“Will there be a riot, father?” asked Sophia eagerly.
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Will. “You’d better fetch your mother and the girl over to the mill, Sophia. Get into the counting-house, all the lot of you, and stay there quiet till I say you can come out.”
“If we drew t’fires Chartists would happen pass by along t’road without knowing there was a mill down here,” objected Thorpe as Sophia ran off.
“The smoke’s hidden by the trees,” said Will. “Get in, Thorpe, and tell the men if any of them want to go home, they can go. But if they go now they needn’t come back,” he added grimly. “I want no faint hearts in Syke Mill, nor Chartists neither.”
Thorpe, muttering, turned to go on this errand, and Will began to cross the yard towards the engine house. Suddenly both men stopped abruptly; they had heard a heavy murmuring sound from the direction of Marthwaite. They looked at each other. The clatter of Brigg’s hoofs died away in the distance towards Irebridge, but the heavy murmur grew and grew until it filled the air; then from being a vague noise was suddenly broken up into a multitude of voices, faint but distinct. A shout and a high laugh came shrilly through the hot sunshine to their ears.
“That’ll be them,” said Thorpe, looking askance.
“Aye! That young fool must have wasted time getting here,” said Will. “Well! It’s to be hoped Master Brigg does his errand Quickly.”
“It’s to be hoped so,” sniffed Thorpe, going in.
Will’s pulses raced and he felt excited and happy. He could not exactly explain why, but he felt that in this open physical conflict with the rebellious working-men, he was at last coming to grips with the two things which had vexed his happiness, which were not as they should be in his life: Jonathan, and bad trade. It was this, as well as his native obstinacy, which kept him from taking precautions to conceal Syke Mill from the Chartists’ view. No, damn them! He was not going to hide from them! Let them come! He would fight them; Joth should see.… He stood absolutely still in the centre of the yard, facing Syke Mill Lane; his head up, his feet well apart, his hands clasped behind his waist. It was very hot out there in the sunshine, and the sweat stood on his brow; this annoyed him, but he would not put up his hand to brush it off. Mary and the maid, with Sophia and that young fool Frederick Smith, came running across from the house and pestered him with a flurry of questions; he jerked his head in the direction of the mill, and Thorpe came out and led them in. Without looking Will knew that every window behind him was crowded with faces; all who could leave their machines for a minute had done so, and were watching eagerly for the arrival of the Chartists.
And in a few minutes they came.
“Pity we haven’t a mill gate,” thought Will as the unruly shouting crowd of men and women streamed into view down the lane—he had an intense desire to bang and bolt something defiantly in their faces. They were a gaunt, dirty, ragged, villainous-looking lot, he considered, and stank vilely in this heat; some of them carried thick sticks cut from the hedges, with butchers’ knives tied to the top. This quite revolted him—such things ought not to occur in the West Riding, a place where men were supposed to have some sense. When they saw Will standing alone in the yard they laughed and jeered, though not ill-humouredly, and some of them brandished aloft their weapons in an ironical salute.
“Keep out of my yard!” shouted Will, pointing to the line where the Syke Mill property started. He began to walk towards them.
The foremost men stopped, confused, not having properly heard what Will said for the clatter of clogs and voices behind them. Cries of “What’s he say? Get on! Make for t’boiler!” rose from the ranks behind, and several of the younger men scrambled up the lane walls to see what was going on ahead of them.
“This is my land,” said Will, walking right up to the edge of it and halting there: “And I warn you not to trespass on it.”
A chorus of jeers greeted this remark, and a little man in the front rank said in a reasonable tone: “It’s no use talking like that, mester. There’s three thousand on us here, and we’re sworn to draw the boiler plug in every mill we come to.”
“What in the name of heaven will be the use to you of that?” demanded Will, really astonished at such imbecility.
“We want the People’s Charter,” shouted a man.
“Peaceably if we can, forcibly if we must,” cried another, quoting the Chartists’ slogan.
“Well, drawing my boiler plug won’t get it you,” retorted Will. “Be off with you now. Go home.”
“We’re going to turn out every hand in the kingdom till Parliament promises us a fair day’s wages for a fair day’s work,” explained the little man who had first spoken.
Here a tall, gaunt fellow, pushing his way forward, shouted unpleasantly in Will’s ear: “You don’t remember me, I dessay, do you, Mester Oldroyd?”
“Can’t say as I do,” replied Will with cool contempt, though he thought the man’s face vaguely familiar.
