Stranger in Dixie

by James Fearn

  ‘Why can’t women have a vote too?’ said Anna quite audibly. John was surprised and somewhat embarrassed to hear the words coming from Anna’s lips. He tugged at her arm to quieten her. ‘But that seems unfair!’ she whispered to him. A smartly dressed man standing nearby turned and stared incredulously at Anna as if she had uttered some unspeakable blasphemy. ‘Just have patience, Anna. One thing at a time,’ John whispered to her rather patronisingly.

  Again the sonorous voice thundered forth. ‘We demand a secret vote so that men can speak their minds without fear of reprisal. No man should force another to vote against his will. That’s not good democracy. Men must be free to vote privately if we’re to know what they really think.’

  ‘And whom do we have to represent us in parliament? Landed gentry! I ask you, property indeed! Most of it is inherited! No!’ thundered Ironside. ‘Ability, not privilege should be the qualifications for political office!’

  The crowd responded noisily as Ironside worked their emotions. They cheered, booed, laughed, and were serious as the experienced orator railed against the political status quo. John’s mind and heart were hearing deeply satisfying ideas and attitudes, which resonated with his own maturing feelings. ‘These are the seeds of revolution,’ he thought. He’d read about the American Revolution. Was it realistic to think of it happening in Britain?

  Reaching a climax, Ironside vociferously challenged his audience. ‘I ask you to support the Chartist Party and to spread its message so that you and every other working man in this country will eventually have his voice properly heard in parliament.’ Finishing abruptly, Ironside strode resolutely to his seat and sat down decisively.

  A third speaker rose to address the assembly. A quieter man, his voice lacked Ironside’s resonance and conviction. His denunciation of child labour and his passionate appeal for the establishment of an anti-parliament were scarcely audible above the buzz of excitement that had followed Ironside’s speech. The previously amorphous mass of listeners had clustered into small groups arguing about Ironside’s propositions. It was not long before the third man gave up and resumed his seat. Intent upon restoring some kind of order Ironside once more stood to address the boisterous mob.

  ‘What do you say my friends? Are you for us?’ he called. A united cry of ‘Aye!’ rang out across the Ecclesfield moor. ‘And if we don’t get what we want, what shall we do then?’ shouted one of the crowd. ‘What did the French do?’ cried Ironside as quick as a flash.

  There was a sudden hush. The thought of armed uprising was a possibility that few had contemplated. John’s imagination by now was on fire. Would the Chartists take their rebellion to that extreme? he wondered.

  Dotted throughout the crowd were small pockets of antagonists who from time to time muttered words of disapproval at Ironside’s rhetoric. Realising the implications of this reference to the French Revolution some began to hiss audibly. Others, including the abusive youths who were not following proceedings closely at all, copied the interjectors slavishly.

  Incensed at this affront, Ironside drew himself to his full height and delivered a verbal broadside to these objects of his disgust. ‘You rabble! You are beneath the contempt of the ordinary working people of this nation.’ He spat out the words with the speed and accuracy of a chameleon’s tongue. ‘It would appear that serpentine noises are the only utterances of which you are capable.’ The offenders cringed before the sarcastic onslaught. ‘How dare you hiss at me, you puerile poltroons?’

  At this, the crowd responded in uproar. The drunken louts saw the moment as an opportunity for the fight they had been spoiling for all evening. Within minutes, a scuffle had broken out among the opposing factions, some fighting to defend their arguments, others simply to enjoy a good melee.

  Realising the danger, John took Anna firmly by the hand and hustled her through the twisting bodies and flailing arms. They had almost reached the edge of the crowd when suddenly they came face-to-face with Percival staring venomously at them. With a sweep of his arm, John brushed past him and pressed on towards the open moor. Within five minutes, they reached the safety of the jinker and set off down the track that led home towards Sheffield.

  ‘Who was that who stared at us?’ asked Anna. ‘Oh, never mind him. He’s just an old acquaintance. Don’t like him much!’ John knew only too well that the chance encounter with Percival would probably have far greater repercussions than he was prepared to admit to Anna.

