BURNT HATS
At the time of our tale, the Duck at Isleham—a solitary inn on
slightly rising ground—was notorious as a place of resort for
poachers, a centre to which smuggled goods were brought from the Wash,
and whence they were distributed, and a general rendezvous for the
dissatisfied. Not a bad trade was done at the Duck. Thither came the
poachers as to a mart for the disposal of their game, and the dealers
to take the spoil of the poachers; thither came not only those who
brought, up the dark path from the sea, spirits which had not paid
duty, but also the farmers who desired to lay in supplies. As the
fen-water was not potable unmixed, it was a matter of necessity for
the fen-dwellers to temper it with something that would neutralise its
unpleasant savour as well as kill its unwholesome elements. Moreover,
such being the case, those who desired to lay in a stock of this
counteracting agent went for it, by a law of nature, to the cheapest
shop, and the cheapest shop was that where the traffic was in spirits
that were contraband. Lastly, at the Duck assembled the great company
of grumblers, large everywhere, but especially large in the Fens.
As the Duck afforded space for a good many grumblers in bar and
kitchen and parlour, and as grumblers like to grumble into the ears
of men of their own kidney, the Duck drew to it the discontented of
all classes—farmers dissatisfied with their rent, yeomen dissatisfied
at their rates, artisans out of humour because trade was slack,
gangers, clayers, bankers, gaulters, slodgers, millers, molers,
gozzards—everyone whom the depressing atmosphere of the Fens made
dispirited, and who thought the cause of his depression was due to the
oppression of some one else.
The kitchen of the Duck was full. A great fire of turf was heaped
up, and glowed red, diffusing heat, but giving out no flame, and,
notwithstanding the tobacco smoke, filling the place with its
penetrating, peculiar odour. The men present—on this occasion they
were all men—were drinking; they were mostly men of the class of
agricultural labourer. Among them were two or three with dazed eyes,
men silent, pallid, who looked at the speakers and acquiesced in every
sentiment or opinion expressed, however contradictory they might be.
These were opium-eaters.
In the Fens, almost every cottage grows its crop of white poppy in the
small garden. Of the poppy heads a tea is brewed. The mothers are
accustomed to work in the fields, hoeing between the ranks of wheat.
The rich soil that produces the corn produces also weeds that have to
be kept under. That the babe may not interfere with the mother earning
a small wage, it is given poppy tea, and that sends it to sleep for
the day. But the drops of opium thus administered in infancy affect
the tender brains, bewilder them, and subject the child to nervous
pains. As it grows up to man or womanhood, it has recourse to the drug
to which it was brought up in infancy. A large business in laudanum is
done in the Fens, and much of the distraught mind and tortured nerve is
due to this cause. The poppy tea dispels trouble as surely as whisky,
and opium dulls pain at a cheaper and surer rate than the surgeon who
boggles over its removal.
'I tell you,' said Pip Beamish, 'it is due to the farmers and yeomen.
Look at them, up to the eyes in gold, and gold that is squeezed out of
the fen by your hands. Till they have been taught a lesson, and that
a sharp and stinging one, they will go on in the same way. No Acts of
Parliament will help us. You may send up whom you will, Whig or Tory,
to Westminster, it is the same. No party will do aught for you. No
judges and no jury are of any avail, for law can't come in and right
us. We must do that with our own hands. When a boy won't do the right
thing, you put a stick across his back and make him; you don't ask for
an Act of Parliament, you don't elect a member to teach him his duty.
We must teach our farmers as you teach idle and thievish boys. Teach
them in such a way as they won't forget. Teach them to fear the rod.
Set the stackyards blazing throughout the Fens, and by the light of
those fires they'll begin to see what is the way of justice and equity.'
'I don't see how that's going to lower the price of wheat,' said a
ganger, named Silas Gotobed. 'You sez that the cost of bread is too
high. If you burn the wheatstacks, there will be less corn, and up the
price will go.'
