EXHIBITS MORE PHILANTHROPY, OF A MIXED SORT, PLUS A LITTLE FIGHTING--THE
"ALLOTMENT" CURE FOR HUNGER.
The village gossips were right. Lady Harriet Wiseman did find the vicar
a wife, though not just then. The vicar's young zeal, his vague ideas,
had first to be moderated or abandoned. Bit by bit he was brought down
to the prosaic realities of parish life, which embraced obligations
unheard of in Holy Writ. That says nothing about the necessity for
upholding feudalism. A mere twelvemonths' labour at reforming the morals
and refining the minds of the rustics by means of the schoolmaster was
not quite enough to bring young Codling to a proper sense of his
position. A few more vagaries, a little further indulgence in the
pleasure of sowing religious wild oats, and then the vicar would be
ready to contract that highly advantageous marriage, which forms the
goal of so many a parson's ambition.
That accomplished, Codling might be considered tamed. The one further
aberration of his which we have to notice was his plunge into the
allotment agitation. As the excitement over teaching the rustics their
alphabet and multiplication table began to die out in his mind, this
new whim came handily to take its place and prevent him from feeling
like a deserter. Here, he declared, was the true remedy for the miseries
of the rural poor; he had become convinced that to educate them first
was to begin at the wrong end. The first thing was to make them
comfortable in their homes, and then they might learn to read with more
advantage. The schoolmaster was by no means to be thrown over, but
meanwhile Codling said the most important thing was that the labourers
should have patches of land to grow cabbages and potatoes.
The vicar's new fad, as it was called, did not excite the same amount of
hostility amongst the squirearchy of the neighbourhood as his effort at
education, but the farmers liked it as ill. Squire Wiseman was indeed
opposed to the experiment, and had there been no other landed proprietor
of influence in the parish, the vicar's fuss would have left no results.
But fortunately, in some respects, for the labourers, nearly all
Ashbrook village, and a good deal of the rolling meadow land to the
south of it, and that lay between wooded knolls, belonged to an
eccentric old fellow, named Hawthorn. The people called him Captain
Hawthorn, perhaps to distinguish him from the Squire, but he had never
known more of military life than three months' service as a subaltern in
a militia regiment. This Hawthorn was an oddity. A dry, withered, rather
small man, of between 50 and 60, slovenly in dress, and full of a
sardonic humour, he was constantly to be met walking in the country
lanes, and as often as not conversing with waggoners, poachers, and
such country people as came in his way. He was therefore distrusted by
the other big people of his neighbourhood; but the common people loved
him. The new vicar had hardly been a week in the parish ere he was
warned by the gentry to beware of this old man. Old Polewhele of
Middlebury roundly declared that Hawthorn was an infidel; and the
Dowager-Countess of Leigholm, Lady Harriet Wiseman's mother, felt sure
that he was in league with the Evil One, for he was always muttering to
himself, or else talking to a one-eyed, mangy, tailless cur, that
followed him everywhere, and which had more than once snarled at her in
a very vicious manner. Her ladyship, however, had a private grudge
against him, in that he had on several occasions been wicked enough to
win money from her at cards, and take it too--a crime she was never
known to forgive.
Whatever his relationship with, or belief in, the unseen powers,
Hawthorn alone of the landed gentry furthered Codling's latest project,
and made it a success in spite of the fact that the fitful zealot was at
the point of throwing the whole thing at his heels in disgust. Codling
felt that he had a right to be disheartened when his projects were not
adopted forthwith, and moreover, he was getting under weigh as a lover,
and that made other occupations irksome. He had done all he could, he
said to himself, and yet nobody was converted. Wiseman laughed at him
good humouredly as usual, and the farmers sent old Sprigg of Knebesley,
as their spokesman, to tell him that in their opinion "'lotments would
be the ruin of all honest labour. Gi'e the labourers land," he said,
"and they'll skulk at home instead of doin' an honest day's work for
us. They're the laziest vagabonds in creation, and the only thing you
can do is to keep them dependent on the rates, and when ye want 'em to
work, stop supplies. Hunger's the only prod for cattle o' that kidney."
The vicar was rapidly becoming convinced that he had made a mistake, but
he had gone so far that he could hardly at once back out, so he resolved
to make one final attempt to carry his point, in which he would obtain
the aid of a brother parson. This device would, he thought, enable him
to retreat gracefully from his false position. The man he summoned to
his help was a Leicestershire rector, whose consuming zeal had induced
him to become a sort of itinerant evangelist of the allotment system.