  ‘It was rather exciting at the end, wasn’t it, John?’ said Anna as the jinker carried them home. ‘Some people have hot tempers,’ replied John. ‘If it hadn’t been for you, I might easily have become caught up in it too. Thanks for coming,’ he quipped with a chuckle.

  They arrived back at Anna’s place in good time. As the jinker came to a halt, John jumped to the ground and held up his arms in front of him to help her down. As Anna alighted, John momentarily held her close to him in a warm embrace and kissed her tenderly on the lips. At that moment, they both realised that their relationship had become something far more than mere friendship.

  ‘Thanks for taking me, John,’ said Anna, somewhat shyly. ‘I did enjoy Mr Ironside’s talk. I hope he gets into parliament, don’t you?’ As they walked up the path, they were greeted by Colleen who was waiting at the door. With a brief goodnight and a wave of his hand, John bade farewell to the ladies and returned to the jinker. His heart skipped with joy as he drove home. ‘Should he ask Anna to be his girl?’ he wondered. He knew now that he didn’t love Charlotte. Nothing could be clearer. But would Percival tell Charlotte what he had seen? He probably would, Percival was like that. Troublesome thoughts began to sour his mood and he realised that he must act decisively if he was to resolve the dilemma.

  Reaching home, John went straight to his room and sat down to compose a letter to Charlotte. He knew that the words he was writing would change his destiny forever and no doubt affect the lives of many others as well. He tried to write to Charlotte as sensitively as he could. He reminded her that marriage was a lifetime contract and that he was no longer sure that they had acted wisely in their engagement. He made no reference to Anna, but mentioned the growing distance between them as the days passed by. Surely, this could only lead to unhappiness for them both. Finally, he requested Charlotte’s agreement to break the engagement amicably so that both could go their separate ways in search of happiness and prosperity.

  Sleep came in fits and starts to John that night. He tossed and turned as his mind raced from one scenario to another. Many times he relived that moment when he had held Anna close to him. Again and again he saw the malevolent face of Percival and could almost read his vengeful thoughts. He heard again old Constable Johnson’s voice urging to go quietly that evening and recalled the silken touch of Anna’s hand in his as they strolled across the moor. But dominant in his mind was the question of how Charlotte would receive his plea for release.

  John and Eliza were the first to come down to breakfast next morning. It was obvious to her that John had had little sleep. His troubled state of mind was written all over his face.

  Not being one to mince words, Eliza broached the subject quickly. ‘John, you’re not happy are you? Do you want to talk to me about it?’ she queried sympathetically. John looked at her with unaccustomed silence for a moment. ‘I’ve asked Charlotte to break our engagement,’ he said grimly. Within a few minutes, John had told her the whole story. Eliza had always been John’s confessor, and he was quite prepared to unburden his soul to her.

  Eliza listened patiently until he had finished his story. Walking over to where he was sitting, she put her arm around his shoulders and spoke reassuringly. ‘You didn’t have to tell me, John. It’s as plain as the nose on your face that you and Anna O’Meara are in love. I can see why Charlotte frustrates you. She’s so frivolous and self-indulgent. Of course, it’s her parents’ fault,’ she said sarcastically. ‘They’ve always given her whatever she wa
nted. Spoilt little brat!’

  ‘I really don’t know how Father will take it when I tell him,’ said John apprehensively. ‘This marriage was important to his business interests.’

  ‘Look, John! Would you like me to explain the situation to Mother and Father?’ said Eliza. ‘It might come more easily from me. I’ll tell them you were trapped into the engagement in the first place,’ she said. ‘There’s too much social pressure for industrialist families to intermarry. Talk about inbreeding! Good on you for defying convention. When I marry it will be for love, not to satisfy Father’s wishes,’ she pronounced with conviction.

  John embraced his sister tenderly. It was obvious that there was a strong bond between them. Excusing himself, he left the room to begin preparation for a business trip to Scotland the next day.

  Eliza sat for several minutes pondering what John had just told her when her father entered the breakfast room with a jovial smile on his face. ‘Good morning, my dear!’ he said enthusiastically and kissed her on the cheek. Having poured himself a glass of lemon juice, he sat down at the end of the table and began to exchange pleasantries with his daughter.

