He put sixty men around the Lodestar mills, the rest to the New Steam Mill which, being older, was closer to the town centre and the dragoons.
Vic led his half-drunk band of saboteurs round to the back of Lodestar, crept clumsily up to the gate, looked about him, saw nothing. He stood by the lantern and waited for his little band to catch up. He was delayed by a pair who had chosen to stop and vomit noisily, the raw gin catching up on them. He hefted the stick he had brought with him, shifted it onto his shoulder, military fashion.
The hidden watchers saw a musket barrel in the flickering light, picked up their own clubs.
Tonks came round from the other side on his inspection patrol, was grabbed and pulled out of sight, finger to lips.
"By the gate, your honour! A long gun for sure!"
Tonks saw what the whisper told him.
"Ready, lads! When I go!"
There was a subdued rustle of men tensing themselves to run.
Vic shifted forwards, started to open the gate. A night watchman saw him.
"Is that you, sir? Mr Tonks?"
Vic raised his stick and stepped towards him.
"Keep your mouth shut! Get outside! Come on men! For the Union!"
Vic took the lantern and ran towards the loading bay, grabbed at a pinch bar kept for opening packing cases, swung round as he heard a roar behind him.
"In the name of the law!"
Tonks thought he should be heard trying to sound as if he was about to make an arrest, as any citizen was entitled to do.
The clubs swung down and men screamed and howled; the pursuit started as some tried to run.
Tonks angled towards Vic and his stick and iron bar, raised his own pick-axe handle, stumbled in the dark, the surface of the yard uneven and slippery.
Vic lashed out, caught him across the shoulders and knocked him to the ground, head thumping into the granite setts. He saw who he had hit and raised the iron bar with the intent of finishing the job; four guards with clubs reached him first and beat him until he stopped moving.
"Fifteen men caught, Mr Star, sir, and their leader what won't be troubling nobody no more. Every one of them carrying a weapon, sir."
The self-appointed chief guard displayed a collection of pick-axe handles and pinch bars and a couple of knives thoughtfully donated by his own people. They were very convincing.
The magistrates accepted the evidence put before them and overcame their scruples to the extent of holding court on the Sabbath.
"Remanded to the Assizes."
Violent affray; carrying deadly weapons in the pursuit of a felony; unlawful assembly - all were crimes carrying the penalty of death or transportation. The Bench was upset at this outbreak of lawlessness, petitioned the Lord Lieutenant for a High Court judge to be sent to the town immediately rather than wait for the Circuit, was assured that a suitable individual would be found within days.
The coroner held his inquest that afternoon. Excessive delay would have been impossible as the body had to be displayed to the jury, but he could have waited a couple of days, it being winter. As it was a jury had to be empanelled from whoever was easily available in town, which happened to include several mill-owners and their foremen.
The verdict of self-defence was brought in very quickly, the coroner having to argue strongly against suicide, as they were convinced it was all young Peck's own fault. The court expressed its sympathy for poor Mr Tonks, violently assaulted by the deceased and still unconscious.
George Star stood at the mill door, watching his people come into work, exchanging nods with some of the older men and women, acknowledging the tugged forelocks, counting them through. More than three quarters of his workforce had shown loyal at the New Steam Mill. He made his way to the Lodestar mills, found the same story there, allowing for those arrested who would never be back again.
Highly satisfactory, he thought, preparing to see Thwaites, who had begged his assistance.
Pity about poor Tonks - but no man was irreplaceable.
# # #
The Vice Of Virtue
George IV dies and the rambunctious age of the Regency passes with him. Joseph Andrews is determined to atone for his weakness, in doing so he risks family unity. George Star flourishes in his ruthless money-making ventures, while the Railway Age is born, to the profit of some and dismay of others. In India, Wolverstone learns of a sinister plot involving poison, and Luke Star is facing unexpected danger in America.
A short excerpt from the start of the book:
The speaker looked round triumphant from his perch on the rear of a commandeered brewer's dray, surveying the thousand or so of expectant faces, multiplying them in his mind to ten thousands at least, all adoring him, the new Danton. He had an audience, at last - ten years of dreaming had finally brought him to his day, saviour of his people - they were hanging on his lips!
"Old words, comrades! But as true now as when Wycliffe spoke them six hundred years ago! We are freeborn Englishmen - and Welsh and Scots and Irish, of course - and we have been deprived of our birthright by the greed of the self-styled aristocracy!"
He paused, open-armed, for shouts of agreement. A few men applauded, most waited for him to get to the meat of his argument. They were hungry, their wages were low and the price of bread rose every week and their empty bellies were far more important than any political theorising.
