IN February of 1812, it was borne in upon our minds that something more
than distress and disaffection were in our midst. These we were used to,
and they had come to seem matters of course. It was painful to go to the
Huddersfield Market these days. The old brick rotunda was opened as
usual, and as usual the stalls were piled with cloth. The manufacturers
stood by their wares, or gathered in anxious groupes in the alleys
between the stalls. But buyers were rare, and prices ruinous.
Shop-keepers in the New-street stood on their steps looking for a
customer as eagerly as a becalmed captain for a cap of wind. Round the
old market cross the famished workmen stood sullen and scowling. They
had not much to say. They were too far gone even for anger. Their faces
were now pinched and haggard. If a man had thrown a loaf among them they
would have fought for it. It was said that at that time families had not
twopence a head to live on each day. At the market dinners at the Cherry
Tree and the Pack Horse the manufacturers dined together as usual but it
was doleful work. We sat down to our meat as to funeral cakes.
Bad trade long drawn out had tired the staunchest of us, and there was
not one ray of hope to brighten the outlook. War still dragged on, now a
victory, now a defeat. But we had ceased to look for an issue from our
troubles from the success of our arms. The contest seemed interminable,
and meanwhile banks were breaking, credit was destroyed, old firms were
failing; and men who had struggled on bravely, making goods to stock
rather than close their mills and sack their old hands, saw no choice
but to give up and own themselves beaten. Wheat was eight shillings a
stone, and so bad at that, that it could not be baked; the poor rate was
at twelve shillings in the pound, and worst of all, the poor were
cursing their masters in their hearts and thinking their sufferings lay
at their master's doors.
Now I cannot for my part think such a time was fitting for bringing in
machinery. I know full well that water power and steam power and
improved machinery have been of untold good to the poor; but those who
were to reap the first profit should to my thinking have bided their
time. But Mr. Cartwright, of Rawfold, Mr. Horsfall, of Ottiwells and
some others, seemed callous to the sufferings round them. Perhaps it was
they looked so intently at the distant object, that they could not see
the things at their feet. They were both men impatient of obstacles;
they resented interference; they pooh-poohed those who counselled delay.
In that month of February we had the first news of any violence in our
neighbourhood. Late of a Saturday night a number of men with faces
blacked and their dress disguised, some wearing women's gowns and others
strange hood gear, broke into the dressing shop of Mr. Joseph Hirst, of
Marsh, destroyed the dressing frames, the shears and other furniture of
a gig-mill. The same evil fate befell Mr. James Balderson, of Crosland
Moor, and Mr. William Hinchcliffe, of Leymoor. Then came the soldiers,
the Scots Greys and the Second Dragoon Guards. They were billeted in the
various hostelries of the town at free quarters, and it was not long
before there was much scandal at their carrying on a drinking, swearing
lot of men, a terror to decent girls, reeling on the streets in broad
day with the loose women of the town, singing lewd songs, with no
respect even to the gravest and most dignified magistrates in the town,
paying heed only to their own officers, and that only when on guard or
patrol. They were a bye-word and a reproach in the town, and of no sort
of use at all.
Then, too, did the Head Constable of Huddersfield call upon all men over
seventeen, and under fifty, paying rates to the poor, to enrol
themselves as special constables, and among them was none other than
John Wood, who looked mighty big with his constable's staff, and talked
large to my aunt and George and to me, when I called at the Brigg about
the valiant deeds he would do if ever Luddite fell into his hands. For
by this time the name "Luddite" had crept into the district, how I know
not. And at his step-father's big talk George Mellor smiled grimly.
I say I called at Mr. Wood's house at Longroyd Bridge. I had meant to
have a talk with George about the smashing of the machines of which, and
of nothing but which, the market talk had been. I was not easy in my
mind about the matter. I thought, after my promises to George, it was
but my due to know if he had any share in these doings. But I was let.
My aunt had her ailments to talk of, and burdened me with messages to my
mother. Then Mr. Wood was there whilst we took a dish of tea, and all
his talk was of the dressing the Luds would get. I asked him if he
intended to try the new machines in his own shop, to which, for my
aunt's sake, we sent our own goods to be finished. But I gathered that
my astute uncle deemed it safe to see how the cat jumped before
committing himself. He was ever one for letting others do the fighting,
and then coming softly in and reaping the spoils. So with one thing and
another I got no talk with my cousin, and started off by my lone to walk
to Slaithwaite over Crosland Moor. And near the Brigg itself I came on
Soldier Jack, with a poke slung over his shoulder.