'You're right there. That's reason, Silas,' said a third, Thomas Goat,
a gaulter. 'The mischief don't lie with the farmers. They grow the
corn—some one must do that. The wickedness is in the eaters.'
'Why, we're all eaters.'
'Ay!' said Goat sententiously. 'But we've a right to eat; there be a
lot eats as hasn't a right to do so.'
'You mean rats and mice.'
'No, I don't—leastways not four-legged ones.'
'What do you mean, then?'
'It is them collegers,' said Goat. 'I've been to Cambridge. I've seen
them there, a thousand of them. They come up in swarms from every
part of England, and there they do nought but eat and drink and row
on the river, and play cricket on Parker's Piece. Rowin' and playin'
cricket ain't qualifications for eatin'. What would you say if a
thousand rats, big as bullocks, was to come on to the Fens and attack
our stacks? There'd be a pretty outcry. Every man would take down his
gun. The terriers would be called for. Traps, poison would be laid, and
none quiet till every rat was exterminated. Very well, up from every
part of England come these darned collegers to the Univarsity, and
spend their time there, eatin'—eatin'—eatin'. Mates, I axes, what
are they eatin'? It is the wheat we grow on our fens. I calculate that
one-half of what we grow goes down into their stomicks. If there were
no collegers, then there'd be twice as much corn, and corn would be
at forty-eight instead of ninety-six. It is that Univarsity and them
collegers does it. I have shown you that as clear as these five fingers
of mine. If that ain't reason, show me where it is to be found.'
'I don't hold with you,' said Gotobed, impatient at having his say
snapped out of his mouth. 'I suppose collegers must eat somewhere.'
'Let them stay and eat at home.'
'Well, but what about the price of wheat at their homes? Won't they
diminish the supply there?'
'That don't concern us,' shouted a clayer named Gathercole. 'It is
no odds to us what the supply and what the price is elsewhere. All
that concerns us is the supply and the price here in the Fens. Goat,
you've hit the wrong nail on the head! I know better than you; it's the
bankers does it.'
'What have you to say against the bankers?' asked Goat. 'I'd like to
know where the corn would be if the bankers did not keep the rivers
from overflow.'
'I mean those who have banks in towns,' explained Gathercole. 'I've
been to Mortlock's in Ely. I've seen what the clerks do there. They
have drawers full of gold. They don't trouble to put their fingers to
it, they shovel it in and shovel it out like muck. Whence does Mortlock
get all that gold, I ask. It comes out of the Fens. The farmers are
such dizzy-fools that they put their money there for Mortlock to take
care of, and Mortlock sends the money out of the country to America.
What's the advantage of the farmers growing corn, and of the labourers
helping to grow it, what's the pleasure to reap and sow and plough and
mow and be a farmer's boy, if all the money earned and addled goes into
Mortlock's bank, and Mortlock sends it to America? I wish I was in
Parliament one week, and I'd hang every banker in the country, and burn
every ship as takes the money out of England and carries it to America.'
'I say it is the millers,' said Isaac Harley, a clayer. 'You send a
sack of corn to the soak-mill, and you get back half a sack of flour.
How is that? There should be as much flour come back as corn went, but
there does not. I have proved it scores of times. I've sent a sack
so full of wheat that I could scarce bind the mouth, and when it
came back as flour it was but half full. That is what makes corn so
dear—the millers steal it. If I were king for half a day, I'd drown
every miller in England in his own dam.'
'You are all of you out,' said a small landowner, named Abraham Cutman.
'But it is like your ignorance. You feel that the shoe pinches, but
you don't know where it pinches, and why it pinches. I will tell you.
I have education, and you have not. It is the rates. We are paying
from six to seven shillings an acre for the drainage of the Fens. The
rate has been up to ten shillings and sixpence. Why should we pay
that? We can't afford to pay seven shillings an acre in rates, and
pay our workmen well also. All the profits are consumed in rates. The
Commissioners stick it on, and they can't help it; they must have the
banks kept up and the mills in working order.'
'Of course they must,' threw in the gaulter.