"The land has been stolen from us by their Enclosures - why else are we forced to come to these dirty towns? Now we are here and trapped, they cut our wages and starve our children while they feast and ride in their carriages!"
There was a growl of agreement - that was obviously true.
"If we beg for more, what do they say? ‘Take it or leave it', never a word of sympathy. 'Go to America if you don't like it here'. First they steal our country from us, then they try to expel us from the little we have left!"
There were cheers - every man there knew of relatives or neighbours who had been forced overseas, never to return.
"Enough! It is time to call an end to oppression! Just forty years ago the French stood up to their cruel masters and raised a guillotine in every town square and sent word to every noble-born bully-boy that their day was over. We are better than any Frenchie ever was! We must march to our own glory! To the Market Square! Down with the lords and masters! Citizens, arise!"
The speaker jumped down, and stepped out towards the Town Hall - it was not as good as a Bastille, but was all that was available in this deprived age - his five convinced followers cheering and waving sticks in the air, the bulk of the crowd tagging along, as much to see the fun as to take part in any revolution.
They came to a bakers, the owner belatedly putting up his shutters.
"See - they hide the food from us! Our children starve while the fat shopkeepers profiteer!"
A dozen of the mob ran into the shop and grabbed loaves from the shelves. There was a cheer as a hundred hungry men scrabbled to join in. Glass smashed on the other side of the road and there was another outbreak of shouting.
Word spread and women and children appeared, from nowhere it seemed, and took part in the looting. Within minutes every shop in the centre of the town was broken open, foodstuffs taken away, tops knocked off the bottles from the wine-merchant. The crowd grew more cheerful and far more noisy.
A magistrate accompanied by three elderly watchmen strode into the middle of the road and tried to order the mob to disperse. He began to read the Riot Act, then, indignantly, ran away from the first stones.
George Star looked down on the mob from an upstairs window in the Town Hall. He was contemptuous in his dismissal of the riot.
"Small beer! Not a musket in sight, gentlemen! I believe, Mr Mayor, that the next step is yours."
He was wholly unconcerned, knowing that the big oak doors were bolted and barred and that there were iron grilles across the ground floor windows. Additionally forty men of the local Watch, ‘additional constables’ employed and paid by the Mill Owners C
ommittee, were waiting downstairs, all armed with official truncheons and most carrying clandestine pistols.
The Mayor, portly and far more at home at ceremonial dinners, squared his shoulders and raised his voice.
"It is my intention, gentlemen, to instruct the Militia to restore order and to arrest all of the troublemakers."
There was silence as the mill owners, most of whom were present in the room, waited for him to get on with it.
"Yes... well... that is what I shall do then..."
The Mayor left the room, his clerk scurrying before him to locate the major of the Militia. It would be easy to find the other officers; there was an inn next door.
"Third this year, Mr Tonks. Did you recognise any faces?"
"I have six names, Mr Star, and have paid four men to mingle with the mob and discover all those in the lead."
Tonks, who had been leaning on the window-sill, stood up with some difficulty and tucked his papers into a bag before grasping a walking stick and limping slowly across the room. Left arm and leg had both been impaired by a palsy-stroke caused by striking his head against the cobblestones in the violence of the previous year's strike. His face was twisted and his speech was a little slurred, but his brain was if anything more active than ever, and his sense of malice had been honed. He was no longer a handsome young man, but he was a very bitter one.
"I saw not one of our mill hands, Mr Star, yet I was quite sure that some would be tempted. The meeting was timed for the change of shifts at six o'clock, less than four furlongs from the mills. I had thought that it would be too much for some of the would-be troublemakers."
A new voice arose.
"Let us be thankful that it was not, Mr Tonks. Your leadership has clearly borne fruit - the men are loyal."
Neither man so much as smiled at this; they turned politely to the speaker, an undermanager at Nortons, the largest single mill in town. They recognised him but neither could remember his name.
“I saw three of my men at the front of the mob, gentlemen. Their names will be in the hands of the Watch just as soon as I can reach them, and I shall stand witness at their trial.”
“Skilled men or labourers, sir?”
“Two of the best of my weavers, Mr Star, the third no more than a porter, an unskilled pair of hands at the loading bay.”
“Was I you then, sir, I would take the one up as an example whilst offering the two the opportunity to redeem themselves. A word to them, warning them of their future conduct, but the hand of mercy and forgiveness to be stretched towards them as well. Sinners they may be, yet all may be brought to the light, sir!”
“Inspiring words, Mr Star! They shall be my guide.”