"Bide your time, Ben, and I'll be with you," he cried. "Good company
makes short miles. I've a little errand o' my own to see to on Paddock
Brow. Will ta come as far as th' Nag's Head and drink a glass and tarry
there for me, or will ta company me to th' Brow? I'st noan be long, for
it's not exactly a wedding I'm bahn to."
"Oh, I'll go with you," I said, willingly enough, for Jack was always
well met.
"It's Tom Sykes I'm bahn to see. Yo' dunnot know him belike, a decent
body but shiftless, and a ailing wife and a long family. There's a sight
o' truth in what young Booth was reading to us th' other neet from a
great writer, a Mr. Malthus, 'at a man who is born into a world already
possessed, or if society does not want his labour, has no claim or right
to the smallest portion of food; and, in fact, has no business to be
where he is. At nature's mighty feast there is no cover for him. That's
what you call pheelosophy. I'm bahn to comfort Tom Sykes wi' a bit o'
pheelosophy."
"And is that philosophy you'n got i' your poke, Jack?" I asked "It seems
weighty matter."
"Noa, this is a few crumbs o' arrant nonsense, fra' th' kitchen o' th'
Cherry Tree. Th' cook there's a reight good sort, an' some day or other,
aw don't say but I might--you know. But it's ill puttin' all yo'r eggs
i' one basket. An' gi'ein' a shillin' to th' parson to tie you is a
tighter job nor takin' th' king's shillin'. Yo' can't hop out o' th'
holy estate as aw did aat o' th' army--on a gamey leg. But here we are
at Tom's."
It was a low stone thatched house on the Lower Brow, and overlooked the
river. Jack lifted the latch, and we walked into the living-room. It was
bare of all furniture, save a round deal-topped table, three-legged, a
low rocking chair by an empty fire-grate, a cradle and another,
cane-bottomed chair, on which sat a man in his shirt sleeves, hushing a
wailing child. The man was shock-headed. He had not been shaved for a
week or more. His cheek bones stood out above shrunken cheeks. His eyes
burned with an unnatural fire, and he had a hollow, hacking cough. He
was trying to quiet the child, clumsily but patiently putting sips of a
bluish fluid, milk and water, to its lips, with a crooked broken spoon.
Another child, about seven years old, I judged, with neither clogs nor
socks, all her covering a smock and a short frock scarce to her knees,
was stretched on its face in a corner of the chimney, over a litter of
sacks. And under the sacks lay--a something. We could see the straight
outlines of a figure--I felt what it was, and my heart stood still. But
Jack's eyes were not so young as mine.
"Where's yo'r missus, Tom?" he asked, swinging his bundle on to the
ricketty table. "Th' cook at th' Cherry Tree has sent her a summat. See
here's th' makin's o' a rare brew o' tea, screwed up i' this papper. Aw
carried it i' my weskit pocket, for fear o' accidents. An' there's
broken bread an' moat an'--but what's ta starin' at? Where is 'oo aw
say?"
"'Oo's there, Jack--in th' corner there, under Milly. Yo' needn't fear
to wakken her--'oo sleeps very sound. Gi' my compliments to Fat Ann at
th' Cherry Tree an' tell her th' missus is much obliged. But 'oo isn't
very hungry just now. Th' parson says 'oo's gone where there's nother
hunger nor sorrow. But aw reckon if there is such a shop, there'll be no
room there for my owd woman. Th' rich folk 'll ha' spokken for them
parts, th' poor 'll be crowded out, same as they are here. An' yo', Ben
Bamforth, an' yo' come to look on your handiwork? Yo' may lift th'
cuvverin' for yersen. Novver mind Milly 'oo'll greet hersen to sleep
agen, when yo're gone. Tak' a good look, man--it's nobbut a dead woman,
improved off th' face o' th' earth--clemmed to death bi improvements.
