Authors: Jean Stubbs
‘I will give you two minutes to return to your ranks,’ said Colonel Ryder, watch in hand, ‘and then my men will open fire.’
‘Bloody playing at it!’ muttered Ogden in disgust, retreating. ‘Right!’ he ordered his army. ‘Keep out of range, and keep popping at them.’
‘Well done, sir!’ said Captain Munnion, shaking William by the hand. ‘I will give you your orders, if I may? The old Roman road cuts straight between the High Street and the turnpike road. There is too much territory to defend beyond it. So we are grouping all the way along the old road, and also guarding either end. The canal bank is covered, and the old town wall fully manned. I wish your people to stay at the back and form an inner shield of defence. And when I give the order to advance, sir, that only applies to my men, not to yours. You are to be the last hope for Millbridge’s safety. But it should not come to that.’
He spoke factually, cheerfully. But William knew very well that if they had already decided to give up the turnpike road and all the ground between there and the old road, the number of troops was too small for comfort.
*
Several times in the last fortnight Charlotte had endeavoured to enter the colonel’s room when he was out: only to be foiled by the presence of his batman, quietly brushing or polishing his master’s uniform; or by hearing one of the other batmen, or another officer, in the rooms nearby. Now, as the troops concentrated on the Luddites, she hurried up the stairs and softly into the deserted room.
The colonel had made himself comfortable, in an austere fashion. And the heavy clothes chest, which usually stood under the window, had been moved to the foot of his bed, directly over the floorboards she needed to raise.
Hours since, three army messengers had galloped along the turnpike road, headed for Bradford, Bolton and Preston, to beg for extra troops. Now reinforcements were coming, with more dash than their numbers warranted: the foot-soldiers at a trot, the cavalry at a swifter pace. But in the steady burst of rifle-fire the Luddites were losing their taste for battle. Their strength lay in the speed of a single raid with a single purpose. They were not trained for the long and arduous siege, and Jim Ogden had mistaken their enthusiasm for endurance. Once, twice, they rushed forward and inflicted some damage on the defending forces. Then they hung back. Their hesitation was noted and judged correctly by professional eyes; and William saw something which made him marvel — then, and when he was too old to do anything else but remember.
The redcoats formed into a double rank; one kneeling, one standing.
‘Move the barricade!’ Captain Munnion ordered briskly.
The Luddites, in astonishment, now saw the objective they had failed to achieve miraculously reached. There were the soldiers, few enough in all conscience, with a civilian group standing well to the back of them, and nothing between them and destruction.
With a whoop of victory they ran forward, rifles at the ready. And in that moment Captain Munnion cried, ‘Fire!’
The redcoats had been trained to die in formation. Rank by rank, one kneeling, one standing, they moved forward: firing, turn by turn about. They came on in the manner of automatons, and even though some fell the others continued to advance.
There was, at once, something so wonderful and so inhuman about them that nothing short of a machine would have withstood them. And their shots were thinning the Luddite ranks to such an extent that the rebels could no longer carry off their injured. The Luddite front-line made a convulsive movement, broke, and scattered. Their concerted run for safety was matched by a similar retreat at the other end of the town.
Still the redcoats fired and advanced, fired and advanced, until they were ordered to cease: when they immediately became ordinary men again, grinning in self-congratulation. And William and his force chased after the rebels.
‘I did tell the fellow,’ said Colonel Ryder, pulling his moustache in quiet satisfaction, ‘that they could not win against professional soldiers! This hit-and-run business is all very well, but it takes a trained man to advance steadily under fire.’
They were bringing in the dead and wounded on both sides. The siege of Millbridge was over: a mere footnote in the history of Lancashire Luddism.
July
1812
The ironmaster was a hero, and no doubt he felt that the honour was deserved.
The
Wyndendale
Past
spoke warmly of his services to the community, and ended with a diatribe on the offending Luddites.
‘ … their Leaders must be Rooted Out, their followers Hunted Down, their Hiding-places Discovered, and all connected with them, Man, Woman and Child, be Punished with the Utmost Severity of the Law … ’
Whereas Colonel Ryder was stern but just, some of his junior officers and most of the sergeants were interested only in obtaining results. Wounded and captured Luddites were interrogated without thought or care for their condition. Soldiers burst into suspected houses, roughly questioned suspected persons, and flung the smallest offender into prison. On the strength of a doubt, a hint, a careless word, all were in peril. Every scrap of information was ruthlessly followed up. Again, wrongs and grievances of a private nature were aired under guise of loyalty to the Crown, and many a lead ended in nothing more seditious than an old quarrel. But this was martial law with a vengeance, and Wyndendale groaned under a new oppressor. The army net was cast wide, and as they were not too particular as to the quantity of the catch, they were bound to haul in something of value sooner or later.
