Take Courage (15 page)

Even if there had been no private grudge between the two families, I doubt whether the Ferrands would have come to The Breck at that time, for rumours were beginning to be very stirring, and men's tempers to mount intolerably, over these two matters of politics and religion, and it was well known which side The Breck took in them. Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe were, I believe, a little tired of the dissension, and daunted by what had happened to Will, for after all they were getting on in years and Mr. Thorpe was ailing; but John grew more and more determined.

Now that his father mostly stayed at home to nurse his foot, John had much travelling to do to buy wool and dispose of our cloth; and he always came back with news of some further Church tyranny or some new illegal tax-gathering for in these two matters we were continually pressed down by the heavy hands of the King's two favourites, Archbishop Laud and another man we now began to hear much of, Sir Thomas Wentworth, afterwards Lord Strafford. John was especially vexed with this Strafford, because he was a very able man and a Yorkshireman, and had been strong for Parliament before the Court corrupted him, so that John had rather admired him, and it seemed as if nobody was to be trusted and one could not know which way to turn, if a man of that kind was to turn out so badly. Laud and this Strafford worked hand in glove, and hardly a week went by without some new oppression. Altars were to be moved to the east and curtained, the bishops were not to regard lecturers as clergy, our children must be catechised out of the prayer-book every Sunday; the King set up a
monopoly of soap-making, fined people because they chanced to live in royal forests, though the places they inhabited had not been forests within the memory of man, and imposed another and yet another writ of ship-money. So it seemed that, as long as Laud and Strafford had their way, we were to own neither our souls nor our bodies. The King on Strafford's advice signed proclamations ordering Laud's rules, and Laud's clergy preached submission to the King's taxes; and so amongst the people those who hated Laud for his persecution of true religion, and those who hated the King and Strafford for his illegal taxes, found their interests intertwined, and themselves friends, united in their resistance to a common tyranny. Tyranny affected John very powerfully, though not in the same way as my poor father; John was a young man, strong in mind and body, and he wished to take some active part in defying it, and at times felt very restless and vexed because he saw no way to do so. About this time Mr. Wilcocke, our schoolmaster, died, and Archbishop Laud caused one of his own favourites, a man named Gervase Worrall, to be appointed. Old Mr. Thorpe was one of the trustees of the school, and John urged him strongly to petition against this man, who was a finicky sort of creature from southern parts, a scholar doubtless but quite unable to rule our Bradford boys; David despised him. Mr. Thorpe, though somewhat reluctantly, called a meeting of the trustees, and all Bradford rang with the dispute, but the matter then seemed to be shelved and Mr. Worrall stayed on, and I thought Mr. Thorpe was not sorry to be spared the necessity for taking active measures. But John, who besides his public resentment hated to think that his own son would have to sit under this Arminian, and imbibe false doctrine, in a few more years, was greatly angered, and felt his own impotence in the matter very bitterly.

“Is there nowt we can do against this proud prelate?” he began from time to time to mutter; and then he was wont to lay his hand on David's shoulder and bid him learn rapidly and well; he meant, though he did not say
so, that he hoped David would one day fight the good fight against these corrupt and worldly clerics. David understood him, and smiled quietly but steadfastly and nodded; and Lister shrilled:

“The day of the Lord will come. Consume them in Thy wrath, O Lord, that they may perish!”

“Are we to suffer this and be silent? Is there nowt we can do for English liberty?” John muttered again whenever he heard of another ship-money writ, or of the atrocious cruelty of Starchamber to Puritan writers, or of the outrageous fines imposed by the King's Council on some unlucky gentlemen who were thought to have shown discourtesy to Lord Strafford. For Starchamber thought nothing of cutting off men's ears—which made me sick to hear of—and setting them in the pillory, or keeping them in the Tower till they died; while Lord Strafford was a very vehement warm-tempered man, easily angered by fancied slights, and one Yorkshire gentleman lost almost all his fortune simply for standing with his back to him with his hat on.

“Is there nowt we can do?” repeated John, brooding, when he heard these things; and each time he asked the question his voice was more bitter.

