Fourpenny Flyer

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘Poor Mr Abbott,’ Harriet said. ‘How terrible!’ Despite the bugs and the dirt he’d seemed such a nice quiet man. ‘He was always so gentle.’

  ‘He ain’t gentle now, my dear,’ Annie said surprisingly. ‘He’s quite a firebrand these days. He spends all his time tramping from village to village hereabouts, urging people to work for parliamentary reform and to join the Hampden Clubs, and telling ’em of meetings and such. We have a club meets here every week, with forty members all a-traipsing in and out of the study, if you can imagine such a thing, and a fine old mess they make with their pipes and their papers, to say nothing of the mud they bring in. There is a meeting tonight so you will see for yourself.’

  ‘I daresay they do make a mess, Annie,’ Harriet said, ‘but ’tis excellent work they do. If reform is to come about, ‘twill be because of the Hampden Clubs. And after Peterloo, reform must come about. I am sure of it.’

  ‘We have a man coming to speak to the meeting this evening,’ Annie remembered. ‘He is to stay the night here as there is no room for him in the village. He was present on the field of Peterloo, so they say. You might have seen him there.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Harriet laughed. ‘There were more than sixty thousand people on the field that day. But –’ seeing Annie’s face fall – ‘I should be happy to attend the meeting and hear what he has to say.’

  ‘We will attend it together,’ Annie said happily. ‘We won’t go in until they’ve finished all their tedious business, though, for ’tis all points of order and such and mighty boring. He ain’t due till nine o’clock. He’s a-coming in from Ipswich. Jack Abbott is to fetch him in the farm cart and Henry Abbott is to chair the meeting. Oh ’tis all Abbotts in Rattlesden these days.’

  ‘They won’t mind our presence, will they, Annie?’

  ‘Mind?’ Annie said. ‘Why, they won’t even notice there will be such a crush.’

  Which was certainly true, for when the two women opened the door into James’s study later that evening, they could barely squeeze into the room.

  The speaker had arrived, as they could tell from the welcoming noises that were being made somewhere near the fireplace, but they couldn’t see him because there were so many villagers packed into that little panelled room that it was impossible for them to see anything except the broad back and the thick moleskins of the man directly in front of them. Swirls of blue tobacco smoke patterned the air above their heads and the place was pungent with the smell of sweat and farmyard.

  But presently they heard James’s mild voice suggesting that ‘it might be better if some of us were to sit upon the carpet’ and gradually the crush eased as, one after the other, his parishioners lowered themselves to the floor where they squatted in a tangle of rough boots and patched knees, black-rimmed fingers and tousled heads. And now Annie and Harriet could see Jack Abbott, resplendent in a green corduroy jacket, standing beside the speaker who was a small dark-haired man in brown fustian.

  ‘It is a great pleasure to me to introduce our speaker,’ James was saying, ‘for not only was he present in St Peter’s Field on the day of the massacre, but in addition to that he attended to the wounds of no fewer than thirty-two of the injured.’

  ‘Why good heavens!’ Harriet said. ‘It is….’

  ‘Mr Rawson from Manchester,’ the Reverend Hopkins introduced.

  He looked smaller and uglier than Harriet remembered him, but he was undeniably the same man, standing awkwardly before them with his back to the blaze of the fire, listening to dear old James. Then, to her total amazement, she saw that Mr Richards had come to this meeting, too. He was sitting in James’s chair tucked into the corner beside James’s desk. His black notebook was open in his hand and he was watching Mr Rawson with complete concentration. What a coincidence!

  She turned to Annie to tell her all about it, but Annie had her finger to her lips, because Mr Rawson was clearing his throat ready to start his speech.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘first I must thank thee for all t’ help and comfort tha’s been a-sendin’ to t’ victims of t’ massacre at Peterloo. ’Tis sorely needed and uncommon kindly. Thank ’ee. Next I must tell thee t’ battle is only just begun.’

  How extraordinary to hear his voice again, Harriet thought, and she had a sudden powerful vision of his blunt hands tenderly bandaging a wound, and for a few brief seconds she was back on St Peter’s field among the moans and the dust and the terrible injuries. Then she realized that the parishioners of Rattlesden were listening to this man with attention and admiration and she remembered Mr Taylor telling her what a fine speaker he was, and she began to listen to him too and was surprised that there was so much passion in him, for he’d been so restrained and quiet among the wounded.