Nay dunna flinch, man, 'oo'll nother flyte thee nor bite thee." But I
could not look, and I went silently out into the rutty, dirty lane and
the murk night so cold and raw. For I had no words of comfort for the
man--I could not speak in that silent presence--so I slipped away,
only minding to pass a coin or two into the hands of Soldier
Jack--"Light a fire and fetch a woman," I whispered, and Jack nodded
and made no effort to have me stay.
I was in a distracted state of mind, drawn now this way and now that,
as I made my way to Slaithwaite. My promise to George lay heavy on me,
and I loved the lad. The scene of which I had been just now the witness
filled me with an intense sorrow for the suffering I knew to be rife
around us. But I shrunk from violence of any kind and from conflict with
the law, of which I had a wholesome dread. I confess here, once and for
all, I am not made of the stuff of which captains, heroes and martyrs
are made--I asked nothing better of the world than to go my own way
quietly and doucely, earning by honest toil sufficient for my daily
needs, sustained by the affection of those I loved and safe in the
esteem and goodwill of my little world. I was not therefore best pleased
when Mary met me at the door and handed me a note which had been brought
by an unknown messenger, who had been charged, he said, to give it into
her own hands, and to impress upon her that she herself should convey it
safely to me. It was addressed to me, and though I had had few letters
from George Mellor I knew his handwriting, and I judged, too, that Mary
knew it, and had all a woman's curiousness to know what the letter might
say. It was brief enough, anyhow:
"Meet me on Thursday night at nine o'clock at the Inn at
Buckstones. --George."
The inn at Buckstones stands, or then stood, almost alone on the road
from Outlane to Manchester. All around were desolate reaches of
moorland, with here and there patches won by hard toil from the waste
and enclosed by dry walling whose solidity bespoke the rich abundance of
good stone and the little worth of human labour. There were no
neighbours to make custom for the inn. The coach never stopped there. An
occasional wayfarer, or holiday makers from the town, at times would
call there, but mine host of the Buck would have fared badly but for his
pigs and poultry. It was a little inn, remote, unaccustomed, unobserved,
and only those would chose it as a meeting place whose business was one
that shunned the open day and the eye of man. I put the letter carefully
in my breast pocket, putting aside Mary's questioning words and ignoring
Mary's questioning looks as best I could. And at this, after a while,
Mary choose to take offence, tossing her head, and surmising that folk
who had letters they could not show to their own cousins were up to no
good.
I was at the Buck punctual to my time. The night was pitch dark. There
was neither moon nor stars to light one along the road, and the road was
bad enough in broad noon. A feeble light shone from the low window of
the inn. The outer door was shut, and did not yield to my push when I
lifted the sneck. It was opened from within by George Mellor.
"Yo're to time, Ben," he said in a low voice as he grasped my hand. "I
knew tha' wouldn't fail us."
"Who's us?" I asked.
"Tha'll know soon enough. They're waitin' for us i' th' room
upstairs--but come into th' snug an' have a glass o' ale. Tha looks
breathed and flustered, an' as if tha'd seen a boggart on th' road.
There's a chap inside aw want thee to know--he's a rare 'un. He's a
better scholard nor other thee nor me, Ben, and aw'se warrant tha'll
like him, when tha knows him."
"Who is it, George?"
"They call him Booth, John Booth, th' parson's son at Lowmoor."
"Is he one on yo'?" I asked.
"As close as th' heft to th' blade," replied George. And I breathed more
freely, for John Booth I had seen many a time at Mr. Wright's, the
saddler's, in Huddersfield; and I, though I had had no speech with him,
had heard much of his great learning and sweet temper. He was not one to
harm a fly. His father was, I knew, the Vicar at Lowmoor Church, and a
master cropper to boot. Surely the son of a parson and of a finisher was
engaged in no enterprise that need daunt my father's son.
He was sat in the snug, a pot of ale before him, scarce tasted; a youth
not more than twenty-one or two years old, with pale face, long lank
dark hair that fell on either side a high and narrow brow. His eye was
dark and melancholy, his lip's somewhat thin. His face was bare of
beard, of an oval shape, and womanish. He had a low, soft voice, and
spoke more town like than I was used to. But he had a sweet smile and a
winning, caressing way that partly irritated me because I thought it out
of place in a man. But it was very hard to stand against all the same.
