Authors: Jean Stubbs
The Iron Master (45 page)
‘Gracious heaven!’ Dorcas exclaimed, looking through her eye-glass at the battalion before her. ‘Are these all ours, my dears?’
The two sets of Howarths were quite distinct, one from the other. Zelah had imprinted her likeness and her character upon the six golden girls. From tall silken Tabitha to plump velvet Maria, the daughters of Kingswood Hall stood smiling self-consciously, gracefully old-fashioned. One of them giggled, and was hushed. They basked in their brief importance, gravely aware, in spite of their sense of fun, that the party marked their reunion as a family.
But the crowd from Kit’s Hill were a mixture of sexes and complexions, giving a general impression of sturdy limbs, rosy faces and curly heads. They had obviously never worried over anything more important than the next square meal in all their young lives. Always uncomfortable in her best clothes, Alice brought forward her offspring, scrubbed and dressed up. In her arms she held the youngest child, some ten months old.
‘This ‘un’s Our Ned!’ Wheat-haired and bashful. ‘And Our Dicky!’ Mischievous. ‘And Our Willum!’ Ready for his supper. ‘And Our Mary!’ Over-awed. ‘And Our Little George!’ Fat. ‘And this here’s Our Harriet!’ Two round brown eyes staring over two round red cheeks. ‘And you know me, I reckon!’ With an embarrassed laugh.
‘Very good indeed, Alice,’ said Dorcas, inspecting the line through her eye-glass. ‘The children are a credit to you.’
She was always especially kind to Alice, and it showed. ‘And who are these?’ As Cicely came up, infant in arms, two little fellows clutching at her skirts.
‘These are my sons, Grandmama,’ Cicely explained hopefully. ‘Make your bows, Jarvis and Lucas, if you please, sirs! And this is my daughter.’
‘Mamma,’ said William loudly, seeing her utterly confounded, ‘these are yourd children.
Charlotte’s
grandchildren … ’
‘Charlotte a grandmother?’ Dorcas murmured, at a loss. ‘Why, how can that be? A grandmother?’
‘I am Cicely, Grandmama. Little Cicely!’ cried the young woman.
They saw Dorcas visibly correct herself, give herself an admonitory shake of the memory, put herself back on the right course.
‘Certainly!’ she said briskly. ‘It is Cicely, and she has fetched her children all the way from Wiltshire to see me. Come, give me a kiss, Cicely, for you were always a kind and thoughtful girl. And how is dear Jarvis keeping?’ Then she was radiant with remembrance, touching the letter in her lap. ‘I know that baby. Why, that is Dorcas Pole! The one I was telling you about, Ambrose!’
‘Aye, there is my niece!’ he cried affectionately.
‘Have some more claret,’ William advised, ‘and let the relationships be. My mother’s memory is not what it was!’
‘Should you like to hold the baby?’ Cicely asked, smiling.
‘Oh, yes, if you please,’ with childlike pleasure at the prospect. ‘For we Dorcases must keep each other company. There are not so many of us, are there?’ To the sleeping infant. ‘Ambrose, please to slip a cushion under my left arm, so that I can support Dorcas Pole more easily. Ah, let me see her. Yes, I believe she is quite like, Cicely. Quite like!’ Looking down at the anonymous little face, looking up with delight. Her glance was as quick and bright and dark as of old, now.
She recollected that she must not hurt anyone’s feelings by seeming to have a favourite among them.
‘But they are all beautiful, healthy children,’ she cried, ‘and so many!’
She saw that the youngest Howarths were becoming puzzled and restive.
‘Let them go and play, Alice,’ she said kindly. ‘They have conducted themselves admirably, and I have enjoyed meeting them all at once. But let the children play.’
They were now divided into two groups, and marshalled together under the leadership of Tibby and Kitty, who were organising a game of hide-and-seek before the supper bell rang.
‘And when shall
you
marry, Ambrose?’ William asked genially. ‘We may as well have a few more faces in the family!’
‘Lord knows,’ he answered, in his father’s old manner. ‘I love all the ladies, but can settle on none of them.’
‘Oh, it is not we who settle such matters, in spite of the customary belief,’ said William, only half joking. ‘It is the ladies who make up their minds to have us. We are not the hunters, Ambrose, but the quarry!’
‘I am glad,’ cried Charlotte, linking arms with her son, teasing her brother, ‘that you realise the truth at last!’
