The Master of Liversedge

by Ley, Alice Chetwynd

  She shivered as they stepped out into the dark courtyard of the inn. The snow was falling thickly now; it crisped beneath their feet.

  ‘Take care, ma’am,’ whispered her companion, taking her bag and her arm. ‘Don’t tha slip, now.’

  She looked about her. The yard was at present deserted; she could see no sign of the waggons he had mentioned. The occasional stamp of an impatient hoof somewhere out of sight was the only sound to break the silence. She began to feel uneasy: perhaps she ought not to have trusted him. Yet it was difficult to see what he could hope to gain by abducting someone like herself, who evidently could not afford the price of a post chaise. Even as the doubt crossed her mind, they rounded a corner, and came upon two covered farm waggons standing one behind the other, close to the road. A lantern swung at the front of each vehicle, but its light served only to illumine the figure of the driver seated beneath it.

  The man made no effort to attract the attention of either driver, but instead guided Mary noiselessly to the rear of the second waggon. He moved aside the tarpaulin covering, and tossed her carpet bag into the aperture. Then he turned towards her.

  ‘I’ll need to lift thee, ma’am. There’s no steps, think on.’

  Her hesitation was only momentary. ‘Very well. But how shall I manage without a light?’

  ‘True — tha might hurt thysen. Wait, I’ll fetch one.’

  He left her side, to return quickly with one of the lanterns. This he placed inside the waggon.

  ‘Now then, ma’am.’ He lifted her easily in his arms and set her down beside the lantern.

  She looked about her curiously. She was standing in the only clear space that was left in the waggon: the rest of it was piled high with some kind of metal contraptions. She stared at these for a moment, then turned to her companion.

  ‘These things — what are they?’ she asked.

  He shook his head warningly and looked cautiously around the inn yard. It was still deserted: he seemed satisfied.

  ‘Frames, ma’am.’ He leaned towards her, mouthing the word.

  ‘Frames?’ She was puzzled.

  ‘Hush!’ Once again he looked furtively about him. ‘Ay, shearing frames.’

  ‘But that still doesn’t tell me what they are,’ she whispered back.

  ‘Don’t tha know? They’re machines for croppin’ t’ cloth — they’ve caused all t’fuss in these parts.’

  ‘Fuss?’

  ‘Where art from, then, lass?’ he queried, unconsciously falling into the familiar mode of speech. ‘Hast never heard tell o’ t’ shearin’ frames — nor o’ t’ Ludds, neither?’

  ‘Ludds — you mean the Luddites?’ she asked, beginning to understand a little. ‘So these are the machines which they go about breaking? And you are taking them to some manufacturer?’ She paused as he nodded. ‘Oh, well; in that case, I begin to see — ’

  ‘Ay.’ His voice was grim, though he still kept it low. ‘I reckoned tha might. We’re fetching ’em by night for safety’s sake. Maister Arkwright warned us not to do owt or say owt to draw attention to ourselves. That’s why I thought twice about takin’ thee up along o’ us — but I’ve a daughter meself, an’ didn’t like to see thee stranded.’

  ‘You’re very good. But did you say Mr. Arkwright? Would that be the owner of Liversedge Mill, by any chance?’

  ‘It would that. Dost know ’im, then?’

  ‘I do indeed. I’m going to his house as governess to his stepsister,’ explained Mary. ‘I ought to have arrived there this morning, but the stage coach was delayed. What kind of man is he? I mean,’ she added hastily, realizing the impropriety of this question, ‘do you suppose he will be very annoyed at the delay?’

  ‘Never fear. Young maister’s not one it’s wise to cross, but he’s a reasonable man at bottom. Most folks don’t give him credit enough for his good points.’

  ‘Young?’ queried Mary surprised. ‘But surely — ’

  ‘Happen he’s not young by thy way o’ thinkin’,’ answered the man. ‘But I worked for ’is father, sithee, an’ knew Maister Will when he were a little lad.’ He stooped to lift the lantern from the floor. ‘We must get on now. Tha’ll have to manage without this, ma’am. Pull them sacks round thysen; they’ll keep thee warm, and they bain’t all that dirty, think on. Art snug, now?’