Tonks looked quizzically at George, raised an eyebrow as the unknown left the room.
“Out of character, Mr Tonks? Certainly, but it can do us no harm for there to be a pair of troublemakers continuing to infect Nortons’ people.”
Tonks began to chuckle.
They turned back to the window, watched with the appreciation of connoisseurs as the Militia marched into the square and formed two ranks forward, keeping the bulk of the men in reserve.
“Their drill is smarter than last time, Mr Tonks.”
“Far tidier, sir. Two companies to the front, three facing right, three left. They will not be caught out again.”
In the last riot the Militia had lost two dead men to a sudden shower of granite setts flung from upper windows flanking their march.
“That damned fool is going to address the Militia, trying to seduce them from their loyalty, Mr Tonks.”
The mob had parted and the orator had come forward, arms spread, shouting at the top of his voice. They could just hear him above the drunken clamour from the wineshop.
“Comrades! Brothers! Citizens of the oppressed! Cast down your muskets, do not use them to slay your fellow-sufferers! Stand beside us against the tyrants!”
A voice called from the Militia and a sergeant and three men stepped forward, evidently to arrest the agitator. There was a shower of stones and empty bottles and the militiamen retreated, clearly in response to orders, their task over.
“The major listened to your advice, Mr Tonks. Well done, sir!”
Tonks had explained to the major that the government wanted no repetition of the Peterloo Massacre, that the Militia must not open fire on the mob, must use its muskets only in self-defence, or to complete the arrest of a felon who offered violent defiance.
“Very well done on his part, sir. A horde of witnesses here to say that his men attempted to apprehend a felon in commission of capital crimes – incitement to violence and, arguably, treason, inasmuch that he sought to bring soldiers into revolt against the Crown.”
“And that peaceful arrest was thwarted by acts of potentially murderous violence… What advice did you give him on the use of firearms, Mr Tonks?”
“He must fire over their heads first, sir. If that caused the mob to run, then no further discharge. If they would not be warned then he should next employ the marksmen of his Light Company to shoot individuals actually committing violent acts. If the mob still pressed forward, only then might he volley fire into them.”
Neither man believed the Militia to be sufficiently disciplined to obey such orders, even if they were actually given. The concept of ‘marksmen’ in the Light, or any other, Company of Militia was unlikely as well.
The forty muskets of the front rank crashed out together, aimed upwards and doing substantial damage to the tiles of two town houses.
“Perhaps a little higher next time, Mr Tonks.”
Tonks giggled.
The square was suddenly almost empty, the rioters strongly suspecting that the next shots would not be fired into the air. Only the latter-day Danton remained, consumed by revolutionary zeal, they presumed.
“Oh, Good Lord, Mr Tonks! The damned blowhard is baring his breast!”
The orator had indeed pulled his shirt open and was loudly calling for the cowardly butchers to spill his innocent blood on England’s sacred soil.
“Very poor taste that, Mr Tonks!”
“Tuppeny melodrama, sir. Fit more for the fairground theatre booth than for real life! Ah, there comes the provost party again. I would not be in our revolutionary’s shoes for all the tea in China, sir – I saw one of those bottles hit the sergeant fair and square!”
The arrest was made and the semi-conscious firebrand was dragged away, his passionate oratory silenced for the day.
“Before the Bench and remand to the Assizes, sir?”
“Any judge would hang him for this afternoon’s work, Mr Tonks. The shopkeepers will have lost a hundred pounds and more, and their glass fronts will cost at least as much again to replace. Yet death sentences are increasingly unpopular amongst the hoi polloi.”
“Even commuted to transportation there would still be a sense of grievance, sir – he could well become a martyr.”
They shook their heads - even the most amateur of firebrands could learn and eventually become a professional. They must get rid of him without creating a greater fuss.
“If we simply release him then he will continue to stir up trouble, Mr Tonks. He would be an advertisement of our weakness; he would claim that we feared his following.”
Tonks pursed his lips, shook his head.
“Not if he was, for example, to sign on as a seaman on a ship bound far foreign, sir. He might be moved – by remorse perhaps - to make his way from the Court to the docks at Liverpool and there become a deckhand. Many of the merchantmen sailing for India and China are known to have difficulty in making up their crew, particularly since the tales of the cholera have become widespread and it is known that the Lascars and Chinks are dying in their millions.”
“Could we be sure that if we arranged his release, bound over to good behaviour, say, he would sign on, Mr Tonks?”
“Oh yes, sir. I would be very sure indeed!”
“Then, as so often, I shall leave the matter in your c
apable hands, Mr Tonks.”
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