The Adventures of Tom Leigh

by Phyllis Bentley

  These and other questions were fired at me by this Mr. Defoe as we passed between the barn and the yard, so that from my stammered answers he had my whole story out of me before we reached the house. I went in and said—for I was still sore about the blow:

  “Some gentlemen wish to ask for directions to Halifax.”

  Mr. Firth was sitting with his foot, all bandaged, up on a stool; Mrs. Firth was spinning, Gracie was carding, I could hear the sound of the shuttle flying in the loom, upstairs. There was a big blazing coal fire, as usual; but I was somewhat taken aback to see the stone which had struck my elbow lying in the centre of the table.

  I marvelled much to see how Mr. Defoe set us all at ease.

  “Your servant, sir. Pray pardon this intrusion. Madam, your servant.” He bowed very politely to Mrs. Firth, who looked pleased and fluttered. “We are travelling from Rochdale to Halifax, and have lost our way in these hills of yours. These gentlemen are Rochdale merchants. My name is Daniel Defoe, merchant, of London.”

  “London!” said Mr. Firth. “You are a long way from home, sir. Pray be seated. Wife, some ale.”

  “You do not know my name?” said Mr. Defoe, laughing pleasantly.

  “Why, no—I regret,” stumbled Mr. Firth.

  “Robinson Crusoe has not yet reached Yorkshire, then. That is hard, seeing I wrote much of it in Halifax,” said Mr. Defoe. “Well! Yorkshire has that pleasure to come.”

  “My father has a copy of the book,” said Mrs. Firth in her genteelest tone—she was delighted to welcome a man from the great world of London.

  “Pray give him my compliments, madam, and my hopes that he enjoyed the book. I wrote it,” said Mr. Defoe, laughing pleasantly again, “and I am glad it has been well received. But enough of my affairs. May I enquire what is the sound I hear, above?”

  “It’s the loom—the shuttle in the loom. My journeyman weaver is busy weaving cloth.”

  “Ah. Cotton cloth?”

  “No, no!” said Mr. Firth indignantly. “All wool.”

  “Are you, then—”

  “A clothier? Yes. We’ve always been clothiers in this house.”

  Mr. Defoe went off again into a whirl of questions: how long had Mr. Firth lived at Upper High Royd? His father? His grandfather too? Farmers too? No? Partly farmers, always clothiers? Was it not inconvenient, living so far from a town? What day was Halifax market? How many pieces of cloth did Mr. Firth weave a week? A journeyman weaver too? Where did the coals come from?

  “Tom, help your mistress to pour the ale,” said Mr. Firth, rather flustered by all these questions.

  “Why, boy, what a bruise you have there!” said Mr. Defoe, seizing me by the arm and turning up my elbow for all to see. “How did you come by that, eh?”

  “A stone struck me,” I muttered, hanging my head.

  “That is the stone,” piped up Gracie, pointing to the stone lying on the table.

  “A sharp little maid, as well as a pretty one,” said Mr. Defoe, smiling at Gracie—the spaniel puppy had laid its head on her knee and was gazing up at her in that yearning way spaniels have.

  “Tom, pour yourself a mug of ale,” said Mr. Firth gruffly.

  I could see he now thought he had misjudged me about the falling flail, and this was a great relief to me. It struck me, too, that since the loom was still plying upstairs—Jeremy being usually eager to come down to see any visitors—there had perhaps been sharp words between Jeremy and Mr. Firth about the stone. I felt as if a weight had rolled off my shoulders.

  “Do you make kerseys here, or broadcloths? Do you dye and finish them yourself? I see the little maid is busy. I should be greatly obliged, Mr. Firth, if you would give me a comprehensive account of the cloth industry of the West Riding.”

  Mr. Firth, who was clearly still shaken and in pain from the accident to his foot, appeared somewhat daunted by this demand, and hesitated.

  “My enquiries are not made from personal curiosity, I assure you, sir,” said Mr. Defoe. “I am preparing a book to be called A Tour of England and Wales, and naturally I wish to give a clear and full account of all the places I visit. I am ignorant of this cloth trade of yours. I wish to perceive the reason and nature of the thing.”

  Mr. Firth, poor man, quite gasped, while Mrs. Firth and Gracie urged him:

  “Come along, Stephen.”

  “To be in a book, father!”

