The Iron Master (43 page)

‘I am ashamed,’ cried Dorcas, and the tears slipped faster down her cheeks. ‘I am ashamed that he should make you suffer.’

‘I love thee, Mrs Dorcas. But I tell thee this. I have done all that I can, and it is to no avail either for him or for me. So we shall leave him.’

‘I am very angry with William,’ cried Dorcas, choking upon a sob. ‘He need not come to me for comfort. I shall tell him what I think.’

‘Poor William,’ said Zelah, with the very ghost of a smile.

‘Please to call Tom from the kitchen,’ said Dorcas weeping bitterly, ‘and have my bonnet and cloak fetched. I am not fit to see the children today. Oh, the children! You will all visit me before you go, will you not?’

‘We shall besiege thee,’ said Zelah, almost in her old fashion.

She had regained herself, could no longer be hurt, diverted or led.

‘There is one thing thee can tell me, Mrs Dorcas,’ she said in a different tone. ‘I believe thee knew of Hannah Garside?’

I cannot support these scenes, thought Dorcas. I shall be abed all tomorrow, after this. And Nellie will be cross on my account.

But she answered resolutely, wiping away her tears. ‘Who has spoken of Hannah Garside? She was William’s housekeeper at Flawnes Green, but left there years before you were married.’

‘Stephen’s wife, at Flawnes Green, was one of Mrs Boulton’s daughters, and she loved Hannah and spoke to me of her as of an old and trusted friend. And, though Hannah Garside left years before our marriage, she had been six years at the forge and left of a sudden and was not heard of after. We women are quick to scent out an attachment. Did thee act as confidante in that affair also, Mrs Dorcas?’

Dorcas hesitated, then threw up her hands in a gesture of resignation.

‘I was her only confidante,’ she said, ‘and I kept her secret as she begged me to — except that I had to tell Ned, of course. Even William knows nothing. I gave her money to help her to leave the valley. She loved him, but she knew that he loved you. That was all about it. I have never heard from her since. That was her express wish.’

‘
Was
she with child by him?’ asked Zelah inexorably.

‘Yes,’ said Dorcas.

Enveloped in her cloak, she said tremulously, ‘I should have liked to know when the child was born. If, indeed, it lived, it would be seventeen by now. And is a part of us after all.’

But this small and private sorrow was engulfed by remembrance of the greater sorrow to come.

Weeping afresh, Dorcas said, ‘Oh, God bless and keep you, and do not forget me, Zelah.’

Helping her to her seat, Tom said grimly, ‘Nellie’s not half going to be vexed about this, Mrs Howarth!’

And that honest grumble gave her more comfort than any amount of sympathy.

*

The sound of William’s arrival home always caused Zelah a degree of apprehension, which she used to conceal beneath her welcome. Today, she sent her daughters out and listened to him with formidable composure.

‘You are very quiet,’ said William, looking for faults. ‘It is difficult enough, God knows, to bear with dull faces all day without finding them waiting for me at home!’

She said, kindly and firmly, ‘Then thee must be delivered of them, William. Tomorrow we shall begin to pack for Somer Court. I am making the arrangements.’

He thought this statement over, without liking it very much but without feeling its full force.

‘I was not told of this,’ he accused her.

She saw the bully in his dark brows, and four generations of Quakers gathered within her to defeat him.

‘I have not been told of anything but what thee chose to tell me for many years, William,’ she said coolly, ‘but I shall be franker than thee. I have loved thee with all that I was and could be. But thou hast cheated me and dishonoured our marriage, and now I am done with thee.’

He sat appalled at this sudden reversal of roles.

‘Done with me?’ he said, in quite a different tone. ‘Done with me, Zelah?’ Then he blustered in his pride and panic. ‘What do you mean by this? If I offended you you should have said so! You know you have only to ask and you can have anything in the world!’

She smiled faintly, folded her hands and listened to him.

‘Have I not worked for you, given you the greater part of myself? Did I not build this house for you? Finer and larger than Somer Court. Is it not enough?’

Her silence daunted him. He plunged deeper, more fatally, into explanation.

‘I admit to one or two flirtations. Well then, some adventure. With light women. Who meant nothing to me. Zelah, I have not dishonoured our marriage, for my feeling for you remained untouched by these — frivolities. Not that I excuse myself. And, after all, I am tired of them. I shall be done with them from now on. We shall be as we were.’ He thought of something else. ‘Thee knoweth, love,’ he said softly in his old fashion, ‘that I must not get thee with child too often, lest thy health suffer.’

She watched him with compassion, waiting for him to be truthful.

‘Thee should have told me thee wanted me, love,’ he pleaded.

Charlotte would have damned him for a hypocrite, Dorcas exposed the flaws in his argument. Zelah listened, and let him hang himself.