“You don’t remember knocking me down one day in t’slubbing room, do you?” said the man, while the crowd hooted its indignation. “One hot summer’s day, same as this?”
“If I did I daresay you deserved it,” said Will indifferently. “Now then! Don’t you tread on my land, or it’ll be the worse for you.”
“It were me brought these lads down t’lane,” explained the erstwhile slubber with triumph. “They’d have passed it by if I hadn’t told them there were a mill at bottom.”
“Oh, quit talking so much!” shouted a man disgustedly from behind. “Come on, lads! Let’s finish here and get on. There’s a sight o’ mills in Annotsfield wi’ plugs waiting to be drawn.”
There was a shout of laughter and agreement to this, and the crowd rushed forward, their clogs clattering on the cobbles of the mill yard. They pushed past Will indifferently, jostling him without much looking at him; and for the first time a quick fear rose in Will’s heart—not for himself, but for Syke Mill—and he wished Brigg were near at hand. Pushing and striking angrily about him, he managed to free himself from the crowd, ran across the yard round its fringes and brought up by the boiler pit in time to face the first comers. The firer and his assistant were standing on the steps, looking out with interest and astonishment at the strange scene. God! How hot it was, thought Will, panting heavily; he was not used to running nowadays, and the sun was strong; the fierce heat from the boiler fire behind him seemed to scorch his back; he glanced round involuntarily to see if the iron door was open, and in that moment the crowd was upon him. He was jostled almost into the pit—“Look where you’re going!” he cried angrily.
“Look yourself!” shouted the men. “You stand back and don’t interfere.”
“It’s no use resisting,” the little man advised him sensibly: “There’s too many on us. You’d best stand out o’ t’road.”
“What’s to do?” queried the firer in amaze, as some of the Chartists made to brush past him down the steps.
“Don’t let them near that plug!” shouted Will in a fury. “Do you hear me, Tom? Keep them back! They’re after the plug.”
At this threat to his boiler the fireman’s face changed; he swung his shovel alarmingly, and the Chartists stepped back.
“Get out of my mill yard!” shouted Will, pushing the men nearest him violently away. “If you don’t get out you’ll be kicked out.”
“Aye! It looks like it,” jeered the little man amidst shouts of scornful laughter. “There’s too many Chartist buttocks here for one man’s feet.”
And indeed the yard was full of men; as far as he could see Will beheld jostling faces, tossing arms, rough heads, jeering mouths. His heart sank, and he had a moment of anguish at his own impotence. These men to be standing on Syke Mill soil! He could hardly breathe for rage and heat; his heart felt swollen, enormous. One of his sons should be there beside him in this pinch. Where was Brigg? Those redcoats were always so damned slow! And Joth? At the thought of Joth and his London errand Will suddenly coul
d not bear it any more; he lost all control and shouted thickly, shaking his fist in his enemies’ faces:
“Get out, damn you! Get out! Get out! The redcoats’ll be here in a minute, and then we’ll see!”
For answer there was an angry roar, and the crowd surged forward. The slubber shoved Will violently aside; he stumbled, tottered, tried to regain his balance, and fell heavily into the pit. Five or six men jumped down after him; one of them, who carried a hammer, swung it gleefully and struck the wooden plug of the boiler glancing blows on either side. The wedge inclined this way and that, trembled, sprang further out with each blow; a thin trickle of boiling water splashed feebly on to the flags; suddenly the plug fell out, a scalding torrent poured across the pit into the grating of the drain which led down into the Ire, and the place was full of steam. There was a rush for the steps. One of the Chartists, not without difficulty, retrieved the plug, and with a shout of triumph threw it up to some young fellows who had climbed to the top of the engine-house; after brandishing it light-heartedly above their heads they hurled it into the river with a splash. The crowd laughed and cheered and waved their pikes.
“Tha’s best get them fires drawn if tha doesn’t want a burst,” advised the little Chartist from the steps, turning to go.
“I know that as well as tha does,” shouted the firer irritably. He threw open the fire door and began to rake out the glowing mass of coal. “I don’t know what good tha thinks tha’s doing by this job, I’m sure,” he went on. “I’m a bit of a Chartist myself, but this is donkey work.”
“If we all stop work for a month, they’ll give us the Charter,” announced the little man.
“Aye! We’ll teach ’em who’s who,” cried the slubber fiercely.