"I am glad to see you, Mr. Bamforth," he said, placing a hand that,
despite his trade, was small and white, in my own big, brawny fist. He
looked very slim by the side of me as we stood hand in hand, for I am
six feet and more and big built, and thanks be to God hard as nails and
little bent even yet. But it is mind, my children, not matter, that
rules the world. See how he tickled me at the very start,--"Mr.
Bamforth"--there was a whole page of delicate flattery in the very
words and way of breathing on it. It meant I was a man. It meant I was
of some place and power in his reckoning of me. I felt myself flush, and
I grew bigger to myself. Why, I do not think anyone had ever called me
"Mr. Bamforth" before. Even 'Siah, our teamer, called me "Ben." The
Vicar at the Church called me "Ben," and ruffled me not a little by the
patronizing way he had. Mr. Webster, at the Powle, called me "Ben;" but
that I did not mind, for he said it as though he loved me.
"I am glad to see you. Any friend of George Mellor's is welcome, but
your father's son is thrice welcome. George, do you go in and prepare
our friends to receive a new member. Set all things in order, and I will
talk meanwhile with your cousin."
"And so, Mr. Bamforth," he continued.
"Nay, call me Bamforth, or plain Ben," I said. "Well, Ben be it
then--And so, Ben, you, too, are willing to strike a blow for the poor
and oppressed."
"I don't know about striking blows," I said. "To tell the truth I am
here because I said I would be here; but what I am here for I do not
know, except that I am here to learn why I am here. It's true enough my
heart is heavy for the poor; but what I can do, and saving your presence
what you can do, or George, or such as us, passes my wit."
"We can try, at least, the force of union," he made answer. "We can try
what the force of numbers will do. We can entreat; we can threaten"--
"But what is a bark without a bite?" I asked. "And how can you bite
without setting your own teeth on edge?"
"Ah! there's the rub," he said. "But we won't jump before we get to the
stile. One step at a time and await developments, say I. But come, we
will join our friends. It will be a comfort to me to have one cool head
in our number. We have no lack of madcaps." The long low chamber which
we now entered was in darkness, save for the light of two small
lanthorns, placed on a long narrow table that ran down the centre of the
room. Forms ran round three sides of the room. At the head of the table
was an arm chair of ancient oak. In the centre of the table, flanked on
either side by lanthorns, which turned their lights each to the other,
was a human skull. In the chair sat one whom I felt rather than saw to
be my cousin George. By his right hand was a Bible; on his left, one who
acted as secretary and kept a roll of members, a precious document I
would afterwards have given all I was worth to lay my hands on. The
forms around the wall were close packed by masked men, in working dress,
who rose as Booth led me into the room and placed me at the foot of the
table confronting the president. All rose as we slowly made our way to
that place, Booth holding me by the hand. I was in a cold sweat, and
wished myself a thousand miles away. Booth left me standing there
peering straight at him I knew to be my cousin.
"No. 20, I call upon you to explain to this candidate the principles of
our order."
"We are banded together," said a voice from the line of figures on my
right, a voice I knew at once to be Booth's; for no other man I ever
knew, scarce any woman, had a voice so gentle, so plaintive. "We are
banded together to assert the rights of labour, to resist the
encroachments and the cruelty of capital. We seek to succour the needy
and to solace the sorrowing. We aim to educate the toilers to a sense of
their just rights, to amend the political, the social, and the economic
condition of those whose only wealth is their labour, whose only
birth-right is to toil. Our methods are persuasion, argument, united
representation of our claims, and if need be, the removal of those
mechanic rivals of human effort by which callous and heartless employers
are bent on supplanting the labour of our hands. But this only in the
last resort, all other means exhausted, our righteous claims flouted,
our fair demands denied."
"Benjamin Bamforth," came my cousin's voice across the gloom.
"You have heard the statement of our aims. Are you willing to ally
yourself with us and to aid us in our cause? If so, answer 'I am.'"
"I am."
"We are witnesses of your solemn obligation. Who vouches for Benjamin
Bamforth?"
"That do I," said Booth.
"That, too, do I," said another voice that sounded familiar to my ears.
"Place before him the Book. Place your hands, Brother Bamforth, upon the
Bible and fix your eyes upon these emblems of mortality. As they are, so
be you, if you falter, or if you fail. Repeat after me the words of our
oath."