The conversation arched above the heads of the oldest and youngest members of the company, who sat peacefully apart.
The fire flung up its pink and amber banners, and Dorcas drew back a few inches, covering the infant’s cheek with her shawl. Then she looked round and beckoned her grand-daughter to her.
‘Cicely! I am inclined to take a nap these days, without meaning to, and the fire is so hot — they will build it half way up the chimney-back in this house! So, if you should see me nodding off, my love, will you take the baby from me? I should not like her to fall. And, Cicely, I know very well who the baby is, though William will talk loud and make grimaces as though I do not! She is my first great-grand-daughter, and her name is Dorcas Pole.’
William squinted down the length of the blade, and sharpened his carving-knife as his father had done before him. But this was a token gesture, indicative of his position as head of the Howarth family, and his hospitable intentions. To carve generously for over twenty people would be a marathon exercise, resulting in more cold food than warm regard. So as the host’s knife slithered through the first slice of roast sirloin, a man-servant was rapidly cutting a second sirloin at a side-table, while four maids handed hot plates and dishes of vegetables.
‘That’s a grand bit of beef; Will,’ said Dick, with a professional glint of approval at the vast joint.
‘Scotch beef, Dick. You advised me to buy Scotch.’
‘I did right then,’ said Dick, smiling shyly, and he gave Alice a nudge and a wink to sustain her.
‘William,’ called Zelah, from her end of the table, ‘hast thee not a surprise for all to share? Hast thee forgotten, love?’
‘No, I had not forgot. I was waiting until everyone had their supper and a glass of wine before them.’
They had, and all but the two infants would taste the claret, even if it were only a few drops to colour the water. William nodded to the butler. The butler snapped his fingers at the footmen. The footmen armed themselves with snuffers and formed into a stately procession. Then everyone saw for the first time that half a dozen curious iron brackets had been fitted into the walls of the dining-room.
‘Douse the lights!’ cried William, rubbing his hands -in anticipation.
Cries of glee and pretended terror as the room dissolved into darkness. Then four. fresh little flames shone through the gloom, as the four tall footmen supplied themselves with tapers. The butler stood portentously by the first iron bracket.
‘Are you all ready?’ William asked, ‘Hush, children, if you please. Very well, Clarke!’
Into the silence came a strange sound of hissing, a faint pop, and then the most dazzling illumination. There was a concerted gasp of astonishment and delight. The butler moved sedately from one lamp to the next, turning up the gas, and each time one of the footmen stepped forward with his humble flame and touched the white glare to life. The company shielded their eyes against the blaze, and then, becoming used to it, smiled round in amazement.
Young Jarvis Pole said under his breath, ‘And God said, “Let there be Light”!’
Everyone laughed. The tension was broken. The children shouted and clapped, and the Kit’s Hill contingent yelled, ‘Hip, hip, hooray!’ and banged the damask cloth with their silver spoons.
‘By Gow,’ said Dick, deeply impressed, ‘it’s as good as broad day, isn’t it, Alice? I could do wi’ summat like that in our cowshed of a winter’s night.’
‘It will come,’ William prophesied confidently. ‘There will not be a house, a shop, nor a business in the country which has not the benefit of gas-light sometime in the near future. But it will not be yet, Dick. It is a luxury, as yet.’
Then he was assaulted by a multitude of questions.
‘Uncle William!’ Hopefully. ‘Might it blow up?’ Why does it smell so nasty?’ Does it make that hissing noise all the time?’ Will it go out by itself?’ Where does it come from!’ Does it keep itself alight?’ What’s it made of?’ Uncle William! Has King George got gas-light, too, or is it just you?’
‘Nay, I cannot answer you all at once. We have the evening before us to tell you all about gas-light. And your Aunt Zelah thinks we should eat this good food while it is hot. So, everyone, I give you a toast to begin the meal!’
He stood at the head of his long table, a man splendid in his prime, and powerful. They were proud of him, proud to claim him as their own. William Wilde Howarth, Ironmaster of Wyndendale. ‘A Man of His Time’
The
Wyndendale
Past
had called him, when he was appointed magistrate. Did he not know and rub shoulders with the famous men of his day, and entertain a number of them? Had not that hand, extended to them all in welcome only an hour or two ago, shaken the hand of the Prime Minister and the great Duke of Wellington? Was it not rumoured that he might go into Parliament, be offered a title, become heaven knows what? And yet was he not always available to any member of his family, ready to give or lend his money and time and name? So they applauded him, cheered him on.