What could be better than to get such a brilliant apostle to address a
mass meeting at Ashbrook. With the failure of a prophet to convince
landlords and farmers, Codling felt that his weak-kneedness might be
justified.
The Rev. Henry Slocome's services were therefore secured, and notices of
the coming meeting were posted on the church doors and in the
neighbourhood for a fortnight in advance. As there was no building large
enough, the meeting was to be held beneath the old elm on Ashbrook
Green. The news excited great interest amongst the labourers who, on the
Saturday evening in July when the meeting was held, gathered to the
number of about 200 men and women from all the villages in the
neighbourhood. A strange sight they presented as they stood with
upturned faces around the waggon on which the vicar, the parish clerk,
and the speaker of the evening were perched. Grey wizened faces, watery
eyes, blueish hungry-like lips these men and women had--a weird,
hopeless-looking, toil-bent congregation of the have-nots.
Young men were stunted and shrivelled with labour and want, and old men
were gaunt and twisted with exposure, overwork, and rheumatism. Verily
if allotments were to do these people good, the work of the self-chosen
missionary, who had come to set the country on fire, was not to be
contemned. But it boded ill for the success of his efforts that never a
landed proprietor in the district gave the meeting his countenance.
Just, however, as business began the crowd of labourers was recruited by
from 20 to 30 young farmers and farmers' sons. These stood apart,
ranging themselves on the left of the meeting near the churchyard wall,
and rather behind the waggon. They were too far off to hear well, but
near enough for interruptions, and they accordingly indulged frequently
in groans, ironical laughter, or jeers at the labourers. Two of the
Pembertons were there, the two who had succeeded their father at
Whitbury farm, and there also was hulking young Turner from Warwick,
half drunk as usual.
The labourers themselves were in high good humour, and indulged in a
great deal of rough chaff at each other's expense. A noted poacher in
particular came in for much attention, and amongst other things was
asked if he would "haul a cove afore the justices if he caught him
snaring rabbits in his 'lotment?" But all this was hushed when the vicar
and his ally mounted the waggon and began proceedings. I cannot give you
the speech of the Rev. Henry Slocome, for Thomas had but a dim
recollection of it, his attention being too much occupied watching the
ongoings of the farmers. These for a time contented themselves with
making a noise, but that was far too tame a kind of fun to satisfy such
bright sparks long, and they soon began to shy small pebbles among the
crowd, aiming at such hats or sticks as were prominent. This raised a
clamour which interrupted the meeting, and matters were brought to a
crisis by one of these stones hitting Thomas Wanless on the cheek. It
was a sharp-edged bit of flint which cut the cheek open, and made Thomas
furious. Turning his bleeding face, now barely visible in the gathering
dusk, to the crowd, and heedless of the vicar's shouts for silence, he
exclaimed--"Lads, are you going to stand this stone-throwing any longer;
are these slave-drivers to be allowed to bully us on our own village
green?"
"No, no, no," shouted the labourers in a chorus.
"Let us thrash them, then," he replied, "and teach them that we have the
right to live."
He was answered with a shout and a rush. In vain the orator parson and
the vicar gesticulated and roared; in vain the parish clerk, at
Codlings' suggestion, jumped from the waggon and tried to hold the
people back. The tall figure of Thomas Wanless, the sight of blood on
his face, his fiery looks and determined attitude, completely carried
the labourers away. More stones too were thrown, and the jeers that
accompanied them hurt almost more than stones. A conflict was now
inevitable.
Seeing the younger labourers gathering round Wanless for an onset,
Turner, ever the leader in mischief, hastily collected his forces, and
drew them back against the churchyard wall. They had hardly time ere the
labourers were upon them.
"Come on, boys," Wanless shouted, without waiting to form an array,
hardly, indeed, waiting to see who was following him. Clenching his
teeth and drawing himself together he dashed up the slope, and singling
out Turner, closed with him, and sent his stick flying over the
churchyard wall. A moment after Turner himself was rolling amongst the
feet of those who had hurried after Wanless. The strife now became
general, and for a time all was wild confusion. Gradually, however, the
fight, as it were, gathered into knots round the leading men on either
side. Big Tom Pemberton had been struck at by a puny little handful of
pluck, whose slender frame and pinched face indicated an absence of
stamina which ill-fitted him for a struggle with that stalwart bully. He
was instantly caught by the throat and bent backwards. Had Wanless not
happened to look that way Pemberton might have broken his back, for he
proceeded to twist him round and double him over his knee, but Wanless
was passing, and swift as lightning, his stick came down on Pemberton's
head. The blow staggered him, and made him let go. Pushing him aside,
Thomas seized the pale-faced lad and hurried him out of the fight.