  ‘Indeed, I am, thank you.’ She smiled gratefully. ‘It’s so good of you to take me up, and I only hope you won’t find yourself in trouble on my account. Perhaps your employer will not mind so much, as I am also one of his staff.’

  ‘Eh, lass, he should be glad — reight glad!’ replied the other, as he settled the tarpaulin back into place. ‘I reckon Miss Caro will, at any rate — tha’s a bit o’ a change from yon Mouse who’s just left.’

  ‘Mouse?’ Mary repeated. ‘What’ But already he had gone: she heard his footsteps retreating.

  She glanced around her, but all was dark save for the glimmer of light cast on the tarpaulin by the lantern at the front of the waggon. It was insufficient to illumine the interior, and she felt a moment’s uneasiness. Suppose there should be rats?

  She shivered in revulsion, then took herself sharply to task. There was no grain in the waggon, so she could dismiss that thought from her head; rats were not interested in shearing frames.

  A shuddering lurch threw her violently against the side of the vehicle. She heard the slow clopping of hoofs and realized that already they had started on their journey to Liversedge. She righted herself again, moving her carpet bag into position behind her so that she would have something soft to cushion her from any further knocks. She shivered again. It was cold in the waggon, though not so cold as it would be in the icy wind which had sprung up outside: at least the tarpaulin afforded some shelter from this. She pulled the sacking round her to help combat the draughts which crept under the covering. She felt suddenly weary. She had been travelling since first light with only two short breaks for snatched meals at a couple of the poorer inns on the road. At the last stop, the soup had been too greasy for her to swallow, while the mutton which followed it had seemed to consist chiefly of fat and gristle. She began to feel hungry, as well as tired.

  At first, she suffered all the discomfort to be expected by one travelling in an unsprung vehicle on a rough, snow-covered track full of pot-holes. Gradually, however, fatigue and hunger combined to make her forget the physical discomfort. She drifted into an uneasy doze.

  TWO: ATTACK

  It must have been almost an hour later when she was abruptly roused by the sharp application of brakes to the waggon. The consequent jolt dislodged one of the machines stacked behind her; it did not fall in her direction, but the clatter served to bring her thoroughly awake. She sat upright, realizing that the waggon had stopped, and wondering why.

  It was then that she became conscious of the uproar which was in progress outside. Voices were raised sharply in anger, shouting words which she strained her ears to catch. As she listened, the dull thud of blows was added to the shouting.

  She jumped to her feet, her heart beating fast. What could be wrong? Was there some argument about payment of tolls, or the reckless driving of a heedless traveller on the road? It was not uncommon for unpleasantness to occur over such matters.

  She groped for the tarpaulin, and managed to pull it aside a little way. Then she leaned out of the waggon, trying to see what was happening.

  The icy air smote her face, making it tingle. The night was moonless, but she could still discern the gaunt, leafless shapes of trees at the roadside, and the dark tracks made by the waggons in the thick snow which stretched away behind them. There was no trace of any human figure here.

  Judging by the sounds, she concluded that the commotion must be going on somewhere in the direction of the leading waggon. She hesitated, shivering a little, and wondering what to do. Should she climb out, and try to discover what was wrong? Or would it be wiser to stay here, and leave matters in the hands of the workman who had befriended her, and who
had seemed to be a man of some authority and common sense?

  She had almost decided on the latter course, when the noise ceased abruptly, as though cut off by a knife.

  A sigh of relief escaped her; but it was checked at once as fresh sounds rent the brief silence. A series of wild, bloodcurdling cries now broke out; there was a quick rush of many feet, followed by the hard ringing sound of hammers descending heavily upon iron.

  She put her hand to her throat; her heart seemed to have lodged there, almost preventing her from breathing. She knew now what must be the cause of this terrifying uproar, which sounded for all the world like some gigantic blacksmith plying his trade.

  It was — it must be — the Luddites; somehow they had discovered that these waggons were carrying shearing frames. They must have succeeded in overpowering Mr. Arkwright’s men, and were now engaged in smashing the machines in the leading waggon. At any moment — perhaps this very moment — she could expect to see them here, where she was cowering.

