World From Rough Stones

by Malcolm Macdonald

  "Did ye? Ye said it wasn't thee versus me but the working classes versus privilege and the ancient regime."

  Prendergast shuffled his papers impatiently. "I suppose you have some purpose in these questions, Metcalfe?"

  "I am trying to establish my motive, Your Honour."

  "We don't give a brass farthing for your motive, my man. We are here to determine whether or not you broke the law."

  Resignedly, Metcalfe nodded and returned to Stevenson. "Do you remember the occasion when you first mentioned the statute under which we now stand charged?"

  "I do."

  "You recited a list of actions forbidden under it. Could you now repeat that list and say what my response to each of them was?"

  Stevenson was filled with admiration for the mind at work behind these questions. Metcalfe already knew that jail was a certainty for himself and the other two; the case he was now laying down was for trial before a much wider court—the ultimate court of public opinion. "It forbids violence…threats…" he began.

  "Wait! What did I say to violence?"

  "You said you would not use it."

  "And to threats?"

  "You said you would make no threats."

  "Go on."

  "It further forbids intimidation. You said you would offer no intimidation. It also proscribes molestation. You said you would molest no one. Finally, it forbids obstruction. You suggested you might speak to new bricklayers without physically obstructing them. You suggested silently holding up some kind of written statement of your grievance—again without offering physical obstruction. Your own attorney then warned you that such actions might, in this court, be held to be obstruction."

  "In this court particularly."

  "That was his opinion."

  "And insofar as you cautioned me about the state of the law, what did you say?"

  "I told you you hadn't a hope. You were setting yourselves against the kind of law that forbids treason, rape, arson, murder, and breathing—or some such phrase."

  "Thank you." Metcalfe sat down, letting the laughter at Stevenson's quip do its work.

  "I should add," Stevenson went on, wickedly, "that your two fellow-prisoners shared your rejection of violence, threat, intimidation, and molestation."

  Metcalfe, knowing he should have made the point himself, nodded awkwardly and looked at the floor.

  Prendergast, seeing that his ship had not sunk after all, climbed back aboard: "Well, Mr. Stevenson. Your enemies must learn to fear you most when you offer the greatest advice, assistance, and other apparent concessions."

  "We should all be wary of unsolicited gifts, Your Honour."

  Prendergast stared at him long and hard after that.

  Other evidence followed, but the case against the three was already proven. An unhappy Reverend Findlater corroborated part of Stevenson's testimony; and Thornton gave evidence of trespass—to corroborate the intention to obstruct— after the men had been dismissed.

  The prisoners then standing, Prendergast, after only the briefest consultation with Love at his side, delivered judgement. "We find you, all three of you, guilty of the charge of obstruction. There has been a lot of wild and dangerous talk at this trial. Just as there are wild and dangerous and desperate men at large in this country. All this talk of secret oaths…we mean to stamp out this secrecy. No greater threat could be levelled at our English traditions of liberty and security than all this secrecy…"

  There was a great deal more in this vein, very little of it relevant to the present case. It ended with the traditional fulminations of magistrate against police. "There was a riot," he said, "and the police were attacked with great ferocity. One even lost an ear. There was a suggestion that your actions were at the bottom of this riot; but we find that not proven. As far as this court is concerned, the wounding of a constable or two—even the severing of an ear—is neither 'ear' nor there." Yells of laughter forced him to halt and hold up his hand for silence, though he was not too insistent about it. "The police must be well aware by now that they can look to this court for no more than the coolest tolerance. But"—he leaned forward, speaking fiercely and jabbing his forefinger repeatedly toward the prisoners—"by that same token, you three troublemakers and other ranters and traitors like you can look for even less. It is agitators of your sort and kidney who make the police a necessity. The old parish constables could have dealt with nuisances like the rioters who came before us this morning. It is you dangerous subversives who make the police such a loathsome necessity. Without your kind, we could abolish the police and all breathe free men again."

  Murmurs of approval swelled into cheers and it was some time before he could continue. The police in court, well used to such attacks, looked on with calm equanimity. "The one extenuating circumstance," he said when it was quiet again, "is the manly forbearance of your master, Mr. Stevenson. He is indeed a prince among employers, and you have treated him scurvily." Looking pointedly at Fox and the Reverend Findlater, he continued:

  "Indeed, there have been times in this whole wretched affair when he was your only true friend—just as there were times in this court when he was your best advocate. By speaking for you, he has mitigated what would be a far severer sentence. You will go to prison, all three of you, for three months. With hard labour."

  It was, as everyone knew, the maximum sentence. Fearing demonstrations, the police bundled the three prisoners smartly toward the door behind the bench, where a stair led straight to the yard.

  "Lord John!" Metcalfe called just before he reached this door.

  "Aye, Metcalfe?"

  "Thou'st not been dealt the last card yet!"

  Wishing he could let Metcalfe have this petty triumph unalloyed, Stevenson nevertheless answered: "Come—take it like a man! Tha lost. I won. I had the better combination!"

