THE FEN RIOTS
Several and various causes had combined to produce discontent in the
Fens.
Those who lived by fishing and fowling were angry because the improved
drainage had destroyed their sporting grounds. Those who had been left
behind in the scramble for land were discontented because others had
seized the advantageous moment for purchasing which they had let slip.
The labourers were discontented because of the lowness of the wage and
the high price of corn. How was it possible for a man on ten or eleven
shillings a week to maintain a family, when wheat was at four to five
shillings a stone?
It is proverbial that such as have risen from poverty prove the
harshest masters. Such was the case in the Fens. The landowners were
related by blood and marriage to the labourers they employed, but,
nevertheless, they ground them under their own heels. A specimen of
their brutality may be instanced. Twice or thrice the wheat had to be
hoed, and the hoers were women. Over them the farmers set a ganger
armed with an ox goad, who thrust on the lagging women with a prod
between the shoulder-blades.
The men were paid partly in money, partly in corn, and were given the
refuse wheat that would not sell, wheat that had been badly harvested,
and had sprouted in the ear, wheat that made heavy and unwholesome
bread.
Labour in the Fens was of a specially trying nature. The clayer was
underground all day in pits throwing up the marl that was to serve
as manure to the surface earth, and was half stifled by the noxious
exhalations from the decomposing vegetable matter, and was immersed
half-way up his calves in fetid, phosphorescent ooze.
The cleaning out and deepening of the dykes was trying work, for the
workman was plunged to his waist in stagnant water and slime, tormented
by mosquitos, and poisoned by the stings of the terrible gadfly that
threw him into fever for a fortnight. Everything was poisonous. The
fen-water entering a cut produced gangrene. If the hand or foot were
wounded by a reed, a sore was the result that resisted healing.
The expenses of the fen-labourer were heavy. He could not do the tasks
set him without a pair of well-tanned leather boots reaching to the
hips, that cost him from thirty-six shillings to two pounds the pair.
His comforts were small, and were disregarded by the landowners. His
cottage, though quite modern, was supremely wretched. It had been run
up at the least possible expense, one brick thick, and one room deep,
on piles. But 'the moor' beneath the surface had shrunk through the
drainage, and the walls gaped, letting wind and rain drive through the
rents, and frost enter, impossible to expel by the largest fire.
There was then, as there is now, and always will be, a body of social
failures—fraudulent dealers detected and exposed, but not shamed, men
who, through their sourness of temper, or indolence, or dishonesty,
had failed in whatever they took in hand. These were ready-made
demagogues, all talkers, all dissatisfied with every person and thing
save themselves, accusing every institution of corruption, and every
person of injustice, because of their own incompetence. They were in
their element when real discontent prevailed on account of real wrongs.
They rose into influence as agitators; they worked on the minds of the
ignorant peasantry, dazzling them with expectations impossible to be
realised, and exciting them to a frenzy of anger against all who were
in any way their superiors. These men were rarely sincere in their
convictions. They were for the most part unscrupulous fishers in
troubled waters. Of the few that were sincere, Ephraim Beamish was one.
All the elements of dissatisfaction were combined at the period of our
tale, and the high price of wheat produced an explosion; but it was
Ephraim Beamish who applied the match.
He had been expelled his office as keeper of a mill by the
Commissioners, and his enforced idleness gave him leisure to pass from
one centre of discontent to another, to stir up the embers, fan them
to a white heat, and organise a general outbreak. On a preconcerted
day, the labourers rose, and with them was combined a large body of
men of no particular calling, who had no particular grievance, and no
particular end in view.
No suspicion of danger was entertained by the employers, and when the
dissatisfied broke out in open riot, they were taken by surprise and
were unprepared to offer resistance.
Bodies of men assembled at Mildenhall, Soham, Isleham, Downham, and
Littleport, and the order was given that they were to march upon Ely,
and on their way were to extort from the farmers promise of higher wage
and cheaper corn. In Ely contributions were to be exacted from the
Bishop, the canons, and all the wealthy and well-to-do citizens. The
mills were to be wrecked and the banks plundered.
At the head of the whole movement was Beamish, but he was more
especially to act as commander over the Littleport detachment.