  The realization would have been enough to unnerve some females completely; it acted on Mary as a cold shower, bracing her nerves.

  She knew it was unlikely that the attackers would give her anything but rough treatment; she did not mean to stay here and put it to the test.

  With trembling hands, she picked up her bag and threw it out of the waggon, then she prepared to follow.

  She found it difficult to do so unaided. Her long, clinging skirts hampered her in her attempt to throw one leg over the high, wooden back of the waggon; moreover, she could find no way of fastening back the tarpaulin, which kept hindering her by flapping in her face. Every moment’s delay heightened her sense of desperation: soon she was heedless of rents in her clothes, and scarcely felt the blood start from a gash in her leg caused by an unseen nail.

  At last, dishevelled and panting, she was sprawling in the snow beside her carpet bag. She seized it by the handle, and fled towards the trees.

  She knew that her footsteps would not be heard above the metallic din of hammers: the only risk was that someone might see her headlong flight. It was a risk she preferred to the certainty of discovery if she had remained in the waggon.

  The road was not wide, and a short rush soon brought her to the trees. She plunged into them, panting, and at once realized how little cover they afforded in their bare, winter state. If she stayed here, it would be easy for anyone coming to this side of the road to spy her.

  Desperately, she plunged onwards, stumbling over tree roots, and becoming entangled with brambles from which she tore herself free in near panic. Her breath was coming in great gasps now, and there was a tearing pain in her left side. Her steps became slower: when she stumbled, which was frequently, her recovery was less rapid.

  At last, almost exhausted, she tripped once more over a bramble, and this time fell headlong into a holly bush.

  For what seemed an age, she lay there, unable to move or think, drawing painful breaths. At last, her tumultuous heartbeats steadied a little, and she found the power of thought returning.

  If she wriggled a little deeper into the midst of the holly bush, she would be safe from view. Its prickly leaves offered ample concealment. Slowly, she began to crawl under the low branches, holding her bag before her face as a shield from scratches.

  Soon she was satisfied that no one could readily find her. With a deep gasp of relief, she ceased to struggle, and crouched within the shelter of the bush, listening, and slowly regaining her breath.

  For some time longer the din continued. Once, she heard footsteps running on the road, and a sudden shout. She cowered down in her hiding place, her heart once more beginning to pound in her ears. Suppose they should come this way?

  It was only for a moment, however, and then there was no sound but the thudding of hammers.

  Her thoughts began to race furiously. What ought she to do now? She began to think of Mr. Arkwright’s men, and to wonder how they were faring. She had no idea where help could be found, even if she had dared to leave her present hiding place. Irksome though the inaction was to one of her temperament, there seemed no other sensible course than to remain in hiding. Presumably the Luddites would depart when their errand was accomplished, and she could then see what might be done to assist the man who had so readily come to her aid when she was stranded.

  After what seemed hours, the tumult died away. There was a moment’s quiet: then she heard voices calling one to another, the sound of hoofs and wheels upon the road, followed by a deep and lasting silence.

  It seemed that the attackers must have gone; but she dared not leave her place of concealment until she was quite certain of this. She lingered there for what seemed an interminable space of time, fretting inwardly, yet still afraid to venture forth. At last, the silence of the night began to play upon her jagged nerves. Her keen imagination peopled the darkness with terrors as real as those through which she had recently passed. Come what may, she must find some human companionship.

  She crept painfully out from the holly bush, and, grasping her bag firmly, made for the road. It was scarcely surprising to find that her legs were not quite steady.

  As she emerged from the trees, she heard a hoarse shout.

  ‘Ben! Jack! Will! Art there? Speak up, for God’s sake!’

  She recognized the voice with relief and turned in the direction of it. A moment later, a dark figure appeared before her out of the shadows.

  ‘Who is it?’ She was seized roughly, before she could utter a sound. ‘Speak up quick, afore I throttle thee.’

  ‘No — don’t — ’

  She was released instantly.

  ‘ ’Tis thee, lass — art safe — what did they do to thee? Don’t fret — they’ve gone now.’

  Mary rubbed her throat. It felt tender. ‘I’m quite safe, except for a few scratches. I ran into the trees, and hid, when I heard all the commotion. What happened? Was it — was it the Luddites?’

