There were those among them who secretly wished themselves elsewhere. As they answered the roll-call, they shivered, knowing that now they were irrevocably committed to deeds of which they doubted the justice and feared the outcome. But they knew they dared not retract: they had taken an oath which bound them indissolubly to the Luddite cause, whatever action its leaders might dictate. To turn traitor was to invite an ignominious death. However little stomach they had for the present proceedings, they kept silent.
John Booth was one of these. He stood next to Sam Hartley, his face pale in the moonlight. Most of the Luddites had either blackened their faces or put on masks; but these two had shunned the feeble attempt at concealment. Both were past caring, though for different reasons.
Somewhere a curlew raised its high, plaintive cry. John shuddered, and hunched his shoulders, as though attempting to shrink into himself. He started as a heavy hand clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Cold, lad? Tha’ll be warm enough just now, when t’ fun starts.’
It was Black George, doing the rounds with one or two others who had placed themselves in command of the rioters.
‘Ay, that we will,’ Sam Hartley answered him, his eyes blazing fanatically in his white face. ‘I’ve waited long enough for this day, b’God, and now I’ll be even wi’ Arkwright, if it’s t’ last thing I do in this world — damn his soul!’
There was a growl of assent from those nearest him. Booth flinched, but said nothing: his companion’s fierce hate terrified him.
‘Tha’s reight,’ approved Mellor, shortly. ‘Reckon we’ve all waited long enough. Well, lads, we’d best be on our way.’
One of the other leaders spoke up. ‘There’s t’ lads from Leeds to come yet,’ he protested. ‘Happen they’ve been delayed. Let’s wait a bit.’
‘We’ve waited all we’re going to wait,’ retorted Mellor firmly. ‘We need to strike while t’ iron’s hot — t’ lads’ll lose their nerve, I reckon, if we hang about much longer.’
The other demurred, but Black George’s forcefulness overcame all objections, and the party eventually moved off across the moor in the direction of Liversedge.
*
Arkwright and the Colonel had kept up a desultory conversation until close on midnight, squatting side by side on the straw palliasses which had been placed for them on the upper floor of the mill. Most of the other men on guard were already asleep, worn out by the extra hours of vigil in addition to their normal working day. At five to twelve, the Colonel looked at his watch, yawned widely, and stretched his full length on the mattress.
‘Looks as though I was wrong,’ he said, between yawns. ‘They’re not coming tonight after all.’
He relapsed into silence, closing his eyes. Presently a faint snore issued from his lips.
Arkwright leaned back on one elbow, and let his glance travel once more round the dimly lit room, as he had done countless times already during the hours of waiting. He no longer saw it: in his mind’s eye was the Vicarage parlour, with Mary Lister standing there, as she had confronted him on his last visit. Could it really have been only a few days since? He seemed to have lived a lifetime since then; and yet he could still feel her nearness in his every nerve, when he conjured up once more the moment when he had held her in his arms. He told himself that it was no use to think of that. She had shown him plainly enough where her interest lay; and he was not a sickly youth, to go wailing for the moon. He had done well enough before Mary Lister came to Liversedge, and he would do well again, after she left. All things are passing. And if the ghost of his younger self suddenly cried out against this staid philosophy, he knew how to quell it.
Suddenly he started up, every sense alert to the present emergency. His quick ears had caught the low growl of the dog from downstairs. He put out a hand, and shook the Colonel.
‘Someone’s there,’ he whispered.
Several of the others had heard the growl, and were quietly rousing their fellows. In a moment, every man was on his feet and listening intently.
The dog growled again, tentatively, then more strongly. They listened, and could hear the muffled sound of many feet approaching from the distance. The sound steadily grew in volume as it drew closer to the mill: then suddenly it stopped, as though cut off with a knife.
The dog now began to bark unrestrainedly. The next moment, there came a sharp splintering sound, a wild cry of triumph, and a rush of feet into the forecourt of the mill.