“Thee howd thy gab—I know all about thee,” said the firer, turning on him. “Mester Oldroyd knocked thee down for beating young Joth—I mind my father telling me on it as if it were yesterday. It were t’first time we thought o’ Joth being his lad, like.” This reminiscence recalled Will to his mind, and he looked about the pit in search of him. The owner of Syke Mill lay sprawling on a heap of coal, his eyes shut and his face crimson. The firer took his arm, pulled him up and began to brush down his soiled coat, uttering soothing words the while; but to his surprise Will made no reply, his body sagged and his head lolled against the firer’s shoulder. Staggered by his weight, the man stumbled, and Will slipped down to the coal heap again and lay prone. “By God, you’ve killed him!” exclaimed the man.
There was a sudden hush.
All the Chartists in and near the pit gazed down at the injured man anxiously.
As soon as there was silence, however, they were reassured by Will’s breathing, which was heavy and snoring.
“He isn’t dead,” said the little man in a tone of relief. “The fall’s just knocked him silly, that’s all.”
“Well, by gum, he looks bad,” said the firer. “He looks very bad to me. Who pushed him ovver?”
Everyone looked accusingly at the slubber, who grew pale. “I didn’t push him ovver,” he defended himself. “I just pushed him out o’ t’road, like. T’others were pushing me,” he concluded angrily.
“Well, we’d best be getting out o’ here,” said the little leader soberly. He climbed the steps, and shouted: “Get on, lads! We’ve a lot more plugs to draw to-day.”
The crowd, laughing and cheering, moved slowly away up the lane.
3
Marthwaite Church clock was striking eight that evening when Brigg drew rein at New House and dismounted. His coat was torn, his broad face covered with dust and sweat and painfully contorted; he had spent an afternoon of violent action and acute distress. He had fallen in with Sir Archibald Stancliffe afoot in Irebridge; when the old magistrate heard Brigg’s news, he hastily wrote a note to the Annotsfield authorities, and bade Brigg ride fast to deliver it. Overawed by Sir Archibald’s authoritative air the young man obeyed, though in dreadful anxiety as to what might be happening at home. Meanwhile the crowd, who thanks to Frederick and Sophia were so much nearer than Brigg had reason to believe, had done their work in Marthwaite and arrived in Irebridge; they proceeded to every mill of size and drew the boiler plug. The intrepid old magistrate read the Riot Act; the crowd jeered, threw stones, drew a few more plugs, then streamed down the road towards Annotsfield. As they entered the town they met the soldiers who—after what seemed to Brigg maddening delays—were just setting out to the rescue of Syke Mill. The crowd was again urged to disperse, but jeeringly declined to do anything of the kind; the lancers then rode them down. It was a horrible and sickening scene which on Brigg had the effect of making him nearly mad with anxiety; had anything like this happened at Syke Mill? If so, his father! And Sophia! Brigg galloped about down side streets, trying to find a way round the crowd, but always being headed off by the soldiers, or running into groups of screaming terror-stricken Chartists, who struck out at his horse as they fled madly by. At last, deliberately careless of whether he was regarded as a coward or not, he turned away from the scene of the riot altogether, rode out on the Oldham road towards the Moorcock, took the path across the moor to Scape Scar, and reached New House by way of Marthwaite. He had borne such dreadful visions with him, of bodies lying about the Syke Mill yard as they were lying about the streets of Annotsfield, that the sight of Frederick and Sophia, lolling against the New House doorway in agreeable conversation, made his knees positively tremble with relief.
“Sophia!” he said, his voice hoarse. “What’s happened? Are you all safe?”
“Yes,” said Sophia light-heartedly, scarcely looking at him.
“Oh, Sophia, no,” protested Frederick in his piping tone. “Think of your father! Mr. Oldroyd’s had a stroke of some kind,” he explained, turning to Brigg.
“Oh, God!” said poor Brigg. “Father!” He thrust his horse’s bridle into Frederick’s reluctant hand and strode into the house.
In the hall he met Mary, who had heard his approach and come down to meet him. Her hair was already sprinkled with grey, and her eyes looked wild. Her world was indeed tumbling in ruins about her. “Is he bad?” murmured Brigg wretchedly. Mary threw herself into his arms and burst into tears.