Turning, he skirted along the edge of the battle to cheer his comrades
and help others that might be in distress, dealing a blow here, and
tripping up a foe there, and dodging many a stroke aimed at himself.
Comparatively scathless, but somewhat blown, he worked his way back to
the thick of the struggle, and immediately found himself face to face
with the other Pemberton, who had just ended a tough fight with the
blacksmith, and like Wanless, was a little spent. He, however, made for
Thomas the moment he saw him, and they closed in a fierce wrestle. They
tugged and tore at each other for a moment or two, and then went down
together, falling on their sides, Wanless, being, if anything, rather
undermost. In the fight that followed for supremacy, Pemberton's greater
weight, for he was fuller, taller, and stouter than Thomas, seemed to
promise him the victory; but with a violent wrench, Wanless so far freed
himself as to get his knees planted against Pemberton's body, when, with
a final tug, he broke free and sprang to his feet. Bill Pemberton also
scrambled up, and they then began hitting at each other wildly with
their fists. A kind of ring gathered round them, each side cheering its
champion, but the fight was not an equal one. The young farmer was too
fat and heavy, and Thomas's random blows punished him fearfully. Blood
trickled down his face, and he was gasping for breath before they had
fought five minutes, and Thomas finished the contest by rushing at
Pemberton and throwing him crashing amongst his followers' feet. They
dragged him out of the melee, and, their fury redoubled, returned to
make a combined onset on the labourers. Had they been at all equally
matched in numbers, the farmers would now probably have driven their
foes from the field, and, overmatched as they were, they twice forced
the labourers back on the old folks, and women still huddled round the
waggon eagerly watching the fight through the gathering darkness.
But Wanless and his lieutenant, the young blacksmith, again and again
rallied their forces and advanced to the attack. At last, edging round
to the upper end of the churchyard, which lay aslant a considerable
declivity, they bore down on the flank of the farmers' party, with a
rush that carried everything before it. Before they could rally
themselves, the farmers were huddled together, and, amid random blows,
kicks, and oaths, driven pell mell clear off the green, as far as the
vicarage gate. There they tried to make a stand, but the momentum and
numbers of the labourers, now swollen by many of the women, were too
much for them, and they were finally chased from the village, amid the
derisive shouts of the victors. They retired, cursing and vowing
vengeance as they went.
The fight over, the people, panting and exhausted, drew slowly together
by the waggon once more, recounting their exploits and showing their
wounds. One man had got his arm broken, and many had severe cuts,
bruises, and sprains, but, on the whole, the damage done had been
slight.
It was now almost dark, and the crowd soon began to ask whether there
was to be any more speechifying. The old people, who had stayed by the
waggon, thought the meeting must be at an end. "The vicar," they said,
"had gone off in a huff, taking t'other parson wi' him, when he found
nary a one mindin' a bit what he said." So the labourers were in doubts
what to do. Some wanted to go home, having thrashed the farmers, "a
good nights job enough;" others thought a deputation ought to go to the
vicarage to try and mollify the parson, for after all allotments might
be worth having.
Just as the dispute was waxing warm, the light of a lantern shone out
from behind the tree, and, coming round to the waggon, attracted
attention. Thinking it was the parsons come back, the labourers ceased
their talk to listen; but what they heard was the voice of Captain
Hawthorn swearing at his servant for not lighting the way better. The
servant paid no attention to the oaths, but cast his light over the
waggon, and exclaimed: "Here we are, sir. Here's where the strange cove
was a spouting. But, by the Lord Harry! he's hooked it!" he added in a
disappointed tone.
"Strange cove! What's that I hear, Francis? Francis, you scamp, don't
you know that's blasphemy? Hooked it! He! he! D---- the fellow! that
comes of picking up London servants." Then, changing his tone, the
Captain almost shouted, "Help me up, Francis. I want to see these
scoundrels. How the devil is a man to get into this waggon? Find me a
chair, will you, eh?"
"Please, sir, can't you manage to mount by the wheel, sir," answered his
servant, and after some trouble the Captain did get in by the wheel,
swearing much, and followed by his servant with the lantern. The dog
then wanted to mount also, but, being fat and heavy couldn't manage it,
so sat down and began to yelp. This caused a fresh outburst of swearing,
and ultimately Francis had to get out again and hoist the dog in, as
the brute would allow none of the people to touch him.