‘They’ve broken through the outer gates,’ stated Arkwright. ‘Right lads, raise the flagstones.’
‘Look to your muskets,’ ordered the Colonel, as soon as the first command was obeyed. ‘Hold your fire until the word is given.’
The men took up their positions as previously arranged, and waited with their firearms at the ready.
Another loud shout rang out, and a shower of stones hailed against the ground floor windows, followed by the crashing sound of breaking glass.
‘Not yet,’ warned Arkwright. ‘Wait till they close in a bit.’
‘What’s happened to your two watchmen?’ asked the Colonel, in a low tone. ‘Didn’t hear them fire, did you?’
‘No. Overpowered by now, I expect. Unless they ratted — I chose those I was most sure of for this part of the business.’ He indicated the interior of the mill with a jerk of his head.
At that moment, there was a wild burst of firing through the shattered downstairs windows. Evidently the rioters had moved in closer to the mill, and were preparing to attempt an entry.
‘Now!’ ordered Arkwright, sharply. ‘Fire!’
Those who were stationed at the previously manufactured loopholes along the front of the building, let loose a volley of musketry. Its echoes resounded through the quiet valley; for all at once a shocked silence had fallen, as the rioters realized for the first time that the mill was being ably defended by armed men. They had hoped and expected that, as in other places, they would find here only a few inexpert guards with a pistol or so among them, and small science in handling weapons.
A shout from Black George rallied them. A sharp word of command, and they leapt at the great door of the building, their hatchet blades glinting evilly in the moonlight. Simultaneously, another group of them let fly with a bombardment of stones, this time at the upstairs windows where lurked the hidden marksmen. Some missed their mark, for these windows were smaller than those downstairs; but the sound of crashing glass testified to the accuracy of aim of the rest.
Several of the defenders leapt smartly back as flying fragments of glass came their way. One or two suffered minor cuts, but no one was seriously hurt.
‘Back to your positions!’ ordered the Colonel, momentarily forgetting this was Arkwright’s affair.
The men responded, moving forward through jagged heaps of glass fragments which crunched beneath their feet.
‘Fire!’
Once again a volley rang through the night. This time, it was followed by groans, and the soft thud of falling bodies.
‘Hit a few of ’em,’ said the Colonel, in satisfaction. ‘Someone ring that alarm bell, quick! We’ll get the military here.’
The bell-rope was hanging just beyond the head of the stairs. Arkwright signalled to a workman who was standing guard there; he went over, and seized the rope.
The bell rang out, its urgent clangour echoing high above the noise of the hatchets which struck in vain at the unyielding door. For a moment, the Luddites paused, dismayed at the sound.
‘Hammers!’ roared Black George. ‘Use t’ hammers — hatchet blades are turning — give way to t’ lads wi’ hammers!’
The hatchet men fell back, and those armed with hammers took their place. Sparks flew out as time and again they brought down the weapons with their full weight behind them: but still the great door stood firm.
‘Side door,’ whispered one of the leaders, hoarsely. ‘Door to t’ counting house — let’s try that.’
‘Ay — some of ye go there — t’ rest keep on
here,’ ordered Mellor.
Those indicated detached themselves, and made their way cautiously past the counting house to the door in the side of the building. It was no less sturdy than the main door; but it was smaller, and their hopes rose as they began to attack it with vigour.
A heavy burst of firing rained down on them from the windows above. Several of them dropped in their tracks; the rest were forced to abandon the attempt.
‘Let’s try t’ rear,’ suggested one man, as quietly as he could, for the uproar now was tumultuous. ‘They’re mostly firing on t’ front, I reckon — happen we’ll find a way in there.’
The idea caught on, and the remaining members of the small party crept stealthily to the rear of the building. And now they were thankful for the wild clangour of the alarm bell, and the ring of their comrades’ hammers on the great door.