‘I shall be brief!’ William promised, holding up one hand for silence. He came to the core of his speech. ‘We are a goodly company here tonight. And every one of us, whether connected by blood or marriage — and I do not know which is closer by this time — ’
‘Hear, hear!’ from Dick.
‘ … every one of us is here this evening because of a match made just over half a century ago. A marriage of heart and mind between Miss Dorcas Wilde of Millbridge, and Mr Edward Howarth of Garth Fells. I should like us to drink to them both. To a great lady!’ lifting his glass. And then, easily and deliberately, ‘And to a great gentleman! And to all our ancestors. God bless and rest their bones! The Howarths of Kit’s Hill!’
Dick flushed up with pleasure, and looked down at his plate confounded. Alice squeezed his fingers, and. they smiled at each other. While their progeny, astonished to find themselves so elevated, glanced sideways at their cousins, and sat proudly in their seats: their meat for once forgotten.
January
-
June
1812
Several thousands of King George’s redcoats were at present keeping peace in the Nottingham area, a Bill was passed in Parliament which added frame-breaking to the two hundred other capital offences, and the stockingers were rejoicing in a rise of two shillings a week: all brought about by Luddite action. This mixture of force, threat and fair play was supposed to halt further insurrection, but already the Yorkshire Luddites had fired a gig-mill in Leeds and were carrying out nightly forays against gig-mills and shearing-frames. Lancashire was slower to follow their lead, being divided in council and having a different campaign upon their hands; and this was reflected in the Wyndendale valley where Jim Ogden and his weavers opposed the general committee of the Red Rose Society.
The Millbridge ring-leaders, due. to their social standing, were obliged to remain administrators and central advisers. It was their artisan colleagues who headed the groups of men along the valley, and held subsidiary meetings in lonely inns and farmhouses on the moors. So Jack Straw was a legend within the society as well as without, and the body of workers only knew the names of those who carried out orders and led them.
This had worked well until Jim Ogden came to them, for he was not a loyal follower and he had ambitions. Three years since he had taken command of the Whinfold section, four miles from Millbridge, and established The Spinning Yarn on Swarth Moors as his headquarters. Here, in a back room of the tavern, he held sway and held court. To him came weavers from all parts of Wyndendale, knowing he was one of them. They liked his style and the fact that he was pugnacious in their cause. When he reported back the verdict of the committee, and his reply, they cheered him roundly. And throughout the winter he kept them informed of Luddite results and Luddite progress in other places, thus feeding and banking the fires of rebellion. The winter was hard and long, and they were desperate with hunger, but Jim was waiting for the right moment before he acted on his own initiative.
In the third week of March, Cheshire Luddites attacked a warehouse in Stockport, belonging to one of the first manufacturers to use power-looms. There was a pause of two weeks. Then the Church-and-King party called a public meeting at the Manchester Exchange, to congratulate the Prince Regent on changing his coat from Whig to Tory, and the crowd turned the meeting into a boisterous riot. Still Jim Ogden held his hand. Then, as though a wall had been breached, came riots a-plenty, all over Cheshire and Lancashire. Some said these actions were instigated by General Ludd, others that it was the Jacobins. But they were well-organised, armed and violent. The attacks were on a vast scale; threatening letters were followed by action. And yet the action was not of a high military standard.
‘That’s no bloody good,’ said Jim Ogden, sitting with his chief cohorts in the back room of The Spinning Yarn. ‘Throwing stones at a mill! Burning the owner’s house down! And then getting killed and wounded into the bargain. What’s a few muskets and bayonets and a mort of colliers’ picks going to do agin the King’s soldiers? They’re not going to turn tail for the sight of a mob waving a red flag and carrying a man of straw at the head of them! We want plenty of arms, we do, and we want to strike while all’s nice and quiet here, afore the soldiery arrive. We want an entry to Snape Ironworks, and we don’t send no threatening letters. A burst of gunfire’s the best message I know! Are you with me?’
‘We’re with you, Jim.’
*
‘Mr Howarth,’ said Jim Cartwright, ‘can I have a word with you a minute, sir? It is important.’
William swung round to judge how important it was, finished giving his message and dismissed the messenger, and bade his foreman sit down.
‘Mr Howarth,’ said Jim Cartwright, ‘I’ve had word that Snape Ironworks is to be robbed. Quiet-like, mind you, by some as has worked here and knows their way about. But they’re after small-arms and ammunition. And it’s summat to do with Jack Straw.’