That night Brigg sat for long hours beside Will’s bed, holding his father’s hand. He could not be sure that Will knew him, but sometimes the dying man’s eyelids half unclosed, and a glimmer of recognition seemed to struggle in the heavy eyes. Brigg frankly wept, his tears falling on his torn coat, which he had not paused to change. He could not get over it, he could not bear it, he should never be able to forget it—his father to be struck down like that, without a son at this side! Alone! He knew from the Marthwaite apothecary that his father’s seizure was not due to his fall, but to shock—yes, thought Brigg, the shock of seeing Syke Mill thus trespassed upon, degraded and defiled. And he was alone! Brigg felt he would gladly give half his life—he valued his life, he enjoyed it, he didn’t want to part with any of it, but still he would gladly give half his life to have been at his father’s side that afternoon. That Will should have had to face that mob alone! If only Joth had been at home! But then, Joth, thought Brigg, his good-humoured face hardening as he remembered Joth’s business in London, Joth was not at home. The hand which lay in his—the strong, broad hand which was so like his own; now Joth’s hand was not a bit like that—twitched a little; Will’s eyelids unclosed and his eyes fixed themselves painfully on his son.
“Brigg,” he said in a thick slurred tone.
“Father!” cried Brigg, suddenly hopeful that the apothecary was wrong after all.
“Your mother,” muttered Will.
Brigg was rather doubtful whether Will meant Brigg’s real mother or Mary—they had not spoken of Bessy for years, but it was possible that in that solemn moment Will referred to her, and Brigg did not quite know what to say. His father’s next words, however, showed that, as usual, he meant Mary.
“Your mother and Sophia,” breathed Will.
“Aye?” s
aid Brigg eagerly, bending forward.
“When I’m gone, you—you—you,” stuttered Will thickly with an imploring look.
“I’ll look after them?” suggested Brigg, his hope of Will’s recovery dashed. Seeing relief in his father’s eyes, he repeated firmly and solidly: “I’ll look after them. Trust me.”
“Joth,” began Will, and stopped and sighed and slightly shook his head, as though it were beyond him to express what he felt about Joth. “He makes us out a poor lot,” he breathed, “I don’t know why.”
“He knows nothing about it,” said Brigg hotly. “Don’t you worry about Joth, father. I’ll look after mother and Sophia.”
Will’s eyes closed again, and his head relaxed. All sorts of strange pictures were flocking through his mind. He saw himself as a child, playing on Marthwaite Moor—how thick and purple the heather was then; surely heather was not like that now—yes, playing on Marthwaite Moor with, with, with, who was it with? Who was that gay, that charming, that loved companion? It wasn’t Joth, no no. He shook his head again; no, not Joth. Somebody who whistled. Not Joth. Some name rather like that, though. Joe! He had spoken aloud, and Mary, who was sharing Brigg’s vigil, started. Yes, it was Joe, dear Joe, and Mary was his sister. He saw Mary young and fresh and virgin, standing on the doorstep of Scape Scar cottage with her hair about her in a dark rich cloud; he felt her downy cheek beneath his lips, and smiled. Life was good then! But then there was a kind of muddle, with some soldiers and his father in a rage, and then Joe’s body swinging in the air, his head horribly on one side; Will moved restlessly; yes, that was horrible. And then there was another muddle, a muddle of shifting pictures; Syke Mill looked all different, and there was Joth. Ah, yes, Joth! Will shook his head again; it was all wrong about Joth, all wrong, all wrong. Joth ought to have been standing here now, strong and happy and loving, born properly in wedlock, Will’s eldest son. Of course in that case there would have been no Brigg, and Brigg was a good fellow; it was very confusing. Still.… And then suddenly everything was quite clear and steady and plain, and Will saw with dreadful clearness Joth and Brigg as they were to-day—Joth so lacking in humour, in the joy of life, in any understanding of cloth; Brigg so devoid of culture and enlightenment. There was naughty little Sophia too, whom Will had spoiled because alone of his children he really loved her; and Mary so clinging and helpless; and Syke Mill with the boiler plug floating away down the Ire. How could he bear to leave them thus? What would they do without him? “Sophia,” he murmured sadly. Brigg, who had a suspicion that Sophia was kissing Frederick Smith in the parlour below, blushed and moved his feet uneasily. “I’ll look after her,” he promised. Will gave a bitter smile; Brigg to look after his wilful, difficult Sophia! Much good Brigg would be! Well, it was all wrong; and yet there were good things in it too. His children were vigorous, honest and determined; handsome, too, and not without brain and skill. They must fight it out amongst themselves. But it was a pity it was all so wrong; a pity! He sighed again, and slightly shook his head. A pity!
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