wielded a large wooden gavel in his right hand with the frequency and ferocity of a man revelling in the power he had over the lives of the poor wretches who were paraded before him.
John had not wanted to draw his family into the affair and so was not represented by legal counsel. He had resolved to tell the truth as he saw it and hope for a lenient judgement.
Looking sternly over the pince-nez clipped to the end of his aquiline nose, Mr Richards addressed the court, ‘The matter of the Crown versus Mr John Francis. What’s the charge?’
The arresting constable stoo
d to his feet. ‘Theft of wearing apparel, Your Honour,’ he replied nonchalantly. ‘How do you plead, Mr Francis, guilty or not guilty?’
‘Not guilty, Your Honour,’ replied John in a tone of innocence.
The prosecuting constable proceeded to describe the circumstances of the arrest. He explained that the constabulary occasionally raided the Blue Pelican Tavern, which had a reputation as a place where stolen goods were bought and sold; how a spot search had revealed several fellows in possession of goods lately reported as stolen; and how he had arrested the accused on suspicion of receiving a child’s coat, which had been stolen from the tailor in Rose Street, Lancaster.
‘Are there any witnesses to testify?’ asked the Justice. ‘Yes, Your Honour. Mr Sam Sweeney of the Blue Pelican Tavern has provided a deposition for the court.’
‘Read it!’ ordered Mr Richards. The constable took a paper in his left hand and began to read it.
The deposition of Samuel Thornton Sweeny of Rose Street, Lancaster, publican taken on 17th February, 1841. Who saith that as he was serving ales to his patrons in his tavern on the afternoon of the 4th February last, he did notice a brown-haired young man of slight build enter his establishment at about half of two in the afternoon and purchase a pot of English ale. The young man in question was carrying what looked like a small green coat—possibly a child’s—over his arm. He placed the coat on the bench on which he sat down and began to chat with the other patrons. At about three o’clock, the constabulary arrived and effected several arrests, including the young man in question who claimed to own the coat. Signed: S. T. Sweeney
‘What’s your story, Francis?’ barked the Justice. John proceeded in great detail to recount what had happened to him that afternoon.
He described the gipsy salesman—what he was wearing, what his wagon looked like, and the kinds of things he was selling. ‘I thought, Your Honour, that the coat would be a nice present for a small friend of mine in Sheffield.’