  ‘Ay. There must’a been a dozen or more on ’em, and only four on us. They pulled a cart across t’ road, so’s we ’ad to get down and shift it. Then they was on us. I got a clout on t’ nob, and don’t remember nowt else, till just now. Help me to find t’ other lads, wilt, lass? I’ve been shouting, but they don’t answer.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re by the waggons,’ suggested Mary.

  ‘Happen they be, for them ’orses is uncommon quiet.’ He stared across the road to where the dark shapes of the waggons showed against the snow.

  ‘T’ lantern’s gone from one of ’em,’ he stated, beginning to hurry across the road.

  Mary followed close on his heels. As they reached the spot where the waggons stood, a figure came reeling out of the darkness towards them. Mary’s companion ran forward and placed a supporting arm about it.

  ‘Steady on, now. Which of ye — oh! ’tis thee, Jack Hartley.’

  ‘Ay, it is that, Nick, though I never felt less like mysen.’ He brushed his sleeve across his face. ‘My bloody ’ead’s bleedin’,’ he stated, in matter of fact tones.

  ‘Likely,’ was the laconic reply. ‘Hold on to t’ waggon, lad, and I’ll fetch t’ lantern. Dost know where t’others be?’

  ‘Will Oldroyd was with me when they set on us. Can’t say what ’appened to Ben; ’e was sitting beside thee, think on.’

  He groaned, and again wiped his face with his sleeve. The man called Nick left him for a moment, and returned with a lantern. An exclamation of dismay escaped Mary as the light fell upon Jack Hartley’s bloodstained face.

  ‘Who’s that?’ demanded Hartley, staring at her.

  ‘Maister Arkwright’s new governess,’ replied Nick, shortly, removing the muffler from his neck. ‘Here, lad — put this round thy nob. It’ll keep t’ blood out o’ thy eyes.’

  ‘Let me,’ offered Mary, conquering her revulsion of the bloodstained face.

  Jack Hartley shook his head. ‘Nay, ma’am. I reckon I’ll manage.’

  ‘I’m off to look for t’other pair,’ said Nick. ‘Tha s
ees why t’ ’orses are so quiet? They’ve put t’ nosebags on ’em — crafty devils! Bide ’ere till I come back.’

  ‘Nay, I’m comin’ too,’ insisted Hartley, winding the muffler clumsily about his head. ‘Happen tha’ll need help.’

  He swung round to accompany the other man. Mary, not wishing to remain alone in the dark, went with them.

  They circled the waggons slowly, searching the ground for any trace of their fellows.

  ‘How dost reckon they found out?’ demanded Jack Hartley, suddenly.

  ‘T’ Ludds? God knows, lad. But it don’t ’elp matters to ’ave those in t’ mill who hobnobs with ’em,’ returned Nick, meaningly.

  Hartley turned on him fiercely. ‘If tha’s takin’ a dig at my brother Sam, Nick Bradley — ’

  ‘I am that, an’ tha can like it or lump it,’ stated Bradley. ‘All those men from t’ mill who go over to Jackson’s croppin’ shop to ’ear young John Booth readin ’t’ Leeds Mercury, don’t do Maister Arkwright no service. There’s Ludds go to them readings, as everyone knows — ’

  ‘Booth?’ asked Mary. Fatigued as she was, this name caught her attention. ‘Did you say John Booth — the Reverend James Booth’s son?’

  ‘Ay.’ Nick Bradley paused for a moment, and studied her face in the light of the lantern. ‘Dost know t’ lad, ma’am?’

  She nodded. ‘He’s my cousin. While I am in Mr. Arkwright’s employ I shall make my home at the Vicarage with my uncle.’

  ‘He’s a good man, the Reverend,’ replied Bradley, slowly. ‘But that lad o’ his — ’

  He paused; Mary quickly took up her cousin’s defence.

  ‘He, too, is good — none better,’ she said, firmly. ‘I haven’t seen him for a few years, but I know that he was always thinking then of others rather than himself. He can’t have changed so much — I’ll not believe it.’

  ‘No, ma’am, he’s not changed. T’ lad means well, reight enough — but ’e keeps dangerous company.’