The first member of the Red Rose committee to be caught was Hal Middleton, the printer from Flawnes Green. His journeyman, in the years of apprenticeship, had been proud to run errands for Jack Straw. But, as an older man, he tended to hold his tongue and watch events. And after the siege of Millbridge he reckoned he had better save his own skin before he was arrested with his master. So Hal Middleton came up before Colonel Ryder, looking the worse for his arrest, but steadfast in his silence. He was shown an old Red Rose broadsheet which had been printed on his machine, several copies of Tom Paine’s
Rights
of
Man
, printed extracts from Cobbett’s
Political
Register
, and a set of handbills ready to be distributed. He could not deny his offence, but he declined to implicate anyone else. So they threw him into the town jail, which had never been spacious and was now severely overcrowded. Then they fetched his journeyman in again, and combed his mind until he remembered events in which he had been involved long since. They offered him a King’s Pardon, on the grounds that he had been young and foolish, and he dredged up everything he knew. And the links began to form a chain.
Circumstances had been too difficult, the atmosphere too tense, to continue evening classes at Thornton House and the grammar school; and the presence of Charlotte’s lodgers kept Jack at a distance. But the demise of her Working People’s Society, the importance of her army officers, and her brother’s courage and initiative brought Charlotte back into favour with genteel Millbridgers.
The Misses Whitehead, now in their eighties, had always kept in touch. Mrs Matthew Standish had never cut Charlotte in the street. And Mrs Graham had been forced to acknowledge her because they were related via the Jarvis Poles’ marriage. But now, in the lull after the Luddite storm, Thornton House began to seem a proper place to visit again, and ladies thought of leaving their cards.
That July Tuesday, uncertain whether to be wet or hot, managed to be both. Millbridge first drowned, then steamed, and all its noxious vapours rose to offend the nostrils. Charlotte had been sitting in the parlour, in a despair of mind and body, when Polly announced that they had run out of milk.
A longing for fresh air overcame her lassitude.
‘I shall fetch the milk myself,’ said Charlotte decidedly. ‘But Boulton’s farm is above a mile off, Mrs Longe!’
‘I have walked more than a mile in my day, Polly. Give me the can. I have nothing else to do.’
So she set forth, feeling younger and more carefree than at any time in the past twelve years. She remembered London in the hot summer of ‘89, when she had walked through the crowded streets, knowing she had money in her pocket, a means of earning her living, and the desire to love Toby again. Today, Millbridge had just such an air of carelessness, born of excitement and uncertainty. Folk smiled when they learned her errand, though a month ago they would have looked askance. And Mrs Graham cried archly, across the High Street, ‘Do not forget what day it is, Charlotte!’
But Charlotte simply waved and smiled, not taking in the meaning of the words, being grateful for the friendly tone of voice. She had been a pariah for a long time. It was nectar and ambrosia to be received again. If she had not promised to fetch back the milk, she thought, she would have walked the length of Wyndendale: calling in to see poor Caleb at Belbrook, taking luncheon with Dorcas at Bracelet, drinking tea at Kingswood Hall with Zelah and the girls, and coming to rest at last in Kit’s Hill for supper. What an age it was since she last visited the house of her birth. On a day such as this, forty years since, she and William would have scrambled to the top of Scarth Nick and sat on the coarse grass and known the entire valley for their own. What a childhood theirs had been: loved and set free in the grey farmhouse, living within the circle of Ned and Dorcas, lying awake and unafraid as they listened to the wild wind scouring Garth Fells.
Strangers, seeing her coming towards them from a distance, swinging the milk-can in one hand, took her for a young girl on an errand. Her fair hair was pulled into a careless knot, her muslin gown was simple, her waist still narrow. Then as she came close they saw that time had claimed her. But still she walked and smiled as though she were sweet and twenty, and they thought how happy she must be to carry her years so lightly.
She popped her head round the door of the smithy at Flawnes Green, and asked for a mug of water. They made much of her. She dandled the latest infant and praised its health and beauty: passed on. The afternoon was magical. All would yet be well.
Mrs Boulton herself filled the copper can, and said as how they didn’t know what the world was coming to, but England had allus been a good country to live in, and would be again, despite all.
With a pang of regret, she turned towards Millbridge. The journey was still beautiful, but sad now, for her family were in the opposite direction. She walked less eagerly, and the milk was heavy in her hand. By the time she reached Thornton House her idyll was over. Polly opened the door with an alacrity which presaged news of some sort.
‘It’s Mr Awkright, ma’am. He’s been waiting and fretting for above an hour!’
He was grey with tiredness, and the lines on his face were deeply marked, but he endeavoured to smile and incline his head in greeting. As Polly closed the door he seized Charlotte’s hands.
‘I had to tell you myself, Lottie. They have arrested Dr Wilkins. He was attending a former member of the Red Rose, wounded in the Luddite rising at Babylon. The man is in agony with a shattered limb, but they dragged him out as well as the doctor. Charlotte, you have destroyed the papers, have you not?’
She shook her head, white to the lips.
‘For God’s sake, woman, why not?’ he cried, and then dropped his voice lest they be heard. ‘Why not?’
‘I had no time, Jack. They have not left the house for a minute, except at the town siege. And there is a great chest pulled over the hiding-place, which would take two people at least to move. No! Do not look like that! Can you imagine how it has been, here? I am nearly out of my mind … ’
‘But could you not say you must clean out the room, or some such excuse? Take Polly with you. Confide in her, since you must. She will be faithful.’