'They must have their mills,' said Beamish. 'But why am I thrown out of
employ, that did no wrong, and never neglected my duty?'
'Silence all round. Listen to me,' said Cutman. 'The wrong lies here.
Take off the rate, and the price of corn will go down, and the price of
labour will go up.'
'That's it. Cutman has it!' exclaimed several.
But Goat dissented. 'There must be a rate,' said he, 'or how should I
be paid for my gaulting? and without gaulting there can be no banking.'
'Of course there must be a rate. I'd have it permanently fixed by Act
of Parliament at fifteen shillings an acre.'
'You would?'
'Yes, I would; so that gaulters and bankers should have double wages.
They work hard and deserve it.'
'Right you are, master,' said Goat; but others murmured.
'Why should gaulters and bankers only have double pay? Why not molers
and gozzards also?' others again asked. 'How about the price of wheat
then?'
'I said I'd have the rate fixed at fifteen shillings an acre,' pursued
Cutman, looking about him with an air of superiority. 'Fifteen
shillings an acre—not a penny less. But I'd have the rate shifted
from fen-land as wants draining to all other land in Great Britain as
doesn't want draining. The rate should be laid on all other shoulders
except ours. Stick a rate on to Mortlock's and all bankers. Stick it
on to the colleges and the universities. Stick it on to all high and
dry lands, where there is no call for banking and draining. Stick it on
where you like, only take it off from the Fens. Why should we pay rates
for draining our land when the farmers on high ground pay nothing?
They have their land six or seven shillings an acre cheaper than do
we. If I were in the Ministry, the first thing I would do would be to
impose a compulsory rate of fifteen shillings an acre on all land that
didn't want draining, to pay for the draining of land that did want it.
Then we'd have high times of it here in the Fens—farmers, bankers,
slodgers, all round. If that is not reason, and you don't see it, so
much the worse for your intelligences.'
'I don't call that reason at all,' said Goat. 'Don't tell me the
Commissioners would pay us double wages when the rate was at fifteen.
It is six now, and I get eleven shillings a week. Twelve years ago it
was half a guinea rate, and then my wage was ten shillings. If the rate
were up to fifteen I should be wuss off. Every four shillings the rate
goes up my wage goes down a shilling. With the rate at fifteen, I'd
be worse off—with a wage of five and sixpence, or six shillings at
most. I hold to it that the mischief lies in the Univarsity, with them
collegers a-eatin'—eatin'—eatin'. I'll fight at flap-chap any man as
disputes my argiment.'
'I dispute it,' said Silas Gotobed, starting up.
'Very well. We'll find out which has the best of the argiment and
reason on his side with flap-chaps.'
'My argiment is this,' said Gotobed. 'Rivers ought to run uphill. If
they don't choose to, they should be made to, by Act of Parliament.
Then we'd be dry, and them on high grounds would be wet. Then
they'd have the rates and the bother, and we'd be free. That is my
contention, and it's all gammon about them collegers.'
He placed himself opposite Goat.
'I don't care what you may call yourself,' said he to his opponent,
'Goat or sheep; but you're an ass, and every one knows it.'
Then Ephraim Beamish ran between the men, who stood facing each other
with threatening looks.
'Be reasonable,' he said, thrusting them apart with his long arms. 'Why
do you fly at each other, instead of at the common foe?'
'I don't know what be the common foe,' retorted Goat, 'if it bain't the
collegers. If I was in Parliament'—
'It's the bankers,' said Jonas Gathercole. 'If I was in Parliament'—
'It's the millers!' shouted Harley. 'If I was in Parliament'—
'It's the rates!' exclaimed Cutman; 'and a law should be made, and
shall be when I'm in Parliament'—
'You're every one out!' roared Silas Gotobed; 'it's Providence, as
don't do what it should be made to do, and force the rivers to run
uphill.'
'Sit down! you're drunk,' cried Cutman.
'I'm not going to be ordered about by you,' retorted the ganger; 'we're
all equal here. I haven't been bankrupt and sold my stacks twice over.'
