PIP BEAMISH
'Do go on and leave me alone,' said Zita.
Then again the young man sped forward with the sledge, at full speed on
his skates. There was a glow of something more than health—something
more than the reaction produced by the fresh wind—in his cheeks.
'Here's a joke!' exclaimed Mark, stopping for a moment. 'I see quite a
throng round Beamish's mill.'
Again he went on. And Zita, looking in the direction he had indicated,
saw that a considerable number of persons was collected, some on the
banks, some on the ice, and as many as could be accommodated on the
brick platform of a windmill.
Without halting, Mark said, 'The paddle can't go because of the frost,
but Pip Beamish's tongue can wag, and when it wags it is for mischief.
He is a restless, dissatisfied rascal. We'll go and hear what he has to
say.'
Mark stayed the sledge when he reached the outer ring of the
congregation that was gathered together about the mill.
The day was Sunday, so no work was being done. There were idlers
everywhere, specially on the ice. In present days there is little
church-going in the Fens, in former days there was none. Churches are
few and far apart. In mediæval times the monks of Ely had chapels on
every islet that rose a few feet above the meres, and they boated from
one to another, gathering around them for divine service and moral
instruction the aquatic population of the Fens. With the Reformation
these chapels were let fall into ruin, and care for the souls of the
fen-dwellers ceased. The canons of the cathedral were wealthy and idle,
and it never so much as occurred to their sleepy, stagnant consciences
that they had duties to perform towards the inhabitants of the district
whence they drew their revenues.
When the meres were dried, and settlers occupied the drained land, then
the parochial clergy were unable to cope with the altered condition
of affairs. The roads were impassable, the distances enormous, their
incomes had not increased with the alteration in the value of the lands
included in their vast parishes. Consequently, the fen-folk came to
think little of their religious duties. The church towers might serve
as landmarks, but the church pastors were not spiritual guides. The
only form of religion that commended itself to an amphibious population
was Anabaptism, and that mainly because it consisted of a good souse in
fen-water. A few of the sterner spirits settled into the sect, but the
bulk of the natives grew up and lived without any religion at all; or,
if they professed to be Christians, they took care to allow it in no
way to interfere with their profits or their pleasures.
The assemblage about the mill consisted of labouring men and their
wives; some were in their Sunday clothes, but others had not taken the
trouble to 'clean' themselves. Such were the men who lounged about on
holidays with springes and nets in their pockets, and a gun barrel up
the left sleeve.
A stool was planted close to the mill, and on it stood a young man with
high cheek-bones, long dark hair, and glittering eyes under heavy,
bushy brows. He had unusually lengthy arms, and at the extremities of
the arms unusually broad, flat hands. These he flourished about. He
drew in his elbows to his sides, and emphasised an appeal by suddenly
throwing out his arms and extending his fingers. Having his back to the
mill, which was constructed of boards, what he said was audible to some
distance. The boards served as reverberators.
'I say it is a sin,' shouted the orator. 'Here be the farmers turning
earth into corn, and corn into gold guineas, and the men as helps them
to do it ain't paid enough to keep body and soul together. What was
wheat a quarter only a short while ago? It was one hundred and twenty
shillings and sixpence. Now it is ninety-six shillings. And what are
the wages? Seven to ten shillings. What is the difference between seven
shillings and ninety-six? Eighty-nine, is it not? That is what goes
into the farmers' pockets. Who do all the work? And who get all the
gains? Look into every stackyard and see what wheat is there for the
rats and mice to eat,—they are not begrudged it, let them eat,—but
you and your children must starve. Why are not the stacks threshed
out? Because the farmers are waiting till the wheat goes up to one
hundred and twenty-six shillings again. You may perish of hunger—that
is nothing to them. Your children may run naked—that is nothing to
them. You may drink fen-water because you haven't twopence to pay for a
half-pint of beer—that is nothing to them. You mayn't have a blanket
to throw over your beds this freezing weather—they don't care. You may
have the walls of your cots so full of cracks that the wind whistles
through them—they don't care. Your hands have held the plough, your
hands have sown the corn, your wives and children have hoed it three
times, you have reaped it, you have stacked it—and there it stands
for rats and mice to eat, till prices go up to one hundred and
twenty-six shillings. Ninety-six is not good enough for them,—these
bloodsuckers,—and you are content to let things remain so. What I
maintain is, that you have a right to say to the farmers, "Thresh out
now while we are hungry; the price is too high even now for us, and why
should sad days for us be golden days for you?"'
His address was received with applause.