‘The ironworks, and all the other enterprises, have good managers,’ he offered. ‘I need not work as hard and as long as I did. I shall spend more time with thee and the children, Zelah.’

She saw that he could be intimidated into a semblance of consideration, and this more than anything else destroyed her faith in him.

‘We speak in the same tongue,’ she said, much as Catherine had once said to him. ‘But no longer mean the same thing, William.’

‘Thee should have a change and a rest,’ he cried, putting the best face upon the matter. ‘Thee must stay as long as needful, at Somer Court. And I shall visit thee there, love.’

She put her hands upon the arms of the chair and began to rise.

‘No,’ he cried, horrified into honesty at last. ‘Do not leave me, Zelah. When will you come back?’

And he caught at her skirt as she passed him, like a child trying to detain her.

‘I have not thought of coming back, only of going,’ she said, immovable.

‘But if I promise, Zelah, if I swear by all that is holy to me … ’

‘What is thy promise or thine oath worth, William?’ she asked ironically. ‘Thee promised to love, honour and cherish me when we were joined together.’

‘But have you no hope to give me? No direction?’

‘Only in thy public world, William. There are those waiting to injure thee with Lord Kersall, so do not offend him. For that is all that is left to thee now.’

She was weary of people replenishing themselves through her, asking strength and favours of her. She left the room quietly, gracefully, but with finality. While William sat with his head in his hands and wondered how he should get her back again. For he had never envisaged life without her.

Zelah had triumphed after all, simply by being herself. She was the spirit of the law, the Word made flesh, the unwritten truth, the final and supreme counsellor of her family. Whereas William’s vision was all fire and sword and must perish upon itself. Whereas, when day was done and voices were silent, he must start up in his sleep, asking why the wheels revolved. To be answered, ‘For profit. For power.’ But she had no need to puzzle herself as to the meaning or value of her life. What Zelah had accomplished was very simple and very difficult, and required no explanation.

Bricks Without Straw

Twenty-five

November
1811

Charlotte still held her evening classes and committee meetings in the back parlour a large room overlooking the garden, which had spent most of its existence shrouded in dust-covers, and locked up between one spring-cleaning and the next. It was useful and private in a number of ways, having less obvious exits and entrances, and — as Sally said — saving the hall carpet from being trodden to death. Also, though this reason was felt by Charlotte alone, it separated the personal life of her front parlour from the political traumas of the back.

Tonight, though she was tired enough, God knew, the Red Rose must be convened for a special meeting. So Jim Ogden, the weaver, arrived early to rearrange the table and chairs. He had been a committee member for the past three years, highly recommended by the Manchester centre, from whence he had come after the weavers’ strike and rebellion of 1808, and earned a bare living as an outworker for Ernest Harbottle at Babylon Mill just outside Millbridge. Self-taught, self-sufficient, a forcible character, an experienced trouble-maker, he was at once a jewel in the Red Rose’s crown and a spur in its side. He had caused more difficulties on the committee than any other person, by representing the hand-loom weavers of the valley and voicing their opinions. In him, worthy and sincere though he was, Charlotte sensed a violence which was latent in this group, and she was finding it difficult to hold the society in check. Moreover, Jim Ogden disliked women, and Charlotte’s position as secretary and as a member of the privileged and educated class. He did not especially like Jack, but at least they shared a common dedication to the Radical cause, and a common background of early childhood.

This evening, as Polly knocked at the door and asked if Charlotte wanted anything else, he answered for her. Deliberate. Impudent.

‘That’s all right, love. Get thee to bed. If we want owt we can get it for us-selves.’

Polly curled her lip at him and answered, ‘I warn’t talking to you!’

Charlotte turned her back on him, and said as though he had not spoken, ‘Could you bring bread and cheese and ale in for the men, and tea for me, if you please, Polly? Then if you leave the back door unlocked they can let themselves in, and you can go to bed as soon as you wish.’

Polly gave Jim Ogden a significant look, and clicked the door shut behind her.

‘There you are!’ cried Ogden, aggrieved. ‘No better nor me, and treats me like dirt!’

‘She is a deal better mannered than you, Mr Ogden,’ said Charlotte coldly, for she had long since given up any effort at friendship. ‘And I’ll thank you to allow me to conduct my own household. You are a guest here, not the master.’

He looked ugly then, crying, ‘We’st wipe out masters and servants, tha knows. Then thee can get thy hands mucky, along wi’ the rest of us!’

‘Provided they can act as secretary still, that will not matter.’

No one questioned her value in the post, nor her special knowledge, and so far she had proved irreplaceable. But that did not deter him.

‘I’ve never heard of a woman secretary afore. Bloody daft idea!’