  Even Metcalfe joined the laughter—though his mirth was, understandably, not the loudest or longest. The three words, "the better combination," were passed around as those who had heard the reply shared it with those who had not—who then shared it with those on the stair…and so on to bar and parlour.

  Only a disconsolate Fox and an aggrieved Findlater were left behind when Captain Starr made an application for the release of Eph Ackroyd on the grounds that his story about the pig had been true. In his pocket a half-sovereign from Farmer Randall—"for the prisoner's keep" to be sure—ensured that the good news would somehow fail to reach Eph himself until the following morning. And at half a sovereign, Farmer Randall had just purchased a chastened, fearful, and willing servant right cheap.

  Stevenson was the hero of the hour. Friends and men he'd never met gathered round to shake his hand and pummel his back. The very frenzy of their congratulations showed him how intensely the Chartist violence had made them fear for their property and lives; it also confirmed—to his satisfaction at least—his wisdom in introducing the Irish and their violence. A peaceable strike overcome would have passed without notice, and he would have had to find some other way to gain his end. Briefly, as the cheers rained upon him, he wondered if folk would congratulate him so fervently if the full tale were known. Among them he saw Arabella Thornton who, with a meaning that leaped straight from her to him, told him he had made "an excellent showing."

  With Nora, he walked the three miles back to Littleborough, glad of the exercise and air after the stifling atmosphere of the court.

  "What do'st tha think to yon Arabella Thornton?" he asked when they were well away from the Dog and Duck.

  His directness puzzled her. "Not much either way. I've not seen her but twice since we had yon jollification. And back there at court. She looked at thee a bit…afternoonified."

  He laughed but did not explain.

  "She rides well," Nora allowed. "I've seen her come through Littleborough a time or two."

  "Tha'd like to ride?" he asked.

  "Eay!" Her eyes gleamed.

  "'Appen we s'll buy a 'orse when we get to Rough Stones. 'Appen tha could go ridin' w
i' Mistress T."

  She hugged his arm in delight at the thought of having a horse. "We shall have to live more friendly with the pair of them when we're over there," she said—adding coldly: "Won't that be merry?"

  He nodded abstractedly and stared glumly ahead, so that she wondered whether he had meant his promise of a horse or had just been speaking idly.

  "What ails?" she asked. "It'll not be that bad."

  "I was thinkin' o' Prendergast," he said.

  "Dean of the Dog and Duck!" she laughed.

  But he did not share her amusement. "Don't ever think yon's just easy quarry," he warned. "Today I did what I 'ad to do. But from one point o' view, it were rank folly."

  "Oh?" She, too, was serious.

  "Aye." He sighed and looked impatiently about them. "Until this day, I've tooken every care to see as our dear reverend doctor thinks of me as just plain, honest straightforward…well, not honest…but simple. Easy to manage. No challenge to 'im, like. Not when it comes to devious and underhand dealin'. Well"—he laughed sourly—"'E knows different now, doesn't 'e."

  They went on a short way in silence before she said: "Even if we got Chambers to own that forgery, there's still yon Duke-o'-Somerset letter."

  "Nay," he told her. "'E'd never use that on its own. There was no witness to it, see tha. Nay, it's Chambers 'olds our fortune now."

  "Do you know him?"

  "I know of 'im. 'E's a Jew. Not one of—"

  "A Jew!" she said in a voice full of alarm.

  "Aye."

  "Not…" she began fearfully, "not…a moneylender!?"

  He stopped and looked at her in amazement. "Well o' course 'e's a moneylender, tha soft duck! 'E's a bloody banker! What do'st think a banker may be if 'e's no moneylender?"

  "Eay!" She approached the new thought as one might approach a bomb. "Aye…it never struck me."

  "Anygate," he went on. "'E's a Jew. 'E's on't outside lookin' in, 'cos London's never been warm for the tribe o' Abraham. If we put, as I expect, over a hundred thousand pounds through our Manchester account and transfer a profit on it of thirty thousand to Mr. Chambers, I think we shall kindle a gleam in his eyes bright enough to blind him to the fact that I took his name in vain."

  "Any banker would," she said.

  But he shook his head. "Not any. There's lots are still very old-fashioned. Especially the big London ones."

  "That's why you chose him!" she said, suddenly realizing it and looking at him with renewed admiration.

  He sighed. "I just don't know."

  "Don't know?"

  He tapped his cranium: "I'm beginning to suspect there's something in here lays deep plots unknown to me and only tells me when it's too late to reverse."

  She laughed, not believing a word.

  "I must get Chambers to own both them letters," he said. "Then…"

  "Then Prendergast can kiss our royal Yorkshire arse!"

  "Nay," he laughed. "'E can start earnin' 'is keep. There's no doubt but what 'e could be very useful to us. 'E knows't railway fraternity. None better. That's where 'e's daft, see tha. If 'e'd just bide a while, 'e could earn issen a fortune puttin' work our way, when we're ready for it. A fortune. Open an' above board, like. I'd not stint 'im."