Mark turned to Zita and said in a low tone, 'He is right after a
fashion. I'll set to work and thresh to-morrow. I'll let the labourers
who are on my farm have this corn ten per cent. under market price. I
cannot act fairer than that.'
'And how is it with the millers?' pursued the orator. 'Don't they take
toll of every sack of corn you send to them to be ground? Are not their
pigs and cows kept fat on what the miller's fist brings up out of your
flour? As if it were not enough that you were cheated by the farmer,
you must be cheated also by the miller. Pillaged in every way, pinched
on every side, trodden on by every one—that is your fate.'
His words met with applause.
'We have gone on hoping, and we have been disappointed. What good
comes to us from Parliament? None at all. What help do we get from
the laws? The laws are made for the benefit of the farmer, and not
for the poor man. What good to us are magistrates—justices of the
peace? They are appointed to hold us down, to fine and imprison us.
They are the farmer's friends, not the friends of the poor man. We are
told that Old Boney is the foe of our country. Men are called from the
plough, plucked away from their wives and children, to serve the king
against this Bonaparte. What does patriotism mean? It means loving the
country where we are ill-treated and starved, loving the king who never
concerns himself about us, loving the laws that oppress us, loving the
magistrates who imprison us, loving the farmers who are sucking the
marrow out of our bones. I'm no patriot. As well ask a poor prisoner
to love his jail, shed his blood in its defence. I'll tell you what it
is, friends, Heaven helps them who help themselves. No good will come
to us from waiting. Heaven is silent so long as we bear and do nothing,
but Heaven will send its lightning and hailstones when we take the
matter into our own hands. It was so in the day of battle in Gibeon;
then the Lord cast down great stones from heaven upon the oppressors
of Israel, and made sun and moon to stand still till they were cut to
pieces, smitten hip and thigh. The great stones would have remained in
the clouds, sun and moon have taken their usual courses, had not Joshua
and Israel armed themselves to fight—to right their own wrongs. So
will it be again, so has it ever been, so will it be unto the end. We
must raise our hands to fight our fight, raise our hands against our
oppressors, or there will be no help for us from on high. If you remain
hoping and doing nothing, then, as I said before—to be trampled into
the mud—that is your fate.'
'And to be thrashed and to be kicked out of employ—that is what is
laid up for you, you rascal!' shouted an imperious voice.
Zita and Mark looked round, and saw behind them Drownlands on his horse.
'I will see to you, Pip Beamish, as sure as that I am a Commissioner,'
continued the master of Prickwillow. 'You were not set to tend a mill
that you might stump it and foment ill-feeling. I shall report what
you have said at the next meeting of the Commissioners, and shall have
you cast adrift.' Then, turning to the audience, Drownlands brandished
his whip and cried, 'As for the rest of you, disperse instantly, or I
will ride up and down among you and lash you with my whip, and send you
skipping home.'
The crowd broke up into knots, then further dissolved and dispersed.
'I'll have your names, and see that you are thrown out of employ. Get
home at once, before the whip is at your breech.'
The haughty, commanding tone of the man, and the knowledge that he was
one ready to execute his threats, seemed to make those who hesitated
consider that the better part of valour was discretion, and they
scattered in all directions.
Drownlands, upright in his stirrups, looked about him, marking those
who seemed reluctant to obey his orders. Then his eye rested on Zita.
His face changed immediately.
'You here?'
'Mark ran me up in his sleigh.'
'Mark? Mark? What Mark? How dare you come here without leave from me?'
'I am not your servant. I am not your prisoner. I go where I choose. I
do what I will,' answered Zita, nettled at his tone.
'Hallo!' scoffed Drownlands. 'What! has the mad folly of Ephraim
Beamish infected your little brain?'
'My brain is sound enough. It is you, Master Drownlands, who forget
what your place is, and what is mine. You are not my master. I am not
your servant. I pay my way. I am a lodger at Prickwillow, nothing more.
If I please to go out for a run on the ice with Mark, I am not idle. I
have done my work in your house, and may enjoy myself as I like.'
'Do not bandy words with me.'
'It is of no use arguing with him,' whispered the young yeoman. 'He is
in one of his passions, when he acts and talks unreasonably. Take no
notice of him.'
'What are you whispering about? Making mock of me?' roared Drownlands.
'Come, Cheap Jack,' said Mark, 'jump on to the sleigh again; and you,
Master Drownlands,' he looked at the horseman with a laugh, 'let us
race—you on the bank, I on the canal—and Zita the prize.'