Then, phrase by phrase, in a silence only broken by the voices of us
twain and the heavy breathing of that grim group, I repeated after the
playfellow of my boyhood and my manhood's friend the solemn words: "I,
Benjamin Bamforth, of my own voluntary will, do declare and solemnly
swear that I never will reveal to any person or persons under the canopy
of heaven the names of the persons who comprise this secret committee
their proceedings, meetings, places of abode, dress, features,
complexion, or anything else that might lead to a discovery of the same,
either by word, deed or sign, under the penalty of being sent out of the
world by the first brother who shall meet me, and my name and character
blotted out of existence, and never to be remembered but with contempt
and abhorrence. And I further do swear, to use my best endeavours to
punish by death any traitor or traitors, should any rise up among us,
wherever I may find him or them, and though he should fry to the verge
of nature I will pursue him with unceasing vengeance, so help me God and
bless me, to keep this my oath inviolate."
"Kiss the Book."
I kissed the Bible.
"Show more light."
In each quarter of the room a light shone forth, its rays till now
obscured.
"Brethren, unmask, and let our brother know his brethren."
I looked around me blinking in the sudden glare. There were many I knew
not. More than one I knew. The voice that had haunted was the voice of
Soldier Jack, who looked, I thought, somewhat foolish as my eye fell on
him. There was William Thorpe, a cropper at Fisher's, of the Brigg, and
Ben Walker and William Smith, who worked at my uncle Wood's. Thorpe, I
knew, was a mate of my cousin George, and I was not much surprised to
see him. Smith I knew only by sight, having seen him when I had taken
work to be finished at the Brigg. Walker I knew somewhat better. His
father was ever styled Buck Walker, having been somewhat of a gallant in
his younger days, and even now fancying himself not a little. Ben o'
Buck's was a young man of about my own age, dark and sallow, with deep
set eyes and a sly fawning way. He had gone out of his way to be civil
to me, and more than once in the summer-time had walked of a Sunday from
Powle Chapel, where his father was a deacon, across the fields home with
us. He was attentive in a quiet way to Mary to whom he spoke, I
understood, chiefly about his sins, which troubled him greatly. Martha
said it was his stomach that was wrong. She knew it by his pasty face
and by his hands, cold and damp, like a fish tail. Martha was a lass of
some prejudices. My father was rather partial to Ben, a quiet harmless
lad, he judged, that would run steady and show no nonsense. I did not
greatly care for him myself, but I wondered rather to see him where he
was, not having given him credit for so much spunk. But most I
marvelled, at Soldier Jack, yet did I gather courage from his presence,
for I leaned on his stout heart and his worldly knowledge, gleaned in
many strange scenes and lands.
But George was speaking to me again.
"There are signs in our Order, Brother Bamforth, and I will now
communicate them to you. The first, the right hand passed behind the
neck, thus, signifies 'Are you a Lud?' The party challenged should reply
by placing two forefingers on his chin, thus. We have also a password
which will admit you to our meetings, and to those of others in our
movement. It is 'Work, Win.' You will now take your seat among the
brethren and the business of the meeting will be resumed. 'Any
reports?'"
"Enoch Taylors taken on six more men," said a Marsden man. "They're
making frames as fast as they can. Orders are rolling in. Horsfall's
putting them into Ottiwells as quick as they're made. Th' owd hands are
told they're no use, an' young 'uns is being browt fra' no one knows
where, to work th' shearing frames. Aw'n seen some cloth 'ats been
finished on a frame, an' it welly broke my heart. Aw'n been a cropper,
lad and man, for thirty year, an' aw nivver turned aht owt like it. It
were as smooth as a babby's cheek. An' th' frame can do th' work of four
men awn heerd th' mester tell. It's ruination, stark ruination, an' me
wi' five childer an' yar Emma lying in."
"That's noan hauf o' th' tale--Horsfall's fair wild wi' joy. He says
he'll feight Napoleon wi' a finishin' frame. He cries shame on th'
Nottingham police. He says th' magistrates there owt to be drummed off
th' bench. He says they're a pigeon-livered lot, an' if he'd been there,
he'd a ridden up to th' saddle girths i' th' blood o' th' Luds before
he'd ha' been baulked o' his way."
"Shame on him, shame on him!" broke out fierce voices.