Quiet and order being restored, Hawthorn stood forward, took the lantern
from his servant's hand, and, raising it, proceeded very deliberately to
survey the crowd before him. Most of their faces, and many of their
names were well known to him; and he addressed some of those he knew
with some characteristic greeting. The wounded men appeared to interest
him specially, and it was ludicrous to hear him rate one fellow for
being unable to protect his handsome face, and condole with another on
the coming interview with his wife. He discovered the countenance of his
own groom disfigured by a cut on the nose and a black eye, and he held
the light over it, chuckling loudly, till the fellow fairly ducked
under. "Ha, Silas, you thief," he said, "I have always told you that you
would get punished some day for your vanity, and sure enough the
dairymaid will marry the blacksmith in less than a month, if you show
that face to her. Gad, you'll frighten my old mare out of her wits, too,
with that diabolical figure-head of yours. You had better go home to
your mother and get it mended."
"By heavens," he exclaimed, again casting his light on another face,
"there's poacher Dick. Were you in the fray, Dick, my boy? No, no, it
cannot be; he's been mauling the gamekeepers, and has taken refuge
amongst you lads, eh?"
"No, no; he fought with us all square," was the answer, and the crowd
laughed, and the Captain chuckled again and again.
Suddenly laying down the lantern he shouted, "Three cheers for the
victors of Ashbrook fight," a call instantly responded to amid great
good humour and much laughter.
"Three cheers for the Captain," called a voice in the crowd, and off
went the huzzas again.
"Drop that nonsense, will you, boys; drop it, I say," roared the
Captain, and added as soon as he could make himself heard above the din,
"what the devil are you cheering me for? I didn't help you to win the
fight, did I?"
"No, but you cheered us for it," answered a dozen voices together.
"And that's more than any other squire in Warwickshire would 'a' done,"
cried young Wanless.
"Is that you, Tom Wanless?" queried Hawthorn.
"Yes, sir."
"Then you are a damned fool, Tom, and know nothing about it. All
Englishmen like to see pluck, don't they, you young rascal?"
The ironical tone of this query was perceptible to all, and raised an
answering laugh of irony, amid which Wanless shouted back--
"We ain't Englishmen, we labourers, except when we list and let
ourselves be shot by the thousand when some big chap with a handle to
his name says, March! An' even then the big chaps get all the rewards,
and such o' the common lot as escape hardly get leave to beg. No, no,
sir; we ain't Englishmen, we are only Englishmen's slaves."
"Drop that, Tom Wanless," interrupted Hawthorn; "drop it. Good Lord,
man, do you suppose I came here to listen to a speech from you, when I
kept well without earshot of the parsons. And, Gad, that reminds
me--Where are the parsons? Francis! Francis!"
"Yes sir, yes sir," answered that staid person, hurriedly coming
forward.
"Humph, making love to the wenches at my very elbow, you graceless dog.
Go and tell the vicar with my compliments, that I want to speak to him
out here in this old waggon with the bottom half out. Gad, I'll be
through it, I do believe, before you get back. Could that shouting
fellow have stamped holes in it," he added to himself, as Francis
disappeared. "Shouldn't wonder," and chuckling again at the idea, he sat
down on the side of the waggon, quite oblivious of the expectant crowd
around him. An impatient hum soon broke on his ear, and he lifted his
head and called out, "Go home to bed, you mutinous pack; you'll be
defrauding your masters of an hour's work to-morrow morning."
"No fear of that, sir; and we want to hear what you have got to say to
us."
"Say to you! Ah, yes, to be sure I have something to say; but we must
wait for the parson, boys."
"Here he comes! Here he comes!" shouted voices from the edge of the
crowd, and after a little bustling the ruddy face of Codling, and the
grey head of his friend gleamed over the side of the waggon in the dim
candle-light.
"Glad to see you, sir, I'm sure," said Hawthorn to the vicar
graciously; "and you, too, sir," turning to Mr. Slocome. "Sorry I didn't
hear your speech; Gad, you have put new life into the boys; they've
smashed the farmers. 'Pon my soul, sir, I didn't think they had it in
them. You must be a powerful orator, and I wish I had been here sooner."
"Pardon me, sir, I have not the advantage," stammered Slocome. "I did
not cause the fight, God forbid. I did all I could to stop it; my
mission is not to stir up sedition, sir, but to preach peace." This last
remark in a tone of high offence.
"He, he, he!" laughed the cynical squire. "Well, well, we shan't dispute
the point. The boys did fight, and well, too, as you must allow. Licked
the farmers, by Jove; and I tell you what, Mr. Vicar," turning again to
Codling, "I mean to show my appreciation of their pluck by doing
something for them. What do you propose it should be?"