Perhaps a dozen of them reached the rear of the building unnoticed. The windows here were undamaged, and now came the difficult part of their business. They must smash the windows in order to gain admittance, and there was a risk that even in all this din, the noise of breaking glass might draw down fire upon their heads. Yet another difficulty was the fact that the mill had been constructed close to the edge of the river. An incautious step in the dark would send a man plunging headlong into the fast flowing waters. Several of them now clung precariously to jutting stones, and seemed uncertain of what to do next.
‘Try to climb on t’ wheel,’ urged their leader. ‘We might be able to reach t’ small window to t’ side of it.’
Two or three edged along the bank, eager to make the attempt. Eventually, one did succeed in climbing on to the wheel; but he could not keep his footing on the wet, slimy surface. He slipped, his hands clawed desperately for support, and the next moment a shriek sounded from him as he went hurtling through the air into the waters beneath.
At once, a burst of firing from above splattered around the rest. One or two dropped silently to join their companion in the water; the rest hung for a moment close in to the building, then gradually made their way back to join their comrades in the assault on the main door.
The rioters were growing desperate by now, as the minutes sped by, and still they could not gain an entrance to the building. And the bell kept ever clanging, clanging, calling loudly for assistance.
‘Stop that damned bell!’ shouted Mellor. ‘Fire, lads, an’ break t’ bloody thing!’
Several shots rang out in response to his order, but still the bell continued its strident appeal.
Frantically, Mellor snatched a musket from the man nearest him.
‘Shoot, I say! We’ll have t’ sojers on us, else! Shoot!’
Yet another round of the precious ammunition was expended, but this time to some purpose. The great bell quivered, then fell silent.
A cheer went up. Inside the mill, the defenders looked at each other for a moment in dismay. The bell-rope had slithered uselessly to the floor.
‘A lucky shot,’ said Arkwright. ‘They’ve broken the rope.’ He turned to the Colonel. ‘Take over here, sir; I’ll see what I can do to get it going again.’
He signalled to one of the men to accompany him; and, grasping their muskets, they ascended a ladder to a trap-door in the roof. They opened this, and cautiously wriggled out beside the structure which held the bell. A brief survey revealed that the broken rope was swinging within grasp.
‘We’ll take it in turns to pull,’ directed Arkwright. ‘You start. I’ll pick some of ’em off, meanwhile, if they look like firing again.’
The man was about to obey; but suddenly a loud, splintering crack was heard, and a roar arose from the Luddites.
‘T’ door’s bursted! We’ve done it — Sam’s done it — Sam Hartley! Sam Hartley!’
The name echoed and re-echoed through the throng.
In truth, there was little enough to shout about: the hole they had succeeded in making was little bigger than a man’s head, and would need much more work on it before it would admit them, even singly.
‘Fire through the hole!’ ordered Colonel Grey, sharply, to the two men in the best position for doing so. ‘Give ’em another volley, the rest of you!’
But one of the two men threw down his musket without a word, and folded his arms.
‘D’ye hear!’ roared the Colonel. ‘Fire through that hole in the door!’
The others obeyed at once but the first man still stood motionless.
‘Insubordination!’ snapped the Colonel. ‘When this is over, you’re under arrest!’
Shrieks and groans rose up from the rioters, giving witness to the accurate aim of the defenders.
‘Sam’s hit!’ arose a shout. ‘They got him — Sam’s hit!’
The man who had thrown down his musket turned fiercely on the Colonel, his eyes blazing in a dead-white face.
‘My brother!’ he exclaimed, in a choking voice. ‘God damn thy soul, tha asked me to fire on my own brother — and now he’s dead!’
He broke down. Just then, the bell resumed its insistent clamour.
The shot had not killed Sam outright, though he was badly hit. John Booth was close by as he fell, and bent over the still form.
‘Sam!’ He held his hand for a moment over the other man’s heart, and felt the stir of life. ‘Thank God — oh, thank God!’
He straightened up with the idea of trying to move Hartley away from the thick of the turmoil. As he did so, another fierce volley from above raked the mob.
John Booth dropped beside his companion, shot through the leg.