She pulled her hands away, crying, ‘I will not implicate poor Polly. There are enough in danger as it is.’
He sat down and put his face in his hands, thinking. The long clock in the hall chimed thrice, calm and gracious in the hurlyburly. The door-knocker sounded very loud, and both of them jumped and looked at each other in terror.
‘It is a woman’s voice,’ said Charlotte in relief. ‘But who could that be? I am expecting no one.’
Before Polly could announce the visitor the knocker sounded again. A duet of female voices was augmented by yet another summons, yet another voice. The parlour door was opened in a hurry.
Flustered, Polly cried, ‘Mrs Graman, Miss Frances Whitebred, and Mrs Sandwich, ma’am!’
The knocker was in brisk demand. Another lady’s voice was heard, and then the deeper tones of a man. Charlotte and Jack rose together in mute astonishment.
Mrs Graham had stopped short at the sight of the headmaster, and then decided to let bygones be bygones for the afternoon. She extended her fingers to Charlotte.
‘Why, we have caught you unawares,’ she cried archly. ‘But did you not hear me remind you, when we met in the High Street? It is Tuesday, my dear.’
‘Tuesday?’ Charlotte echoed, as in a nightmare.
‘Your old calling day!’ said Mrs Graham. ‘We are all coming to call upon you. As of old, my dear.’
‘But what a surprise!’ cried Charlotte, trying to sound pleased.
Jack saw by her expression, and the way she took Polly hastily to one side to question her about the state of cake and biscuits, that a tea-party would be the final straw. He made up his mind to be distinctly agreeable and help her over it. So he sat down again, instead of departing in his usual flurry of coattails and cravat-ends, and addressed himself to Miss Frances Whitehead who was looking at him timidly.
‘And how are you and your sister keeping, ma’am?’ he enquired. ‘Are you enjoying a well-earned retirement from the rigours of teaching? I confess, I look forward to my own retirement eventually.’
‘ … then run round to the bakehouse,’ Charlotte whispered, ‘there is no means of baking anything here, and no time to light the kitchen fire and warm the oven. And fetch tea, and the biscuits you have, immediately … ’
‘And were your pupils very much afraid during the siege, Mr Ackroyd?’
‘Just a minute, ma’am. There’s the knocker again!’ cried poor Polly, as bemused as her mistress with all this hospitality.
And Colonel Ryder, clanking down the stairs, immaculate as ever, was besieged as he passed the parlour. A chorus of ladies caused him to enter and bow and accept compliments.
‘We shall miss you, Colonel, when you are gone,’ said Mrs Graham, coyly fanning herself. ‘We are greatly in your debt, sir.’
‘Well, we are not yet gone,’ he reminded her, smiling, ‘but shall not be very long, I think. The worst of the rebellion is over, here and elsewhere.’
Sally, taking thought for the honour of the house, now sent the scullery-maid in with a tray of cups and saucers, to show them that tea was on the way.
‘We are most grateful, sir,’ said Miss Frances, and her frail head trembled in emphasis. ‘We feel that you have protected more than our lives. It is because of these brave soldiers, I tell my sister, that we can be so pleasant together. Such a matter as taking tea with old friends may seem trivial to you, sir, but it means much to us.’
He bowed again, made some good-mannered comment, and turned to Charlotte.
‘My batman tells me, Mrs Longe, that you have once or twice endeavoured to see my room set to rights. It is well enough for me, madam, but am I interrupting some household ritual?’
He spoke in the manner of a man who has been long married, and understands that there are matters of great importance to women which would not occur to him.
‘Sir, you put me to shame before my friends!’ Charlotte cried, so relieved at this opportunity that she could have laughed aloud. ‘Now they will see me for the poor housekeeper that I am! There has been so much trouble of late that, with one and the other thing, you and your fellow-officers came upon me in the midst of our spring-cleaning, and your room was not yet done. That is all, sir. But if we had a day to ourselves we could easily set it right.’
‘If that is your problem, madam,’ he said courteously, ‘I shall leave my room for the whole of tomorrow, at your entire disposal. I crave the pardon of yourself and your friends for introducing such a domestic issue!’
They all laughed, and Mrs Graham said afterwards that the party went quite merrily, and even the headmaster was most entertaining and amicable.
Then Polly came back from the bakehouse with a batch of fresh cakes and biscuits, and the kitchen staff made haste to put up a good show. So it was one of the strangest and nicest days Charlotte could remember.
Jack took care to leave with the rest, but he left last of all and managed a private word with her as he bent over her hand.
‘It has not been so bad, Lottie! I believe we can face it out together. I shall see you shortly.’
They made a great palaver with mops and pails and hot soapy water the following morning, and asked the batmen to move the furniture out. Then, in the scrubbed expanse of bare boards covered with dean newspapers, Charlotte and Polly faced each other.
‘You should’ve told me afore,’ Polly whispered hoarsely, reproachfully. ‘We’ve known each other long enough, I should think!’
‘Oh, I could weep,’ said Charlotte softly, ‘but, Polly, swear to me that you will forget all this for your own sake. I beg you to know nothing. For your own sake, my dear.’