‘There is a great deal you never heard of, Mr Ogden,’ said Charlotte, like silk, ‘and therefore I would always question your judgement on such matters. Ah, here is Mr Ackroyd!’

Her heart was sore that he should find her weary and quarrelsome, that they must greet each other formally and act the parts that were expected of them. He, too, was tired and apprehensive. The Red Rose had grown beyond their wildest expectations, and almost out of their jurisdiction. They had contacts with other and similar organisations throughout Lancashire and Yorkshire, and kept in touch with London movements through Ambrose. And since Jim Ogden had joined them they had corresponded with the highly secret union of weavers, which stretched from London to Nottingham and from Manchester to Carlisle. Ogden, as the expert at insurrection, was always pushing the society to act more forcibly. Sam Mellor, representing the valley’s coal-miners, a man as truculent as the weaver, was usually opposed to him. Their hatred was mutual, and Mellor as a local man resented Ogden as an outsider. Then there were half a dozen or so representatives of various artisan trades: a baker, a shoemaker, a chandler, a carpenter, two printers. And finally the founders of the society: Jack Ackroyd the president and chairman, Charlotte as general amanuensis and pamphleteer, her two assistants Alfred Horsefield and Edwin Fletcher from the grammar school staff, Dr Wilkins from the Millbridge Hospital, and Jeremy Birtwhistle from Hurst’s solicitor’s office as treasurer.

The others arrived in ones and twos, most having come on from their own classes along the valley. Each of them espoused a particular cause, aired a special grievance, brought personal problems and questions from his own group. Wrongs had multiplied and accumulated over the past years until Charlotte felt as though she were being pressed into the ground by injustice. And whatever they did, and they never ceased trying, matters seemed to get worse rather than better. Each petition was shelved, evaded or rejected by the authorities. Each strike quelled more harshly, punished more severely. Piece by piece, the laws, which had since the time of Queen Elizabeth prevented masters from exploiting workers, were dismantled. The long struggle with France, resumed eight years ago, seemed as though it would never end. In answer to Britain blockading Napoleon, America had banned British trade and hit the cotton industry. Prices climbed, wages froze or were reduced. Finally, even the weather declared war upon them again, as it had done in the bitter winters of the nineties, and harvests failed.

‘Not a very agreeable night, Mrs Longe,’ said Jeremy Birtwhistle, very agreeably, as she mended the fire.

‘It’s a damned sight worse if you’ve got no coal!’ Ogden remarked.

‘Shall we sit down, friends?’ Charlotte asked, taking her seat at the foot of the long table, with an assistant each side of her.

Jack sat at the head of the company. Ogden was on his right hand and Sam Mellor on his left. The others ranged themselves on either side, as they felt inclined, and Jack ran his hand through his hair and surveyed the paper before him. He was grey now, in the middle fifties, his face strongly lined. Thirteen years with Charlotte had softened his angularity, channelled his emotions, strengthened his purpose. Nowadays he held his tongue and thought before he spoke. He had learned to bank his fires and was more powerful in consequence, but they flared forth on occasion. He was in command, and Charlotte stood with him. Between them, even now when their energies and spirits were low, was the living bond. So she merely glanced at him, he raised his eyebrows, and each of them knew that the evening was going to prove rough.

‘Since this is a special meeting, called on behalf of Jim Ogden who acted as our delegate recently at Manchester,’ Jack began, ‘we’ll ask him to state his case, and then put it to discussion straightway. Pass the ale, Matt, and a slice of bread and cheese, will you? I’ve had naught to eat since dinner. We are ready when you are, Jim.’

Ogden stood up, planting his hands on the table, smiling aggressively at them all, as though he had found a nest of vipers instead of an assembly of friends. He cultivated the poor man’s image, as the French revolutionaries had done, glorying in his lack of polish. Unlike Jack, who did not notice appearances and manners, Jim Ogden saw and deliberately flouted them. He began by blaming everybody.

‘I told you when I come here from Manchester, above three year ago, and I’ve told you many a time since, that I’m fighting for the weavers and I don’t give a bugger for the rest … So don’t expect a lot of fancy talk wi’ nowt behind it. I’m telling you now, once and for all, that there are close on half a million hand-loom weavers in this country as is facing destitution. Destitution!’ And he hammered both fists on the table for emphasis. ‘The price of wheat is already above a hundred shillings a quarter, and likely to reach a hundred and fifty by the summer. And while a weaver could reckon to make twenty shillings a week a few years since, he’d be lucky to get eight now. How do you feed a family on that?’

‘State your case, Jim,’ said Jack Ackroyd patiently. ‘We know the facts and figures as well as you do.’