Cutman fell into the rear. He had been guilty of fraudulent conduct at
his bankruptcy.
'I say it is the Univarsity, and I maintains my argiment,' said Goat.
'I'll prove it on your chaps.'
'I sez it is the rivers ought to run uphill. I'll box your donkey ears
if you denies it. That's my argiment.'
Gotobed made a lunge at this opponent and missed him. Flap-chaps is a
pastime affected in the Fens, more so in former times than at present,
but not out of favour now. It consists in this. Two men face each other
and endeavour to slap each other's cheeks, right or left, as best they
can, and as best they can to ward off with the same open palm the
blows aimed at their own chaps. Those who play this game acquire great
dexterity at it, but when much ale or spirits has been drunk, then the
eye has lost its quickness of perception, the hand its steadiness, the
brain its coolness, and the contest rapidly degenerates into a drunken
brawl and a roll on the floor, with fisticuffs and head-bumping.
It promised to so degenerate on the present occasion. Gotobed was the
most intoxicated and least able to parry the blows levelled at him, and
every time Goat's hand made his cheek sting, it roused him to a further
access of fury that blinded him to what he was about; he withdrew
his left hand from behind his back. This provoked an outcry from the
lookers-on of, 'Not fair play! Hand back! hand back!'
Beamish again endeavoured to interpose, but came off with both his ears
tingling; he had received a blow on one cheek from Goat, and on the
other from Gotobed. The strife recommenced after this futile attempt to
separate the men. Slap, slap, on the chaps of Gotobed, followed by a
blow from his fist in the face of his adversary. This occasioned a yell
from all in the room of 'Cheat—not fair! a fine! a fine, Silas! Fair
game or none at all.'
'I'll pay a fine indeed!' roared Gotobed. Then, springing at his
opponent, who staggered stupefied under the blow he had received,
he snatched his hat from his head, and, thrusting it into the fire,
shouted, 'Caps! Caps!' Then he dashed at Cutman, who wore a white
beaver.
'Your hat!' he demanded.
'You shall not have it. It is as good as new.'
'I will have it,' answered Gotobed. 'Ain't we all equal? Isn't it the
rule? What are you better than me? One cap—all caps. That's the rule.'
He tore the white beaver out of the yeoman's hands, and rammed it with
his ironshod boot into the glowing turf fire.
'Mates! Mates! Show up your caps!'
Then ensued wild confusion. Some snatched the caps and hats from those
who were near them, some endeavoured to protect their own headgear from
confiscation, and fought for them. Some thrust their own caps into the
flames, and in ten minutes there was not one in the company but was
without a cover for his crown.[1]
Beamish had made angry resistance. Three men assailed him, tripped him
up, and sent him sprawling on the alehouse floor. A fourth wrenched his
hat away and thrust it into the flames, shouting, 'You're a fine chap
to say all men are equal, and want to keep your own hat when the rest
are bareheaded.'
The landlord stepped outside, to see that the fiery tinder did not fall
on and ignite the thatch. He returned and said, 'It is snowing.'
'Snowing, is it?' said Gotobed, staggering to the door. 'Then we
shall all wear white night-caps to cool our heads.' Standing in the
doorway, sustaining himself by a hand on each of the jambs, looking in,
he shouted to his comrades, 'I am right. You are all wrong. At next
election I ain't going to vote for no candidate as won't promise to
make the rivers run uphill. Nothing will be as it ought to be—price
of corn won't be low, and wages won't be high, and farmers cease to
oppress, and bankers to send the money out of this country, and millers
to fill their fists with flour, and Commissioners to pocket money that
ought to have gone to the gangers, and collegians to cease to eat—till
Providence has been forced to do what it ort—and make the rivers run
uphill.'
[Footnote 1: Burnt caps is a curious and inexplicable custom in the
Fens. It is one that terminates many a brawl. If one man burns the hat
of another, it is _de rigueur_ that all the rest of the company should
surrender their headgear to complete the holocaust.]