Having got the men together,—the poachers and wild-duck fowlers armed
with their guns, the labourers with cudgels,—he endeavoured to marshal
them into some sort of discipline and subjection to orders. But this he
found more difficult than to bring the men together. He found the men
were not amenable to command, and were indisposed to confine themselves
to exacting contributions. Fortified by their numbers, they attacked
the grocer's shop, the vicarage, and the home of a retired farmer in
Littleport, broke in the doors and pillaged them.
Having tasted the pleasures of plunder, they were prepared to sack and
wreck any house whence they thought liquor or money was to be got.
It was in vain that Ephraim Beamish endeavoured to control the unwieldy
body of men. _Quot homines, tot sententiæ._ And as each man in the
disorderly love-feasts at Corinth had his prophecy, his psalm, and his
interpretation, so in this assemblage of peasants, each had his opinion
as to where lay the blame for the distress or discomfort under which he
laboured, each had his private grudge to avenge, each his special need
which he sought to satisfy, and all were united in equal determination
not to submit to dictation from Beamish or any other man.
The tavern at Littleport could hardly escape, although it had been a
rendezvous of the dissatisfied. The mob rushed towards it to break in
and seize on the contents of the cellar. In vain did Beamish protest
that they were injuring a good cause by their disorderly conduct; all
desired drink, and none paid heed to his remonstrance.
The taverner barely averted having his house looted by rolling a
hogshead of ale out of his doors, and bidding the rioters help
themselves.
Then Beamish sprang on a bench and entreated the men to attend to what
he had to say.
'We want no words,' said one of the rioters. 'We are dry, we want
drink. We've empty pockets, and want to fill them. Our ears have been
stuffed with words. Keep them for chapel on Sundays.'
'I will speak,' cried Beamish. 'I am your leader. You have sworn to
follow and obey me. You elected me yourselves.'
'Lead us to liquor and sovereigns, and we'll follow sharp enough.'
'You are wasting time. You are damaging a righteous cause. Have we
not to march to Ely? Have we not to visit the farmers on the way, and
impose our terms there?'
'There's plenty of time for that, Pip.'
'There is not plenty of time. The Mildenhall men are on their way under
Cutman, five hundred strong.'
'How do you know that?'
'It was so planned. The Isleham men are marching under Goat, the Soham
men under Gotobed. Who will be first in Ely? Is Littleport, that should
lead the way, to come in at the tail?'
'There is something in that, mates,' shouted one of the rioters. 'Stand
in order, you chaps. To Ely! Bring along the waggon.'
The idea that, if looting were to be done, they of Littleport might
come in merely to glean where others had reaped, and the consciousness
that a far richer harvest was awaiting them in Ely than could be
garnered in Littleport, acted as a stimulus, and the mob desisted
from further violence, and roughly organised itself into marching
order. All were armed after a fashion, with guns, pitchforks, cudgels,
leaping-poles, and cleavers; and as the day was declining, there was a
cry for torches.
'We shan't want them,' called one of the men. 'We'll light bonfires on
our way.'
Then a waggon was drawn out. In it were stationed some fowlers with
duck-guns. The object of the waggon was to serve as a sort of fortress.
Those in it were above the heads of the rest, and, in the event of
resistance or an attack, could fire over their heads. Moreover, the
waggon would be serviceable to carry the spoil taken on the way, or
gathered in Ely.
Then the mob rolled along the great drove or highway to the city, with
shouts, and oaths, and laughter, and trampled the snow as it advanced,
leaving a black slush behind it.
Many of the men were half intoxicated with the ale and spirits they had
already imbibed, and all were wholly drunk with lust of gain and love
of destruction.
Then one in the waggon shouted, 'To Crumbland!' Another shouted, 'No,
no! Young Runham is not bad. He has sold his wheat cheap and thrashed
out all his stacks. And the old woman is a widow.'
'That's nought,' exclaimed a third, 'if there's any liquor to be had
there!'
'To Gaultrip's!' was the cry.
'Gaultrip is my cousin!' shouted another.
'That's nought,' called one of the mob. 'I suppose he has money.'
'Ely way!' roared Beamish, scrambling into the waggon. 'Drive ahead.
What's the use of being the commander, if nobody listens to the word of
command, and nobody thinks of obeying it, if he does hear it?'