‘Right! I’ll state it bloody now. The weavers in this valley and elsewhere is fed up wi’ signing petitions and stealing a sack of potatoes here, or a sack of flour there, to keep theirselves alive. And I’m fed up wi’ this society being run by a lot of educated folk as has never gone clemmed and famished in their born days. We’ve decided to stop asking and start taking. If the manufacturers won’t play fair wi’ us then we’ll make them smart. We’ll hit them where it hurts most. We want marches and riots, and notes that puts the fear of God into them. Burn the bloody mills down, we say! And to hell wi’ arsing about like you lot have done for the past twelve year. If you don’t like that you know what you can do wi’ it!’

Immediately the committee all began to talk at once, some directly to Jim Ogden in rebuke, some to each other, and none to any purpose. Charlotte held her tongue with difficulty, watching the struggle on Jack’s face. Ogden had aimed for his belly reaction, but the headmaster was a thinking man. Finally he rapped the table for silence.

‘Each member shall have his — or her — say, and then we shall put the matter to vote. But at the moment we are all a little too heated to come to any reasonable conclusion!’ He turned to Ogden, who was slyly grinning to himself, like a dog who has fetched back a stick. ‘I’ll summarise your points, my friend, while we are thinking, and add a note or two of my own.

‘There is more to the question of hand-loom weavers than you have stated. And it pertains to their way of life and their future, and was predicted by me — to them — when we burned down the first spinning-mill at Thornley, some thirty years ago. The mills are here to stay, and the power-loom is master. This is the age of machine-working not of handcrafting. However we help the weavers, whatever temporary reprieve they are granted, they are a doomed industry. So there is no question of breaking through some barrier, as you appear to suggest, and coming out the other side. The hand-loom weaver is finished as a moneymaking worker.’

‘Not if we act instead of talking!’ Ogden shouted. ‘Break the bloody power-looms! Burn the bloody mills down!’

‘Wait until I have finished,’ Jack cried, and the edge in his voice silenced the weaver. ‘The reason that the Red Rose still exists is because we have not openly provoked the authorities. I regret that you despise our education, for we should like everyone to be educated, and our ideals are the same as yours. But until we founded this society there was no organisation of workers in the valley. For the first time in the history of Wyndendale, working men and women have someone to whom they can complain, who will show them their rights, give them free schooling in a limited fashion, set up petitions and distribute political pamphlets. If we advocate violence we come out in the open, once and for all. The penalties risked will be extreme — and you have first-hand knowledge of how the Manchester Assizes deal with offenders! Wyndendale will be under martial law. We shall be hunted out and hunted down. And for what?

‘Afterwards, the weavers will continue to starve, the government to ignore their condition, the manufacturers to prosper. And what might be called the weavers’ only benefit society will have been wiped out.’

A murmur of approval made Jim Ogden look sullen, but his tongue was always ready to rebuke.

‘Benefit society!’ he jeered. ‘Aye, that’s about the long and short of it! A bowl of soup for the poor to keep them quiet and keep them under. Well, Mr Jack Straw Ackroyd, if you won’t help us we’ll break away. We’ll have us own revolution. The Luddites have been breaking frames in Nottingham since March, drilling and arming theirselves, and if you want to see organisation you have a look in that direction! They can’t hold them. Bloody troops, bloody magistrates, bloody nobody can’t find them nor hold them. Masked and disguised. Working at night. And shall I tell you why the bloody government can’t catch them? Because of the solidarity! Folk is solid behind them because they know summat’s getting done. That’s why. And if you wasn’t feared of getting your feet wet you’d do the same for this valley. Nowt but a bloody laughing-stock you are! All piss and wind!’

‘By Christ, Mr Ackroyd, but I’ve had enough,’ roared Sam Mellor. ‘Being spat on by a tuppenny foreigner that’s all mouth! I’d fetch a pick-axe to thee — ’

‘Sam!’ cried Jack, in the voice which could still a grammar school assembly. ‘That will do. I said we should state our views objectively, reasonably. You shall be answered, Ogden.’

‘Nay, I’m not wasting my time. You’re either for Jack Straw or Ned Ludd! Let me know which, and I don’t give a bugger either road. I’m oft.’

And with that he snatched up his battered hat, pulled his jacket together against the cold, and departed into the dark. They sat smarting with defeat.

Then Matt Redfern said, clearing his throat apologetically, ‘He used language as shouldn’t be used afore a lady, and I’d like to say we’re sorry about that, Mrs Longe.’

‘It does not matter, Mr Redfern,’ she replied. ‘I do not listen to the language, but to what he says.’

‘Mrs Longe takes the rough with the smooth, my friends,’ Jack added, humorously and easily. ‘Being the only woman on a male committee necessarily incurs certain social hazards, which will not be found in the tea-parlour. Well, what do we think of Jim Ogden’s proposals?’