"I'm afraid, sir," answered the vicar, pompously, "I can't abet you in
your design, or lend it my countenance. I am deeply grieved that my
humbler parishioners should have so far forgotten themselves as to
create a disturbance in the village to-night. It has been my wish to do
them good, and for that end I held this meeting, and brought my esteemed
brother here to imbue their minds with the principles of forethought and
thrift. But they interrupted his address with an unseemly riot, led, I
am sorry to say, by a young man of whom I had hoped better things.
Bitterness between man and man, class and class, has been created by the
conduct of which you have been guilty to-night, my friends, and you may
be sure, though I wish you well, it will be long before I again make the
mistake of seeking to increase your material comforts." Turning again to
Hawthorn, he added, "I must beg you to excuse me, sir, but I cannot
remain here to behold a landed proprietor of this parish, the landlord,
in fact, of these villagers, acting as an inflamer of sedition," and
with lofty bow, and a wave of his hand, dimly visible to his listeners,
Codling turned to go.
"Stay a moment," roared Hawthorn, reaching forth his stick as if to
catch the vicar by the collar of his coat. "Stop, sir; don't let him go,
boys, I also have something to say." The vicar stood still, looking
rather foolish, and Hawthorn continued--"You have made an accusation
against my tenants, and I, as their representative and spokesman, must
ask you to substantiate those charges. I don't care a curse what you say
about myself, but I'm not going to stand by and see these men slandered.
Tell me, sir, who began the disturbance?"
"It was--I believe--I--fancy--some people on the outskirts of the
meeting--people from Warwick I should imagine."
"Bah! can't you speak out like a man, instead of beating about the bush
like a fool? Who began the disturbance?" The old Captain was clearly
getting excited.
"The--the farmers and--but--" blurted out Codling.
"Ah! the farmers was it?" interrupted Hawthorn, "and would you have had
these lads stand still like asses to be thwacked? Do you mean to come
out here and deliberately blame my tenants for having spirit enough
left to resent insult and abuse? A nice parson you are--a fine preacher
of peace. Suppose it had been the other way, and the farmers had been
taunted and stoned by the labourers until they turned and thrashed them.
What would you have said then? No doubt that these wretches deserved
their fate. I hate all this snivelling cant about the obligation of the
poor to submit to whatever is put upon them."
Hawthorn spoke fast and bitterly, and, as he ended, his audience broke
into ringing cheers much prolonged.
Codling stood dumb, and looked so cowed and sheepish that Slocome tried
a diversion.
"Captain Hawthorn--I believe--and good people," he began, but his voice
was drowned amid cries of "Silence--hold your tongue; we want to hear
the Captain."
"I have a little more to say, my boys," Hawthorn answered. "My chief
object in coming here, and in asking the Vicar to come here, was to tell
you that I have decided to assign to you, the men of my own village, the
twenty acre field just by on Warwick road, to be made into allotment
gardens. I admire"--but he got no further. Shout upon shout, the men
cheered, and the women wept and laughed by turns, as if the speaker had
promised them all fortunes. The announcement was so unexpected, and the
way it was made went so about the hearts of these poor villagers, that
they could have hugged the old Captain to death for joy had he let
himself within their reach. As it was, they crowded round the waggon to
shake hands with him, hustling the Vicar and his friend out of the way,
and it was fully five minutes before order could be restored. During the
hubbub the Vicar and Mr. Slocome managed to slink away. What Codling may
have thought about his own conduct on that evening no one can say, but
he evidently resented Hawthorn's freedom of speech most bitterly. He was
disgusted also that the people should have got their allotments so
obviously without his help, and from this time forth he may be said to
have abjured philanthropy. Henceforth he found it safer and much more
pleasant to confine his attention to Church ritual and the worship of
feudalism.
The labourers never missed the Vicar in their delight over Hawthorn's
announcement. They wanted to escort him home in a body, but he would not
hear of it. He peremptorily ordered them to go home to bed, and departed
with his servant and his dog. A few of the younger men followed him to
the end of the village, then sending a parting cheer after him quickly
dispersed. Thus ended the great Ashbrook allotment meeting. It was a
nine days' wonder in the neighbourhood, and the oddities of Hawthorn
were held to be dangerous by the squires, while farmers cursed him for
his liberality. But these things did not prevent the labourers from
obtaining their allotments, and they were thereby rendered perhaps a
degree less hungry for a time.