“Do you know the accused well?” he said.
“I know him,” said the girl piteously. She turned her liquid eyes full on Joe, and Will thought: “Why! She’s in love with him.” He glanced at Joe, and added to himself: “And the fool doesn’t even know it.”
“How many times have you seen Bamforth in your life?” Mr. Topping was demanding.
“Many a time,” said the girl, looking at Joe again. “I’ve seen him often in t’Moorcock.”
“But no doubt a great many young men come to the Moorcock Inn?” suggested counsel with a complimentary inflexion.
“Aye, we’re alius throng at neet,” said the girl, not without pride.
When this had been translated for the benefit of the Judge, counsel proceeded: “Then how can you be so certain it was Bamforth you saw?”
“I am sure!” cried the girl in great distress.
“My lord, I submit that this is a mere waste of your lordship’s time,” said one of the counsel for the defence, rising. “The girl knows the young man in question well enough.”
“Aye, that I do!” cried the girl indignantly.
“I only wished to discover for your lordship’s benefit how the girl distinguished this one young man from the many others whom she sees from day to day,” urged Mr. Topping smoothly.
“He were t’best whistler in th’ Ire Valley!” cried the girl. “He were as different from t’rest as good beer from seconds.”
“I think you must accept as a fact that she has had opportunities of knowing him well enough for all ordinary purposes of identification, Mr. Topping,” said the Judge.
Mr. Topping, with an ironic smile, accepted his lordship’s ruling and sat down. Will did not see what there was to smile about, but when the Moorcock girl had been briefly re-examined by the defence their case was declared closed; there was again a general stir and hum, ushers bustled about lighting candles, and a man behind Will breathed in his ear:
“That was a good point about the whistling.”
Will stared, but not wishing to appear a fool reflected before replying, and saw that Joe’s knack of whistling, well known to all who knew him, was now also established in the minds of the jury, and connected him fatally with the young man who whistled for the collier’s dancing in the Emsley public-house. “Yes, very good,” he replied soberly.
The Judge now entered upon his summing up, and continued until half-past seven that evening. Then the jury stumbled out, the Judge retired; a period of waiting began. The court was by this time suffocatingly hot, and moisture streamed down the windows. The prisoners, who had stood at the bar since nine in the morning, and were still standing, looked very pale and jaded in the flickering light; Mellor leaned against the railing and was reprimanded by the sergeant; with a sigh he stood upright, and wrinkling his pale brows, gazed round the court. Thorpe’s eyes were shut and he seemed as though sensibly taking a nap; Joe’s eyes on the contrary were wide and dreamy, he was seeing things very far away. Will kept a tight grip upon himself and remained outwardly calm, signalling playfully, as though to show satisfaction, to his attorney; but from time to time a sickening feeling of suspense and apprehension seized upon the pit of his stomach. What would the jury say? If any of those three men were spared, Will felt he should never be able to hold up his head again; it would drive him to madness to think of them moving about the earth alive. They were all guilty, guilty as hell, he was sure of it; Joe was the foulest traitor who ever breathed. Surely the jury could not help but find them guilty! He tried to recall some of the jurymen’s faces, but could not. It must be a terrible thing to condemn three men to death. But they had condemned his father to death. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,” thought Will. There was a stir in the court; the prisoners pulled themselves together; with due ceremony the Judge entered; the jury with a self-satisfied air stumbled in—they had taken but five-and-twenty minutes to settle the whole matter. The blood drummed in Will’s ears, pounded behind his eyes; he moistened his lips nervously. Mellor wiped the sudden sweat from his face with the end of his neckcloth; Joe—it was the first movement Will had seen him make since the beginning of the trial—raised one of his long hands slightly as though in protest, then let it sink again. There were some words of ceremony which Will did not trouble to hear, then suddenly, loud through the hushed court, rang out the foreman’s voice:
“We find George Mellor, Guilty; Thomas Thorpe, Guilty; Jonathan Bamforth, Guilty.”
A shuddering sigh went up from the crowded hall; Mellor slightly moaned, Thorpe jerked his head.
A clerk in a black gown and a white tie, who sat beneath the Judge with his back to him, stood up, and pronounced in a brisk voice:
“George Mellor, you have heard the verdict of the jury. Have you anything to say, why the court should not pronounce sentence of death upon you?”
“I’ve nothing to say,” said Mellor in a thin hoarse voice: “Only I’m not guilty—not like they make out.”
“Thomas Thorpe,” went on the clerk: “You have heard the verdict of the jury. Have you anything to say, why the court should not pronounce sentence of death upon you?”
Thorpe apparently did not understand that he had to reply, and had to be whispered to by one of the gaolers. When he understood he cried out in a loud cheerful voice: “I’m not guilty, sir; evidence has been given false against me, that I declare.”
An irrepressible titter at his manner burst from the spectators, and was sternly reproved by the ushers.
“Jonathan Bamforth,” proceeded the clerk when it was hushed: “You have heard the verdict of the jury. Have you anything to say, why the court should not pronounce sentence of death upon you?”