  Suddenly, Eliza dramatically changed the subject. ‘Father, there is something important that you should know.’ Sir Richard raised his bushy eyebrows quizzically as he ate his porridge. ‘Yes, my dear, what is it?’

  Eliza started by reminding him about her charity work with the Bog Irish refugees who had moved into Sheffield the previous year. She spoke of her meeting with Harry O’Meara and his family in the course of her work, and of her challenge to John to meet personally some those who were suffering great hardship in the inner city.

  ‘I’ve known for some time that both you and John have strong social consciences. You’ve obviously inherited those from your mother,’ said Sir Richard unsuspecting of the bombshell his daughter was about to set off.

  ‘Yes, Father’, Eliza continued, ‘but it has gone much further than you may be prepared to accept.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ grunted Sir Richard rather irritably.

  His jovial smile had given way to a troubled frown.

  Eliza spoke of John’s growing romantic interest in Harry’s daughter, Anna, of the many times she and John had visited Anna’s home, and how it was obvious to her that the young couple were attracted to each other. ‘We’ll soon put a stop to that!’ blustered Sir Richard determined that his plans were not going to be upset by some illiterate gold-digging Irish girl. ‘But, Father, don’t you realise? John doesn’t love Charlotte and never did!’ she said emphatically. ‘Her trivialities frustrate him enormously. He could never be happy with a wife like that. Their marriage would be a disaster.’

  Sir Richard grew more and more alarmed as Eliza related to him the unfortunate events of Charlotte’s dinner party at Hedley Manor several weeks earlier. ‘I think it was there that John began to realise the trap he was in—committed to a society marriage and not even liking his prospective bride. Father, John has written to Charlotte asking for a release from their engagement,’ continued Eliza. ‘The fool!’ bellowed Sir Richard jumping to his feet. His face grew stern as the gravity of the situation dawned upon him.

  ‘Father’, said Eliza like a fighter about to deliver the knockout blow. ‘He’s fallen in love with Anna, and I would say that he intends to marry her.’ Sir Richard stared at her with a confused look of disbelief and anger and began to pace angrily around the breakfast room as he sensed his hopes and plans beginning to crumble around him. ‘But what kind of a girl is this Anna?’

  ‘She’s quite pretty, Father,’ responded Eliza. ‘But there are two problems that I can foresee. In the first place, Anna is quite a few years younger than John.’ Now such an age difference was not unusual among the Bog Irish, but quite out of place in middle-class English society. ‘And furthermore, Father’ she said dramatically, anxious to get all out into the open, ‘Anna’s a Catholic!’

  Sir Richard was stunned at this news and remained silent for several minutes as he pondered the enormity of his son’s intentions. ‘Had they been too presumptive about John’s affection for Charlotte? What was the lad thinking about? This was surely his greatest folly!’ thought Sir Richard. ‘A Bog Irish girl? A Protestant-Catholic union would surely never be sanctioned by the girl’s father, let alone her priest. What on earth does one do to discourage such a friendship?’ Sir Richard considered the issues for a few minutes in silence while Eliza stared out through the large bay windows at the orange marigolds in the garden. ‘Why does life have to be so complicated?’ she wondered.

  Sir Richard stood to his feet. ‘Come with me!’ he said impetuously. ‘I want you to take me at once to meet this fellow, Harry. He’s probably as ignorant of the whole dammed affair as I was!’ The journey took no more than thirty minutes by jinker. Sir Richard whipped the horse into a gallop, and they sped along the bumpy track jolted to left and to right with the motion of the carriage. Soon father and daughter were walking up the garden path of the neatly kept hovel where Harry lived with his family.

  ‘The top ’o the mornin’ to y’, Ms Eliza.’ From the garden of the place next door Harry’s neighbour greeted Eliza warmly. ‘Hello, Molly’, said Eliza. ‘How’s little Danny today?’

  ‘Oh, he’s just fine now. I’m so grateful to Ms Anna for savin’ his life.’

  Sir Richard observed this conversation with interest and began to realise that this Irish woman from the Bog had a real affection for his daughter and for Anna. Eliza’s knock brought Harry and Colleen to the door of the cottage. Eliza introduced her father to her friends.