  Mr. Defoe perceived Mr. Firth’s distress. (What did he not perceive? It seemed to me his shrewd eyes saw everything.) With a true friendliness, which I admired, he relieved his host’s embarrassment by going on easily: “But you are so familiar with the trade, it is difficult for you to take an outside view of it. Now, Tom here, who knows it so much less, may see it so much the more clearly. Come, Tom, begin. Why is almost every man in these hills a clothier?”

  “The land is harsh and not good to grow crops, but the grass and heather and bracken will feed sheep, so there is wool.”

  “But do not the clothiers buy wool from southern counties? I have heard so.”

  “The wool is longer and finer in Suffolk and those southern parts,” explained Mr. Firth, “but in early times, when weaving began here, it was because we had the wool.”

  “And the water, master,” said I.

  “Aye! That’s right. We need water, you see, to wash the wool and the cloth and full the cloth, and we’ve plenty of becks running down the hillsides. And rivers in the valleys to turn the water-wheels of the fulling-mills.”

  “Good. I understand that. Now, Tom, tell me how the cloth is made.”

  “Well, every Saturday Mr. Firth rides to market—”

  “I shan’t be able to get my foot into the stirrup this Saturday, I’ll be bound.”

  “—and he brings home a pack of wool. And then Jeremy and I—”

  “Jeremy’s the journeyman weaver?”

  “Yes. We clean the wool of dirt and burrs and twigs, and wash it, and Josiah and I dye it in the lead vat across the yard and leave it out to dry, and then we put it in layers on the floor, and put butter on it—”

  “Butter?” exclaimed Mr. Defoe in astonishment.

  “Well, grease of any kind. We use butter,” said Mr. Firth. “Because we make our own butter, you see.”

  “And we mix it all up, toss it about. And then Miss Gracie and I, and Josiah’s children, we card it. Show Mr. Defoe, Miss Gracie.”

  “Is it not hard work for the little maid?” said Mr. Defoe, bending to watch her hands.

  “Oh, any child over four can do it,” said Mr. Firth.

  “And then Mrs. Firth and other—wives of the neighbourhood,” I said, not knowing quite what to call them, “spin the cardings into yarn. We take the wool to their cottages, sometimes quite far afield.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Firth, shaking his head, “to get a sufficient supply of yarn—that, Mr. Defoe, is always a clothier’s difficulty.”

  “Then Jeremy and Mr. Firth weave the yarn into cloth,” I continued, “and then—”

  “Hold hard a minute there, Tom,” said Mr. Defoe. “Explain to me, please, how weaving is done. Simply and clearly.”

  “Why, that is very difficult, Mr. Defoe,” said I. “For a loom is a very complicated affair.”

  “Go on, Tom. Just tell me the nature of the process.”

  “Well, the idea of weaving is to interlace threads of yarn to make a web. First you lay a lot of threads side by side all going in one direction and fastened round a beam at each end. This is the warp. Alternate threads go through healds—like the eyes of needles—which are fastened to a short beam over the loom, and the other threads are fastened in the same way to another beam. These beams are worked by separate treadles. So when you press one treadle down with your foot, one beam rises and one set of threads rises. Then you have a shuttle with a pirn of yarn inside it, and the yarn comes out through a hole. This is the weft. You hold this thread of weft at one side of the loom and press the treadle and slide the shuttle across the loom, and so you see the sh
uttle takes the thread of weft under one set of warp threads and over the other set. Then you take your foot off that treadle and you press the other treadle and throw the shuttle back, and it takes the weft over the warp threads that were under last time, and under those that were over. And so you make a web. It is like mending a stocking. Of course you have to push the threads against each other between each throw of the shuttle,” I added.

  “That is quite right, Tom,” said Mr. Firth approvingly, “quite right, lad. He’s a sharp lad, is Tom, Mr. Defoe. He can read and write both. Except you have left out the reed, Tom, and not mentioned the shed and the—”

  “Nay! No more, I beg of you,” said Mr. Defoe in haste, smiling, however, to take the sting from his words. “It is above my poor head already. The piece is woven, then. What next?”

  “We steep it in human water, like,” said Mr. Firth, passing quickly over this disagreeable part of the business, “and then take it down to the fulling-mill in the valley, where it is scoured—washed, you would call it—and then fulled, brought together by being beaten by the stocks, like. Then we bring it back home and stretch it on the tenters to dry, and when it’s dry I take it to market.”