"Reports come from Liversedge that Cartwright, of Rawfolds, has ordered
a set of machines from Taylor. William Hall, have yo' owt to say?"
A man about thirty, dirty and slovenly, with a blotched face and
slouching look, who it turned out lived at Hightown and had been
dismissed from Mr. Jackson's there and had been taken on at Wood's, then
rose. He had a great deal to say. He spoke of Mr. Cartwright: more of a
foreigner nor an Englishmen, he called him. A quiet man with a cutting
tongue. Had ne'er a civil word for a man an' down on him in a jiffy if
he looked at a pot o' beer. Drank nowt himself, which Hall looked on as
a bad sign and unEnglish. Was sacking th' owd hands and stocking
Rawfolds with machines and Parson Roberson was worse nor him. I had a
sight of that same fighting parson not many months after, and Bill Hall
was not far off the mark.
"Has any brother owt more to say anent Horsfall or Cartwright?" asked
Mellor.
"I move they're warned," cried one.
"I'll second it," said another.
"Give it 'em hot," cried a third. "Tell 'em plain we mean business. I'm
sick o' letter writin'. They laugh at our letters." "Let them laugh,"
said George; "they'll laugh at wrong side o' their mouths afore we'n
done wi' them. And now, lads, enough o' business. Th' landlord 'll be
thinking we're poor customers. Let's have some ale and drive dull care
away. A song, boys; who'll sing us a song?"
"That will I, George, but I mun drink first. My belly's beginnin' to
think ahn cut mi throat."
A brother had left the room, and now appeared with an immense jug of
ale, and tots were handed round. Cutty pipes were produced and coarse
tobacco. Who paid the shot I do not know. But I have heard tell that
some masters who were threatened paid quit money, and others even gave
money that their neighbours' mills might be visited. But this I know not
of a certainty, and only set it down as a thing that was said. This I
know, there was no lack of ale among the lads, and money, too, came from
somewhere.
"Now for your song, Soldier," said George, and the men settled
themselves for a spree and a fuddle. The croppers were ever a free lot
given to roystering and cock fighting and bull baiting and other
vanities.
And thus sang Soldier Jack, and all that knew the song joined lustily in
the chorus, for that wild moor there was no fear of intruders, and our
host had not love enough for the justices to set them on good customers.
"Come cropper lads of high renown,
Who love to drink good ale that's brown,
And strike each haughty tyrant down,
With hatchet, pike, and gun!
Oh, the cropper lads for me,
The gallant lads for me,
Who with lusty stroke,
The shear frames broke,
The cropper lads for me!
What though the specials still advance,
And soldiers rightly round us prance,
The cropper lads still lead the dance,
With hatchet, pike, and gun!
Oh, the cropper lads for me,
The gallant lads for me,
Tho with lusty stroke
The shear frames broke,
The cropper lads for me!
And night by night when all is still
And the moon is hid behind the hill,
We forward march to do our will
With hatchet, pike, and gun!
Oh, the cropper lads for me,
The gallant lads for me,
Who with lusty stroke
The shear frames broke,
The cropper lads for me!
Great Enoch still shall lead the van.
Stop him who dare! Stop him who can!
Press forward every gallant man
With hatchet, pike, and gun!
Oh, the cropper lads for me,
The gallant lads for me,
Who with lusty stroke
The shear frames broke,
The cropper lads for me!"
The song was chorused with gusto by most there, and it was plain enough
to see that the meeting had more hopes from great Enoch, as the Luds
called the hammer used in machine smashing, after Enoch Taylor of
Marsden, than they had from either persuasion or threats. That something
more than words was in their minds was evident enough later on when we
all turned out into a field at the back of the Buck. There was a watery
moon in the sky that gave a ghostly sort of light. By this light Soldier
Jack drew up the twenty or thirty men who left their cups and followed
him into the fold. And there did Jack put us through our drill. One or
two had muskets, a few had pikes. They had been fetched out of the
mistal, where by day they lay concealed on the hay bowk. It was rare to
see Jack at his drilling. We were formed in line fronting him, and Jack
did gravely walk down the line, commenting on our appearance, and trying
to bring us to some fashion of military time.
And this was the style of drill.
"Hold thi head up, man; thi breast's noan th' place for thi chin." This
to No. 1.
"Dal thi, No. 2, will ta' square thi shoulders back or will ta' not?