William got up abruptly and strode his small office, ending up by standing at the little window overlooking the entrance yard.
‘Where did you hear this, Jim?’
‘Dan Skelton told me, but we should keep that to us-selves. He’s mortal feared, Mr Howarth. They come and asked him to let them in, and said as they’d pay him well for doing it.’
‘How much?’ asked William factually.
‘A hundred gold guineas, Mr Howarth.’
‘I’d do it myself for that much,’ said William obliquely. ‘Why has he come to us?’
‘He don’t believe them, Mr Howarth, and he’s feared to be found out by either side.’
‘I don’t believe them either,’ said William, facing his foreman, ‘and it doesn’t sound like our Jack Straw, who is a peaceful, cunning and housekeeping fellow. He would be more likely to leave me a trade price for my muskets!’
‘Aye, but there’s a whiff of Jack Straw about it, sir. Dan Skelton knows more than he dare say, and he told me that’
‘Does he know what they want firearms for?’
‘He won’t say that neither, sir.’
‘We shall see,’ said William, remembering how they had wrung the sorry truth from Obadiah Low.
‘Sir,’ said Jim Cartwright, ‘I know my man, if you’ll pardon me saying so. You press him and he’ll panic. Then I don’t know where we’ll be, sir. Best deal with what he can tell us than lose all and make a muck of it. And if we play it cautious-like, you might catch Jack Straw.’
William considered this carefully, jingling the silver in his pockets.
‘Very well, Jim. I’ll take your word for it. Tell him to find out when he’s to be door-keeper, to accept their offer, and to let them in. We’ll be waiting for them. I was going to see him,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘but I’d better not. There may be others involved, who would notice. Let it remain between you and me, and you and him. Oh, and we’ll give the fellow something for his trouble, but it won’t be a hundred guineas! And Jim, thank you. I’ll make sure you don’t lose by your loyalty.’
‘Mr Howarth, sir, loyalty don’t need rewarding. You’re more than welcome.’
A full belly and a fair wage makes for a contented work-force. William had no difficulty in assembling a body of men who could use a musket, and were prepared to fire upon any who entered Snape unlawfully. His own strength and courage, his ability to wield power and yet remain among the people he ruled, and his position of magistrate brought him respect. He had never planned a military resistance before, but he used his common sense and endeavoured to think out all the possible manoeuvres. And, as magistrate, he wielded the law in this part of the valley and did not have to ask anyone’s permission or even to report upon what he was doing. The power of life and death was in his hands once he decided to defend his property, and the Crown would stand behind his decision afterwards, come what may.
Snape was never quiet, but the night-workers went about their business quietly as usual, unaware for the most part that the ironmaster and twenty picked men were hidden in and behind the little office at the entrance to the works. The great gates, a monument to Belbrook’s artistic vision and fine craftsmanship, had been locked behind the night-force, and the watchman sat in his little sentry-box waiting.
As it grew dark the ironworks seemed to absent itself from the world: a priest performing sacred fire rituals. From time to time the sky was lit by flames from the cupola, and the regular in-drawing and out-going of breath from the iron bellows sounded like a valediction.
On the last stroke of eleven from Snape clock, Dan Skelton ran silently up to the watchman’s box, apparently overcame him with a bludgeon, stole his keys and opened the gate, all in a matter of moments. The defenders kept mum and hidden. In another moment half a dozen men materialised from the shadows, so quickly and noiselessly that William jumped slightly. He was seeing the Red Rose in action for the first time. He signalled his cohorts to let them through, and those waiting behind the office captured them with hardly a scuffle. Then they all settled down again to see what happened. Ten, twenty minutes passed. Outside, the night was peaceful. Snape dock chimed the half-hour.
‘Was that the lot, Mr Howarth?’ Jim Cartwright whispered in his ear.
Not unless Jack Straw is an utter fool,’ William whispered back. ‘In his place I should have provided a second attack, or at least a backing force.’
The attack came so swiftly that they were caught unawares. For Ogden the weaver had intended to rob Snape and proceed up the valley at once, and he had his army with him, and the foray had been timed.
The office was perhaps fifty yards from the gates, and, though their burglars had relied on secrecy and conspiracy to make their coup, the rest were armed after a fashion. The whispered word had spread, the men had gathered from building, field and hedgerow, and on a sudden the yard at Snape was full of insurrectionists brandishing forks and scythes, poles with spikes on top, old fowling-pieces and ancient muskets, with a pistol or two for emphasis. They were flooding round the office, looking for their comrades, unaware that they surrounded one small body of armed men and faced another.