I did not try to coax him from these moods, for I was all with him in them; my heart burned when I thought of these tyrants shadowing the world, preparing cruelty and persecution and misery for my little son. Since Mr. Thorpe liked less and less to hear of politics, for tyranny distressed him and yet resistance troubled him, John saved his thoughts till we were alone together. He did not express them very clearly even then, just standing before me with his head lowered and a dark look on his face and muttering: “Can we do nothing, Penninah,” in a gruff slow tone; but I knew how he felt. And sometimes I would put my hand through his arm, and pace beside him up and down our chamber in silence, till slowly his brow cleared and at length he sighed and asked after Thomas's new tooth and managed to smile at me, though ruefully.

One day in the late afternoon—it was in the autumn, I remember; the wind was blowing strongly and the rain lashing the windows outside, so that within the house felt very warm and snug by contrast—I had been busy with Thomas and put him down to lie in his cradle by the fire, and asked Mr. Thorpe to see that he came to no harm while I went into the kitchen to help Mrs. Thorpe with the supper. Mr. Thorpe's sciatica was very painful with the damp weather, and he sat with his leg up and his head back, so I asked him before I left him if there were anything he needed. He said there was not, he was content to sit in the firelight without a candle and keep an eye on his grandson. I was surprised, therefore, as soon as I reached the kitchen to hear him calling urgently:

“Penninah! Penninah!”

I feared for Thomas, and ran back quickly. The child was safe, sleeping just as I had left him, but Mr. Thorpe was sitting up in his chair, frowning uneasily, his face turned towards the stairway to the loom-chamber, whence I could hear the voice of John and some other man.

“Go up and listen, Penninah,” he bade me urgently. “Then come back and tell me what they say. Go quickly.”

“But, Grandfather,” I murmured, being loth to play the spy, and knowing John's ways in the trade sometimes differed from his father's: “John will surely tell you?”

“You're too scrupulous, Pen,” said Mr. Thorpe irritably. “If you won't do it yourself, send me Lister.”

I determined to do neither, but to tell John his father wanted to see him, and ran upstairs for the purpose.

The man with John was one I had often seen before, a very tall thin mean-looking person, Scaife by name, agent to Mr. Metcalfe of Leeds, the West Riding ulnager. It was his duty to attach seals to all the pieces of cloth in Bradford, to signify that the tax on the piece had been paid. Sometimes the man came himself to The Breck, sometimes John sent Lister to him to pay the tax on so many pieces and bring home the seals; without the ulnager's seal no piece of cloth could be sold. I had heard John grumbling sometimes
about this man, because though it was his duty to visit the clothiers at their requirement, with those of small trade he would often delay to do this, which to poor men was a great hindrance. It was none of the Thorpes' business, said John, for Scaife never delayed about coming to The Breck, he took too many pence there; but injustice, on whomsoever it was inflicted, ever irked my husband. I wondered if this were the subject between the two men now, for they were both very angry, Scaife gabbling and gesturing, John with his feet apart and his head lowered, while Lister stood all agog, grinning nervously, in the background.

“You have no right to demand it,” said John gruffly. “The tax on a kersey is one penny, and has always been so within the memory of man.”

“But kerseys nowadays are twice as long as they used to be,” gabbled Scaife.

“Not twice,” said John.

“And broader,” argued Scaife. “And of a finer quality.”

“That is not the argument,” said John. “The tax is a tax on each piece of cloth, like a poll-tax on a person. A tall person does not pay more than a short.”

“For more cloth, more tax,” said Scaife. “That's only fair.”

“If we made the kerseys shorter, would you take less?” said John sardonically.

Scaife was silent; then turning aside, he blew his nose in his fingers over the floor—a dirty habit I never could stomach. Then he turned back to John, and said disagreeably, pointing at a pile of cloths which stood in the corner:

“The tax is a penny-ha'penny for a kersey, Mester Thorpe, and if those kerseys there are off to London to-morrow, I'll thank you to pay on them now.”

“Those cloths are already sealed,” said John, turning up a fold to show him. “You can look for yourself—Lister here bought the seals off you last week.”

“That's right,” put in Lister.