Hast ta' getten th' bellywark 'at tha' draws thissen in like that?"
"Turn th' toes 'aat, No. 3. I said heels together not toes, tha'
gaumless idiot."
"Na' then, tenshun! Eyes front. Shoulder arms, right wheel.
Mar------ch!" And away walked Jack with his head up and an old sabre
over his shoulder, disguising his limp as best he could, at the head of
his little column, as proud, I verily believe, as though he captained a
company. It seemed to me poor fooling, then and always, but it gave such
huge satisfaction to Soldier Jack, I never had the heart to tell him so,
nor to shirk my drill.
"A poor shiftless lot," he complained to me as we walked near midnight
across Cupwith Common, the three rough miles that lay between the Buck
and Lower Holm. "A peer shiftless lot, but what could you expect from a
lot of croppers?"
"What do you think to make of them, Jack?" I asked.
"Why, nowt," he answered. "Just nowt; but then yo' see they mun do
something. It's all very well to go to th' Buck an' drink ale an' sing
songs. I'll back th' croppers at drinkin' ale an' singing songs against
th' best regiment the Duke has in Spain. But if all this meeting an'
masking an' speechifyin' is to do any good and lead to owt, there must
be action, sooner or later. And in that day it will be well for th' Luds
if there is even one voice which they have learned to obey. Do you think
it's the great generals that win battles?"
"Why, of course, it is?" I answered.
"That's just where yo're out," said Jack.
"It's th' sergeants and th' corporals. Yo' see in a feight yo' cannot
see much further nor yo'r nose end. All yo'n got to do for th' most part
is to keep your eye an' yo'r ear on th' sergeant that's drilled yo' sin'
yon learned the goose step, an' do as he tells you. As long as he keeps
his head an yo' hear his voice, calm an' cheerful, just as if yo' were
in the barrack yard or on parade, yo'r all reight an' yo do as you're
told, like Tommy Tun, whoever he wer."
"I never heard on him, Jack. Whose lad was he?"
"Aw don't rightly know, but aw reckon he were famous for keepin' in
step. Howsomever, mark my words, George Mellor's a good lad, wi' fire
enough for hauf a dozen. That lad o' Parson Booth's, 'at 'ud be better
employed if he wer' at home helpin' his mother to rock th' craddle, is a
rare 'un to talk. Thorpe's a good 'un if it comes to fisticuffs, but
it'll be Soldier Jack they'll all look to when th' bullets is whizzing
ovver their heads, an' what little wit they have is scattered an gone."
"But, surely, Jack, there'll be no whizzing of bullets?"
"Oh! won't there? Aye that an' waur. Do yo' know Horsfall, o'
Ottiwell's, has got th' soldiers billetted in th' town, th' King's Bays.
Aw've drunk wi' sum o' them, an' had a crack about old times. Oh! curses
on this gamey heel o' mine that keeps me limping o'er Cupwith Common
when I might be stepping out behind the colours to the merry music of
fife an' drum. Yo'll never know, lad, the savage joy of battle. It is
the wine o' life. When yo've once tasted it, even love an' liquor are
flat beside it. But what can't be cured mun be endured. Well aw say,
aw'n talked wi' a sergeant at th' Red Lion i' Marsden. They're
patrolling th' district ivvery night. If we go to Ottiwell's, there'll
be a warm welcome for us."
"But why are yo' in it, Jack, that's what caps me?" I said. "Yo're
nawther a cropper nor th' son of a cropper."
"No. What o' thissen Ben?"
"Well, yo see, I promised George. I cannot run off mi word. An' George
sees further, perhaps, nor I do. Then young Booth says its opposition or
submission. Opposition may mean imprisonment or worse, but submission
can only mean pining to death."
"Then yo'r in for George?" Jack asked.
"Well if you like to put it so, Soldier, yo'll none be so far off th'
mark."
"Well then say aw'm in it for yo' an' for sport, an' cause an' its i' mi
natur. But most, Ben Bamforth, it's for yo' an' another lad or two,
'at'll need a true friend an' a shrewd head an' a tricky tongue before
this work's through. And so, good neet, an' wipe th' muck off thi boots,
else that saucy Mary o' yours 'll be axing more questions nor yo'll care
to answer."