  “And what happens in the market?”

  “Oh, you’ll have to see that for yourself, Mr. Defoe,” said Mr. Firth, who was clearly tired of the subject. “There’s a market in Halifax on Saturday; you must stay and see it. Now, will you have a bite to eat with us? We’re having a leg of mutton, isn’t that so, wife?”

  “No, no, we mustn’t trespass further on your hospitality, Mr. Firth, we’ve wasted far too much of your time already. I am infinitely obliged to you for your information. Now we must be on our way. As for you, Tom,” said Mr. Defoe, rising and smiling, “come out with me and let us see if we can find something for you for your trouble.”

  “I’ll call Jeremy down and he’ll set you on your right road,” said Mr. Firth. “Or, wait—is Josiah back yet, Tom?”

  I ran to the door; Josiah was back at the threshing-floor and I called him.

  There was a bustle as Mr. Defoe opened one of his saddle-bags, the other travellers mounted their horses, Josiah hurried across the yard, the spaniel barked and chased Sandy, who fled into the barn, and Mrs. Firth came into the porch and began saying polite farewells. Mr. Defoe drew out of his saddle-bag two small calf-bound volumes and handed them to me.

  “Here you are, Tom,” said he. “This is Robinson Crusoe. You can read, I am told, so I hope you enjoy the tale.”

  I was so overjoyed that I did not know what to say, but stammered and coloured.

  “May I keep the volumes, mistress?” I managed at length.

  “Of course, Tom,” said Mrs. Firth graciously.

  “Thank you a thousand times, Mr. Defoe,” said I.

  It was not only for the gift of the books that I felt thankful to him; his friendly pleasant speech and the interest of his visit had cheered me greatly. But I did not know how to say this, and stood there foolishly, silent.

  “Madam,” said Mr. Defoe, bowing politely over his saddle bow to Mrs. Firth. “Your most obliged servant.”

  “Your servant, sir,” simpered Mrs. Firth, curtseying very elegantly.

  “Follow me,” cried Josiah, enjoying the importance of his errand.

  He led them off down the lane and suddenly they were gone and all was quiet.

  I went soberly upstairs to the workshop.

  “What was all that to-do downstairs?” snapped Jeremy, who was looking very pale.

  “Travellers asking the way to Halifax,” I said.

  “Travellers from where?”

  “Rochdale and London.”

  Jeremy threw out a word of contempt for all such travellers, but appeared satisfied.

  That evening when work was over and supper cleared, I took out my books, Mr. Defoe’s gift, and turned their pages reverently. Their small size, so neat and handy, was a great pleasure to me. The evening was cold and showery, and a great fire as usual blazed on the hearth. Mr. Firth smoked his pipe, Gracie on his knee; Mrs. Firth knitted; Jeremy was out.

  “That man is always out,” complained Mrs. Firth.

  “A man must have a drink at the inn sometimes, Meg,” said her husband.

  “Why?” snapped Mrs. Firth. “He would be much better without it.”

  “Is that the book Mr. Defoe gave you, Tom?” asked Mr. Firth, changing the subject.

  “I liked Mr. Defoe. He was truly genteel,” said Mrs. Firth.

  “But no nonsense about him,” said her husband. “No nonsense at all. Well, Tom! Lost your tongue?”

  “No, master. The book is so—exciting,” I said.

  “Read us a bit of it, then,” said Mr. Firth.

  There was a slip of paper between the leaves, about fifty pages on in the first volume, and I had idly begun to read the book there, meaning to go back presently to the beginning. But the tale held me so, I could not leave it.

  “It is a shipwreck, and the man who tells it has taken to a boat with the mate and some of the crew,” I explained. “Oh heavens! A raging wave, mountain-like, came rolling astern of us and overset the boat!”

  “Well, go on, go on,” said Mr. Firth impatiently.

  “Does he get drowned?” cried Gracie, lifting her head from her father’s shoulder.

  “How could he tell the tale if he got drowned? Go on, Tom.”