Joe said quietly: “Not guilty.”
“Liar!” thought Will furiously, “Liar!”
The Judge, in majestic, sonorous tones, began to address the prisoners. Will listened impatiently to his remarks upon the wickedness of murder and the impiety of forced oaths. They were all perfectly true, no doubt, but not what he wanted to hear. At last the words he was waiting for fell upon his eager ears:
“The sentence of the law is: That you, the three prisoners at the bar, be taken from hence to the place from whence you came, and from thence, on Friday next, to the place of execution; that you be there severally hanged by the neck until you are dead, and your bodies afterwards delivered to the surgeons to be dissected and anatomised, according to the direction of the Statute. And may God have mercy on your souls.”
The trial was over.
Will pushed his way through the departing crowd in search of his attorney, found him, and instructed him to put in a petition—at which the man shook his head dubiously—for the hanging of the criminals at the corner of Syke Mill Lane; then stumbled back through the bitter night to his inn, threw himself dressed on his bed, and fell into a long, heavy sleep.
2
It was cold in the gaol in the early morning, and Joe shivered a little as they were marched along to the great entrance, their irons clanking as they walked. By the door they were halted, to wait for some official or other, and the soldiers of their escort drew back a little and left them to themselves.
“Well, lads,” said Thorpe in a cheerful tone: “This is the end, it seems.”
“It seems so,” agreed Joe soberly. He had a great fear at his heart—not of death, but of not dying well, as a man should. He wanted to carry it through decent-like to the very end; he wanted to show that a cloth-worker, an Ire Valley man, knew how to die as well as any history hero of them all.
“Aye, it’s the end,” said Mellor in despair.
“Well, don’t let’s get lugubrious about it,” said Thorpe. “We may as well die laughing, tha knows.”
“Tha hasn’t a wife and childer to leave behind,” said Mellor.
“Now don’t start that, George,” said Thorpe warningly. “Tha’ll only feel bad again, like tha did in t’night, and it won’t do anyone a ha’porth of good.”
Mellor, tears
in his pale eyes, turned to Joe. “I dragged thee into this Joe,” he said. “It were all my fault, lad, and I’m sorry.”
But Joe did not like this. He wanted to feel and indeed in some sense did feel, that he was dying voluntarily, of his own free will. After all he had not fired upon Mr. Oldroyd, he had not intended to attack him, he had tried to persuade the others not to attack him; legally he was innocent, he might have defended himself and been acquitted; but he preferred to stand by his friends, to take his chance with them; he had joined the Luddites for the sake of the Ire Valley lads, and now he was going to die for them too. How his death could possibly be of use to them he did not see, but somehow he hoped it would be so. Yes, somehow he was dying of his own free will, for the sake of the Ire Valley. He therefore replied mildly:
“Nay, George! We’ve lived side by side this many a year, and I’m quite content to die beside you and Tom.”
“I’m glad Ben Walker isn’t here,” said Thorpe grimly.
“Aye! And me!” exclaimed the others.
There was a stir among the soldiers, who began to take their ranks.
“Well, this is the end,” repeated Thorpe mechanically.
“Let’s shake hands before we part,” said Mellor. They stretched out their hands as well as their irons would allow and shook hands heartily. “And hearken, lads,” continued Mellor: “I’m right sorry about Mr. Oldroyd. I liked him well enough, really; he was a fine upstanding chap, and stood for his side same as we stood for ours.”
Just then the word came to move on, and Joe was glad of it; he was afraid he should break down before the end if they did not get it over quickly. The door was thrown wide, they marched out between two files of soldiers, and came to an open space behind the Castle. The cold frosty air on his cheek and bare throat made Joe feel better; and when he saw the vast concourse of people who had come to sec them die, the troops of soldiers on horseback drawn up in squads, the long files of foot soldiers holding back the crowd, he felt his courage mount. The prisoners were led on to the fatal platform, and Joe saw the gallows near at hand. He surveyed it calmly; strange that in a few minutes he would be dead; Friday would turn into Saturday, but it would never be Saturday again for him. The time had come now; Mellor, with a last unutterable look, was moved away. One of the soldiers whispered to him, and Mellor, raising his voice, cried hoarsely:
“If there’s any of my enemies here, I forgive them, and I hope the world’ll forgive me.”
Joe turned his head away so as not to see the final act; that was the Ouse flowing quietly by; it looked cold and sullen and unfriendly. For a moment he wished heartily that Will’s petition for the execution to take place at Syke Mill Lane had been granted; he would have liked to die in the Ire Valley, even if his body were not allowed to lie there. But stay! After all the little Ire flowed into the Ouse, that tiny beck at home, at Scape Scar, flowed at long last into the Ouse; perhaps there was Ire Valley water flowing past now, to see him die. He should pretend it was so, anyhow; it helped him. It was Thorpe’s turn now; he gasped a little, then cried out cheerfully:
“I hope none o’ you lads’ll ever come to this place where I am!”