Just too late, William shouted, ‘Fire.’
The bullets crashed through the office windows and two men fell to the ground, shouting with pain. Almost simultaneously, the foremost rebels met William’s second line of defence, who exchanged a few scattered shots and then ran.
‘Christ, Mr Howarth,’ cried Jim Cartwright, ‘there must be close on two hundred of ‘em!’
‘Keep firing!’ said William, seeing no other solution.
The rearguard of Ogden’s army was falling back, for they were virtually without an answer to this hail of bullets. The middle of the force followed them as best they could, carrying those who were wounded. But the vanguard had broken up William’s little fighting column, firing as they went, releasing their prisoners, and going on to the warehouse where the small-arms were kept.
Unable to move, lest he lose the few men with him. William ordered them to shoot anyone who passed the office. The vanguard were soon back again; for the shouting and shooting had penetrated even the ironworks’ resounding clamour. Laden with guns and boxes of bullets Ogden’s leaders scuttled past, anxious only to get away now, not returning fire. And as often as they could, the defenders in the office picked off one rebel or another, and kept up a sturdy resistance lest it be realised how few they were and how vulnerable in this mass of insurrectionists.
And when it was all over, and the yard deserted again, they went to count their victories and found them bitter fruit to eat. A brother turned over his brother’s body, a father found a son, friend wept for friend — traitor though he had been, according to the law — and William, bending over a shabby figure, recognised the face of William Bowker of Garth, with whom he had played marbles in their childhood.
Now blood had been drawn in earnest, and wanted blood for answer. The magistrates sat in special session and agreed unanimously to call in the redcoats. Jack went down personally to Whinfold to demand an explanation of Jim Ogden, which he did not get and which would have been useless anyway. For the weavers were not alone in the Battle of Snape, as it was called. They had among them workmen of every class and kind: glaziers and joiners, bakers and shoemakers, farm labourers, out-workers and the unemployed. The whole of Wyndendale was involved, whether on one side or the other. And when the soldiers marched into Millbridge, to the sound of pipe and drum, they put the nine miles of valley under martial law and no man knew who his ally was, nor who his enemy.
‘So now we stand and fight, Jack Ackroyd,’ said Jim Ogden the weaver, factually for once, ‘or put the leg-irons on us-selves. They say as Lancashire folk will be hanged for nowt, but I’m not like that. I’ll take a few with me if I’m going. And them as cries “Peace!” now is against me and a thousand others!’
He was not alone in this opinion. From Cornwall to Carlisle, as though beacons had been lit upon the hilltops, hundreds of small and large Radical organisations expressed dissatisfaction with the governing bodies. Militia arms magazines were broken into and robbed. Women screamed in the marketplaces that they were General Ludd’s wives, and took the food that was too dear to buy. And in Wyndendale, as elsewhere, the presence of the troops only sharpened wits without deterring the activists. Oath-taking upon the moors began again, and this time in the name of Ned Ludd. More arms were stolen, from farmhouses and private homes: the raiders coming in numbers so great that no one dared resist them. The Red Rose Society seemed to swell, then to change, and at last to become a core of the Luddite army. Now they were drilled, like soldiers, and whereas the name of Jack Straw had been revered it became a password for terror.
In Millbridge respectable citizens withdrew into the safety of their houses, and those who had men to guard them were thankful, and those who had not spent their time in terrified imaginings. No one would have dreamed of disobeying the orders given; indeed, they clutched at them gratefully as the only orders worth having. After curfew, the town was silent except for the sounds of military feet and voices, and the unbelieving cry of the watchman upon his rounds.
‘Ten of the clock, and all’s well.’
William had left a servant and a brace of pistols at Thornton House, for which Charlotte expressed troubled thanks. He also armed Tom at Bracelet, and every evening, just before curfew, a manservant with a musket walked down to Dorcas’s house, to double her protection during the night. At Kit’s Hill Dick kept the farmhouse like a fortress, and actually drove off one party of Luddites who called upon him after dark. Four of them were wounded by gunfire and carried away by their comrades. The kitchen windows were broken, and a bullet stuck fast in the back door. Otherwise, no one was harmed and Alice came from under the staircase with her brood, and mulled ale for the victors.