  ‘Plaised t’ make your acquaintance, sir’ said Harry enthusiastically. ‘Wilcome to our ’umble ’ome.’

  ‘Thank you for your welcome, Mr O’Meara,’ responded Sir Richard reservedly.

  This was the first occasion that Sir Richard Oxley had met any of the Bog Irish. He had read of their plight in Ireland but, like many others in the English Midlands, had felt some resentment at their immigration to England. Nevertheless, he had to admit to himself that Mrs O’Meara was not exactly as he had pictured her. The stories he had heard about their malnutrition and poor state of health were true enough, but he was surprised that the little cottage was spotlessly clean and well kept.

  But the underlying poverty of these people was, nevertheless, very obvious. The roughly hewn furniture and lack of floor rugs and the simple cotton dress that she wore demonstrated to the most casual observer that Colleen O’Meara belonged to the bottom of the social scale. Nothing but a radical social upheaval could ever give people like her hope of better things in this life.

  On the trip to the cottage, Eliza had told her father a little more about John’s contact with this family, about his trip to London to investigate Van Diemen’s Land opportunities, about the episode at the fair, and the torchlight political meeting on the Ecclesfield moor.

  ‘Sit yourself down, Sir Richard,’ said Harry. ‘An’ wat might be bringin’ two gud folks like you t’ visit us at this toim o’ the day?’

  ‘Father wants to speak with you, Harry,’ interrupted Eliza.

  But before Sir Richard could speak Harry’s daughter appeared in the doorway leading from the bedroom.

  ‘This is me darlin’ darghter, Anna,’ said Harry with obvious pride. ‘An’ a sweet colleen she is tho’ I say it meself.’

  ‘So you’re Anna,’ said Sir Richard, somewhat agreeably surprised at her appearance and bearing.

  Like his daughter Sir Richard was not one to mince words. ‘Come, my man!’ he said addressing Harry directly. ‘Let’s take a walk!’

  Somewhat overawed by his visitor’s forcefulness, Harry agreed, and the incongruous pair set out along the road on foot. Sir Richard in morning coat and spats, looking a picture of middle-class affluence and Harry in his crumpled grey shirt and rather ill-fitting flannel trousers made a spectacle that intrigued the Irish heads that peeked a
t them through the windows and doors of neighbouring cottages. What was the old scoundrel up to? Who’s the toff with him? What could they be talkin’ about? Harry couldn’t harve won t’ lottery, could ’e? P’rhaps the gent is offerin’ ’im a job. Speculation ran wild that afternoon in the slums of Sheffield.

  Sir Richard and Harry were soon engrossed in animated conversation. ‘I’ve come to talk to you about my son John, O’Meara.’

  ‘An’ a foin young fella he is too,’ responded Harry. ‘I loike ’im a lot.’

  ‘But did you know that he’s taken a liking to your daughter, Anna? And from what Eliza tells me the feeling is mutual,’ continued Sir Richard.

  ‘Begorra! You mean me girl’s fallen in love with your boy? Anna in love?’

  The look on Harry’s face revealed his bewilderment.

  ‘That’s what I’m told,’ persisted Sir Richard. ‘And I’m bound to tell you that I think it’s a mistake.’ Harry was astounded at his sudden realisation that his little Anna was now a mature young woman with ideas and feelings of romance.

  ‘O’Meara, I’ll come straight to the point.’ said Sir Richard. ‘I believe that you and your family are devout Catholics. Are you aware that my family is Protestant?’

  There was an awkward silence from Harry as the awful implications of this fact struck him. His family had been Catholic for generations and to his knowledge none of his relations had ever departed from the true faith for marriage.

  ‘What’s your church’s view of mixed marriage?’ asked Sir Richard anxious to emphasise the problem that both men were staring in the face.

  John Oxley was the first Protestant that Harry had ever come to admire. John’s valiant defence of him at the meeting of the Anti-Corn Law League was still vivid in his mind. But when it came to the marriage of his daughter, the well-being of her eternal soul had to be paramount. The Church’s disapproval of such intermarriage could not be ignored. That was the bottom line.