“I shall want another ha'penny on each of those cloths,” said Scaife.

“You can want,” said John.

“Eh? What? You don't mean you won't pay?” cried Scaife, astounded. “All the rest have paid.”

“Aye,” said John grimly. “I hear you've taken more than a hundred pound extra in Halifax neighbourhood these last few months. So now you're beginning on Bradford. Well, I won't pay.”

“Now come, Mester John,” urged the ulnager, taking a fawning familiar tone: “You've always been a law-abiding man, and your father before you. You won't go to break the law now, will you?”

“The law?” said John. “What law? By whose authority has the tax been raised?”

“Mester Metcalfe's, of course,” said the ulnager irritably.

“And who gave Thomas Metcalfe leave to impose a subsidy?” said John. “He is following the King's example, I suppose.”

“That's treason, Mester Thorpe,” said Scaife virtuously, looking down his nose.

“Treason?” said John sardonically. “To ape His Gracious Majesty? Can that be treason?”

“Take care Starchamber doesn't hear you!” blustered Scaife, thrusting his face forward into John's. “You mightn't get off as lightly as Will Clarkson.”

“Oh, cease your prating,” said John roughly. “Star-chamber has nowt to do wi' clothiers; it's for clerics.”

“Are you going to pay the extra ha'penny or are you not?” shouted Scaife.

“I am not,” said John.

There was a pause. Scaife, disconcerted, rubbed his long jaw. “You're a hard man to deal with, Mester John,” he said at length in a deprecating tone. “I'd be glad to have a word with your father.”

“My father is pained with a sciatica,” said John steadily. “He cannot see you.”

Scaife sighed, fidgeted, and at last took up his hat. “You
haven't heard the last of this,” he said. “Mester Metcalfe means to have that extra ha'penny.”

“And I mean not to pay it,” said my husband.

“He who laughs last laughs longest,” said Scaife.

“I'm not laughing at all,” said John.

Scaife swore beneath his breath and clattered downstairs. John stood watching him with a sardonic smile.

“John,” I said quietly, stepping forward, “your father wants to speak to you.”

“I daresay,” said John. “I'll come.”

We went down the inner stairs together. “Well, I dealt with that fellow,” said John, a grim satisfaction in his tone.

I laid my hand on his arm. “But, John, Starchamber,” I said fearfully.

“Starchamber is for clerics, not for clothiers,” repeated John. “Penninah, ask one of the boys to saddle Dolly for me.”

“You mean to ride to-night? In all this rain?” said I.

He did not answer, and I knew he was set in his purpose, whatever it might be; his stubborn mood was on him.

When I returned from the errand, I found him standing in front of his father with his head slightly lowered and his feet apart, looking very obstinate and stolid. Mrs. Thorpe had come in from the kitchen and was standing by the table, an expression of mingled pride and fear in her face.

“Why ask me?” Mr. Thorpe was saying testily. “You do the greatest part of the business without a word from me; why ask me now? Do as you please.” He was silent a moment, frowning and chewing his lip, then burst out: “But I see no sense in it. This is not from the King; the ulnage is farmed out; the King knows nowt of it. Scaife is only the agent of an agent.”

“But it is all of a piece,” said John. “Unlawful subsidies and unlawful ulnage are both unlawful. They are signs of the times. Taking a ha'penny is as unlawful as taking a thousand. Are we to suffer injustice without a word? If we let them take our liberties from us we deserve to lose
them.” He spoke in an abrupt and jerky manner which with him was the mark of being much moved. “Nevertheless, Father,” he added: “If you forbid me, of course I shall not go.”

There was a silence. Mr. Thorpe frowned and fidgeted and pouted; John stood lowering; Mrs. Thorpe watched them intently across the table. Then suddenly Mr. Thorpe cried out in a vexed helpless tone: “Well, go and God be with you.”

John's face broke into a smile, and his eyes glowed. “Thank you, Father,” he said.

Mrs. Thorpe too smiled stiffly, and her husband's expression gradually became more cheerful.

“But have a care now, John,” he said. “Remember you have a wife and child.”

“I shall not forget,” said John briefly.