By now, the Luddite leaders were beginning to suffer from strong misgivings. In spite of their initial success in breaking down a small portion of the door, they found they could make no more headway with it. The defenders were in an impregnable position, under cover, and seemingly, with an inexhaustible supply of ammunition: the Luddites’ own scanty stocks were almost finished. Moreover, they had been at the attack for more than half an hour; and, during most of that time, the bell on the roof had never stopped its wild call for help. By now, it must have been heard: before long, they could expect to see the military come charging down upon them.
The disaffection spread rapidly through the ranks: a further barrage of fire from above settled the matter. Cursing vehemently, Black George reluctantly agreed to abandon the attack. All realized the need for haste. They must be miles away from that spot, and safely hidden in their separate homes before the soldiers arrived. A widespread search would follow, and suspicion fall on any man who was not in his bed.
They helped the less badly wounded of their comrades from the spot; but dared not encumber themselves with those who were helpless.
Black George bent briefly over John, lying senseless beside Sam Hartley.
‘Eh, lad!’ was all he could find to say, but he brushed his sleeve across his face as someone dragged him away.
NINETEEN: A LARK SINGING
There were many that night who were harshly awakened from sleep by the strident call of the alarm bell. Some burrowed their heads deeper under the bedclothes, fearful of knowing what the signal might portend: others were frankly curious, and heads poked out of windows as neighbour exchanged surmise with neighbour. But when the noise of the bell was followed by the sound of scurrying footsteps through the villages; when, later, the clatter of mounted troops swept past beneath their windows; then the people of the district were in little doubt as to what had taken place.
Mary Lister guessed earlier than many, for the firing and shouting were plainly audible from the Vicarage. At first, she crouched wretchedly in her bed, listening and wondering anxiously how Arkwright was faring, for it was of him that she first thought. She did not seriously entertain the idea that her cousin might be one of the attackers. She knew his gentle spirit; and failed to allow sufficiently for the influence of George Mellor, and the binding effect of the Luddite oath.
After a time, she heard sounds of movement in the house, and went out on to the landing. Mrs. Duckworth st
ood there in a voluminous dressing-gown, a candle held in one shaking hand.
‘What is it, Miss Mary?’ she whispered, fearfully. ‘It sounds as though them black devils is attacking t’ mill.’
Mary admitted that this was what she, too, feared; and the two women agreed to dress and brew a comforting dish of tea downstairs in the kitchen.
It was while they were sipping this by the resuscitated fire that they heard the soldiers ride past. Mrs. Duckworth blenched.
‘Pray Heaven Master John’s not mixed up in this lot!’ she said, fervently.
‘I can’t think it,’ replied Mary, attempting comfort. ‘You know his views on violence.’
‘Ay, but a good lad times gets led into evil by others — they know how to work on him.’
This was so much what Arkwright had once said of John, that Mary’s heart missed a beat as she considered the likelihood again. Who could say what arguments might be brought to bear on her cousin? What threats, even? Then there was the solemn oath which she had heard him take — he was so young in experience, though intellectually ahead of his years.
She set down her cup, a sudden wave of panic sweeping over her. Mrs. Duckworth noticed the change in her face, and went to her side.
‘Don’t swoon, now, lass. Put thy head down, so — ’
‘I’m all right,’ said Mary, trying to rally herself. ‘It’s the late hour, and the anxiety — and oh, I wish I could be there, and know for myself what is happening! It’s the uncertainty that’s so hard to bear.’
‘Get back to bed,’ urged the housekeeper, forgetting some of her own anxiety in the present need to care for someone else. ‘We can do no good, here, and we’ll learn nowt till t’ morning.’
But Mary could not face the prospect of a darkening room alive with the bogies of her imagination. She chose to remain where she was, and the housekeeper stayed with her. They sat on by the leaping fire which could no longer warm them; talking and falling silent by turns, but always coming back to the one subject which occupied both minds.
The Master of Liversedge Page 17