The crowd laughed, which was what Thorpe would like, reflected Joe. He gazed down at the rows of faces, all upturned to see Thorpe die; could he pick out Will’s russet eyebrows, he wondered, or Mary’s sweet rich mouth? Before he had scanned them all, a soldier tapped him on the arm: “You can say something if you’ve a mind,” he muttered with rough kindliness in Joe’s ear. Well! What was he to say? He couldn’t think of anything; he would like to wish them well, but didn’t just know how to say it. Well! He must just say Good-bye, he supposed, and not too sadly either.
“Farewell, lads!” cried Joe.
3
A minute later the drop fell; the body of Jonathan Bamforth kicked convulsively and was still. Will turned and thrust his way savagely from the crowd.
“Who are you pushing?” cried a man on its fringe, shoving him back with his elbow. “Mind what you’re doing; there’s a woman down here.”
“Well, she’s nowt to do wi’ me!” cried Will. “Stand aside!”
With a last effort he freed himself, and reeling against the Castle wall, was violently sick. It seemed to him as he leaned there, helpless, that he was vomiting his life out, for of the first twenty-three years of it nothing at all was left. Joe, Joe, Joe! How could you?
The crowd now began slowly to disperse, and as the men passed by they roughly though not unkindly jeered at him. “Been a bit too strong for thee, lad,” said one. “Allus had a weak stomach from a babby,” said another. Will, who was not fond of being laughed at, was braced by these remarks; he stood away from the wall, and with his hand to his head, staggered through the streets towards his inn. One or two passers-by, seeing his uncertain gait, his livid face and burning eyes, offered him an arm, but Will declined; it was not the Oldroyds’ way to lean on others. He brushed the landlord’s exclamations of sympathy roughly aside, paid his bill, and told the man to put his valise on the Leeds coach, where Will had booked a place. “Tell the driver to look out for me,” he concluded hoarsely. “I’ll walk on ahead.” The landlord protested that Mr. Oldroyd had much better come in and rest and have a glass of wine, but Will cut him short and started.
It was still frightfully cold, and Will’s teeth chattered as he hurried wildly along. The road out of York seemed busy; coaches, men on horseback and private carriages constantly passed him, and everyone turned to look at him; no doubt, thought Will bitterly, he looked a figure of fun. He had come out here to be alone, and was irritated by this public gaze. Meeting a man of the neighbourhood, Will asked if there were not some by-lane, some way across the fields, which he could follow for a mile or two and then rejoin the coach-road. The man slowly pointed one out, and soon Will found himself alone in what seemed a vast stretch of icy plain. The sky was leaden, the very air seemed dull; the ruts in the way were hard as stone, the grass looked grey with frost. The whole scene was one of gloom and desolation, and it matched Will’s heart. Everything was gone, gone, gone! His father, Mary, Joe—it made him sick to think that he had lain with Mary, so sick that he had to stand still and hold on to an ice-bound thorn; but the thought of Joe’s death made him sick too. To think that that convulsive, twitching lump of flesh was Joe, dear Joe, who had taught him to whistle many a bird-call on Marthwaite Moor. To whistle! Yes! And Joe had whistled in the Emsley Inn on hearing that Will’s father was like to die. His father. A father was a father, and a son a son, thought Will; nothing could alter that; he could never forgive his father’s murderers. Everything was gone; the future was a blank, the past all spoiled—all those dear jolly pictures he had treasured in his mind of long golden afternoons on Marthwaite Moor were blasted as though by lightning, because Joe was in them; indeed there was very little of his childhood which did not contain Joe. Everything was gone. “There’ll be snow from that sky,” thought Will mechanically, staggering on.
Scarcely had the thought entered his mind than a flake fell to the ground just in front of his foot. The gloomy sky grew even gloomier, seemed indeed to be pressing its dark weight down upon the earth. The flakes grew larger and more frequent, larger and faster still; suddenly Will was in the thick of a blizzard; the snow drove about him, the ground grew smoothly white. At first Will was pleased, and laughed to himself; he liked grim weather because he liked defying it, and these soft darting flakes took his mind from his own wretchedness, and gave him a sense of power. But presently a feeling of desolation began to grow upon him; the blizzard went on too long, it was beyond a joke; everything was so very silent; his foot made no sound on the soft white coverlet; the snow fell quietly and inexorably; its silence was unfriendly, it held itself back and would not speak to him. The flakes began to settle thickly on his hat and coat, he had to brush them often from his eyes. Will turned to look back at York, with the unacknowledged thought that a sight of the Minster Towers would be comforting. There they were, ra
ther far off, not very clear, pale grey against the deep grey of the sky, but visible, and tokens of the presence of man; Will turned to his path again, cheered. But was he quite sure now where the path lay? It was all so thickly white, and turning, as everyone knew, upset one’s sense of direction. He turned again to get a line from the Minster Towers. They were gone, blotted out by the whirling flakes; indeed he could now hardly see half a field’s length. He stood a moment; the silence was so absolute as to be felt; he was alone with the hostile snow.
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