  "Why not tell him?" she suggested hopefully.

  He laughed at the irony of it. "'E might o' believed it once. But not now. 'E'd never believe it now, would 'e? Nay. I must force 'im to it."

  "Aye," she said, glad it was settled one way or the other. "That's best."

  "Only question is: Will 'e force me to bend to 'is way first? It's a race. As we get richer over this next six months, we s'll be better an' better placed to beat 'im; but 'e's better an' better likely to start skinnin' us. It's a race, see tha. An 'e knows I'm no simpleton now. 'E'll not trust us."

  "We s'll win," she said. "There's none else could do it but thee."

  "Me an' thee."

  "As a matter of fact," she said in a different tone, "there is a notion I've had. For making more money. Or making our present money work better. I'll tell thee how it first came to me."

  She took his arm and hugged tightly to him as she talked.

  "Ye know the Todmorden turnpike, about two furlongs out from Littleborough, where there's a little brook comes down from Gorsey Hill across the field?"

  "The one they've just straightened and fenced?"

  "Aye—yes."

  "Town House Brook it's called."

  "If ye look where they've straightened it, and ye look at any one place, it's just water moving"—she moved her free hand smoothly across their path—"steady… one way. Then you cross the road and look at the natural brook and if doesn't flow like that at all. It goes"—she swirled with both hands to mime eddies and miniature creeks of slow-moving water—"like that. The natural course, d'ye see, is not to rush the water by as fast as may be, but to delay it."

  "The flow is the same though," he said, not yet grasping her argument. "The same quantity of water flows in both cases."

  "Yes," she said, "but if you were an animal and had to depend on water, which side of the turnpike would you choose?"

  "Below," he said. "The unimproved reach. Though I can't say why. It seems right even without thought."

  "That's just it," she said. "If we were them animals and water was money and the river opposite to one yard of the riverbank was our bank account…it's the same, in't it? I can't say it the way a lawyer could, but I know it in me bones, I know it from doin't books, from seein't cash come in an' go out, in an' out, in an' out, same day often enough, I know we're like bein' beside't new artificial section an' we should be down below. We need a way to make money…" Her hands described the same eddies and stagnant creeks as before.

  "Aye, I see that," he said. "Not a bigger flow. Same flow. Just delay it on its way."

  "Yes. Make use of it."

  Looking at her bright eyes and earnest little face he knew she had more to say than that. "How?" he asked.

  "Well…" She took his arm again. "I agree with all you said about truck and tommy rot…but…supposin' we was to sell good tommy, at a little profit but not greater in proportion…we'd fetch back between five and six hundred of the weekly wages. If our profit on that was only four per cent, it'd be twenty to thirty pound a week. And that's a good cure for sneezin', any day."

  She had expected him to raise objections but even before he spoke she could feel he had accepted the basic idea. Her heart began to dance in anticipation; how it had irked her all these months to play no active part in making money— except for the routine of purchasing. Somehow purchasing for use lacked the excitement of purchasing for resale.

  "What sort of tommy?" he asked.

  "Only basics," she said—adding, mentally, to start with. "It'd be meat, flour, salt, sugar, potatoes, and one other vegetable according to season, tea and ale. Them seven items covers nine tenths of your navvies' necessary spendin'."

  His laugh was tinged with disbelief. "How can you possibly know that?"

  "Because I went and asked among the wives. I asked twenty of 'em. And then I give up—gave up—because I kept gettin' the same story. Would ye like to know?"

  He shook his head in wonder. "Tha'rt a bloody marvel! Asked't womenfolk. I'd never o' thowt o' doin that."

  "Do you want to hear?"

  "Aye."

  "Your navvies—this is just the navvy now, forget the family for a minute. Your navvy puts down in a week nine pound of meat at five pence, ten pound of bread at two pence, twenty of potatoes at about three pound a penny, a quarter of tea at a shilling, a pound of sugar at eight pence, it comes to twelve and ninepence in all. Eight hundred navvies at twelve and nine is five hundred and ten pound."

  "They'll not all buy from you."

  She noticed that "you" not "us." "I've not counted any craftsman—nor spending on any wife and bairn. I'd say five hundred pound—or sixty per cent of the wages'd—come back through us."

  He walked on in silence for so long that she had
to prompt him:

  "Well. What do you say?"

  "I say let's see what prices we can get in Manchester."

  She noted that "we" and rejoiced quietly in her victory. "I know someone who'll give us a very good price," she said. "But there's no hurry. I'd not start before we've moved to Rough Stones. I s'll need one of your offices for a shop."

  "Hah!" He gave a single, sharp laugh and raised his hands to heaven as if to blame Providence for her deception.

  That evening, when he returned from the workings, he found a letter from Prendergast waiting for him. He took it upstairs and opened it with Nora looking on. "See how quick 'e can move when 'e wants," he said.