  And so, for an hour that evening and for many evenings later, I read aloud the adventures of Robinson Crusoe; how he was wrecked, how he alone came safe to land on an island, how he had only a knife and a small screw of tobacco on his person, how when the sea calmed he swam out to the wreck and made himself a raft from her timbers and brought back bread and cheese and tools, and how he built a hut for himself with tables and chairs, and how he tamed a parrot and taught it to speak, and how presently he saw the print of a man’s foot in the sand! Gracie was so distressed by this that she could hardly sleep that night, and Mrs. Firth was upset by the savage cannibals who visited the island shortly after, but Mr. Firth held fast to his belief that Crusoe could not be telling the tale unless he were still alive, and though in a way this was a confusion, for Crusoe was not real but only a man in a story, in a way he was right. And presently Man Friday came, and we all rejoiced that Crusoe at last had company.

  But my interest in Robinson Crusoe is taking me too far ahead; I must go back to the time when I first began to read about this wonderful creation of Mr. Daniel Defoe.

  6

  At the Market

  The next morning after this first reading, word having got round Barseland of Mr. Firth’s accident, Mr. Gledhill came up to see him. Gracie came to call me down, for Mr. Gledhill had not seen me since I came to Upper High Royd, except in church at a distance.

  “You’re to come and be looked at, Tom,” said Gracie, laughing.

  So I went downstairs feeling uncomfortable. Mr. Firth sat with his foot up, as before.

  “My word, he’s grown!” said Mr. Gledhill.

  “Aye, he’s grown a tidy bit since he came, has Tom,” said Mr. Firth with satisfaction. “My wife feeds him well, you see.”

  “And does he frame well, then?” enquired Mr. Gledhill.

  This is a Yorkshire expression meaning show good promise, so I felt more uncomfortable even than before.

  “Not too bad, not too bad,” said Mr. Firth, laughing. “Aye, you may say he frames well enough on the whole, does our Tom. Heark’ee, Tom,” he went on in a more serious tone, “wouldst like to go to Halifax market on Saturday with Mr. Gledhill, eh?”

  “I would indeed,” I said eagerly.

  “Wilt take the lad, then, Gledhill?”

  “Aye—he can ride on the side of the wagon, as I said, if your Jeremy will drive the wagon for me. Our pieces can travel on the wagon together, and I’ll ride in as usual on horseback. But I can’t sell your piece for you, Firth.”

  “No, no—Jeremy will do that if you’ll vouch him in. I’d send Jeremy in with the piece on
horseback, like I take it myself, only Jeremy’s no horseman. Nor old Josiah. I don’t want Bess’s knees broken because she’s been let stumble or summat like that.” He added, brightening: “My foot may be well enough for me to ride to Halifax on Saturday myself.”

  “It won’t,” said Mr. Gledhill laconically.

  “Now, Gledhill!”

  “You’ll not get that foot into a stirrup for a two-three days yet, mark my words.”

  “And mark mine too,” said Mrs. Firth, bustling in.

  “Well, thankee, Gledhill, for your offer to take my piece in. I’m much obliged.”

  “Let them and the piece be down with me early on Saturday, that’s all I ask,” said Mr. Gledhill, rising to leave.

  “I reckon I’ll send Josiah down on Friday night with the piece,” said Mr. Firth.

  “Aye, that’ll be best.”

  On Friday evening Mr. Firth called me to him, and to my astonishment put a fourpenny piece in my hand.

  “There’s for thy dinner in Halifax tomorrow, Tom.” He looked round to see that nobody was near, and went on: “I did wrong to strike thee, but the pain in my foot was sharp. Try to forget it, lad.”

  “Thank you kindly, Mr. Firth,” I said, less for the four-pence than for his regret for the blow.

  Jeremy, as I had expected, received the news that I was to accompany him with a very ill grace. After a few expressions of irritation, as that I should be a clog round his neck, that he was not a wet-nurse, and so on, he sneered at my eagerness to go to Halifax.

  “Why are you so eager, eh?” he said. “You think to slip off, do you? You mean to break your apprenticeship and run away?”

  “I have told you before, Jeremy,” I said angrily, “I am bound to Mr. Firth for seven years and shall keep my indentures.”

  However vexed he was at the thought of my company there was nothing Jeremy could do against Mr. Firth’s orders. So by four o’clock on Saturday morning he and I were sitting on the side of Mr. Gledhill’s wagon, with four pieces of cloth behind us, Mr. Gledhill’s three maroon and our one blue. Jeremy drove, which he did ill, I thought; he seemed tired and depressed this morning. For my part I was in great spirits. We set off in the dark, but soon the sun came up and shone brightly, for the weather had taken up and we could see the hills rolling around us for many miles away.