  He spoke of the weavers and their wages, ‘seven shillings a week, and I don’t need to tell thee what that means. If tha pays t’ rent, there’s no money for food, if tha buys food, like as not tha’lt be out on t’ street wi’out a roof over tha head’; of the mill-owners who kept dogs to guard them, ‘uncommon well-fed, their dogs, a deal fatter than t’ weavers I can tell thee’; and finally he told his audience he was going to ask them a question.

  ‘What must be done to persuade t’ masters to pay a proper wage to t’ likes of thee an’ me?’

  ‘Hold shotgun to ’is head,’ Jack Abbott growled. ‘Try how a little lead would change the beggar’s opinion. Uncommon persuasive, a little lead.’

  James looked decidedly uncomfortable at this, but a murmur of approval rolled around the room and Mr Richards was scribbling furiously in his noteook.

  ‘Lead may work fast, I’ll grant thee,’ Caleb said, ‘but ’tis my opinion t’ vote is better. Why? I’ll tell thee why. ’Tis because it is bloodless and indisputable. I’d rather work for universal suffrage, my friends, than for armed uprising, though after Peterloo we might have to settle for both. We just might.’

  And that was approved of too, with a deep-throated growling. And noted down.

  ‘What of tyranny then?’ Henry Abbott asked. ‘En’t we to oppose the tyrant, eh? What’s your opinion o’ that, Mr Rawson?’

  ‘If we’ve nobbut an ounce of compassion in our natures, we must rise against tyranny wherever we see it, and speak out against it an’ all, no matter what t’ cost. Being human we can do no other. What right-thinking man could stand by and watch his neighbour cut to t’ brains and do nowt?’

  ‘Aye!’ his audience growled. ‘Tha’s true. Tha’ uncommon true.’

  ‘But to vote, my friends, to vote is t’ key to lasting power. If every man grown were given t’ vote, and vote by ballot what’s more what can’t be coerced, and parliaments elected annually to mek ’em answerable to t’ people, why then every manufacturer would need to consider his workers, for they would be voters just exactly t’ same as himself, with equal civic power. I doubt we’d have so much talk of seven shillings a week being sufficient if t’ weavers were voters.’

  ‘No, indeed!’ the listeners said. ‘Tha’s true! You got the essence of un there. Them ol’ mawthers’ll have to change their ways, when we gets the vote.’

  Harriet was uplifted by such talk. It was all so exciting and so true, and, what was even better, she was a part of it. When the eleven dead of Peterloo were praised as martyrs, her eyes filled with tears at the memory of those pathetic bundles left like so much rubbish on that bloodstained field, but she rejoiced even as the tears gathered at the thought that their deaths would not be in vain. Now, surely, the government must listen to the voice of the people, just as Mr Hunt said then and Mr Rawson was saying now. Surely, oh surely, the time for universal suffrage had come.

  The evening ended on a burst of spontaneous cheering, and for once in her life she dared to join in, shouting hurrah with the best. Oh, what they were doing was right and honourable! What a blessing to be part of it!

  And then the meeting was breaking up and men were struggling to their feet and beginning to amble out of the door into the hall. She c
ould see Mr Richards striding across the room towards the two Abbotts and greeting them as though they were old friends, which was odd. But then Annie grabbed her by the hand and leapt through the mass of bodies, dragging her along behind.

  ‘Come along my dear,’ she said, ‘We must ask James to introduce us to the speaker.’

  ‘Annie, I …’ Harriet tried to explain, but the crush was still too great for Annie to hear her, and in any case they were already beside the fireplace and the introductions were being made.

  ‘Mrs Easter was at Peterloo, too,’ Annie said proudly.

  ‘We met,’ Harriet said, smiling at him and feeling suddenly quite shy to be meeting him again like this. He was such a wonderful man, giving all his time and energy to help his neighbours, and she admired him so much. But to her disappointment his face remained politely blank and he did not respond to her at all.

  He does not recognize me, she thought, and she realized that it distressed her to have been forgotten.

  But he hadn’t forgotten her. It was just that her appearance was so unexpected. The woman he remembered was a creature from a legend, wild as a gypsy, in rags and tatters, her petticoat torn for bandages and her beautiful stockings stripped from her feet, an angel of mercy with a dirty face and pale flowing hair and bloodstained hands. The person who stood before him now was a lady of society, beautifully dressed in the latest fashion, in a blue and green striped gown with elaborate sleeves and fine frills at the hem, with her pale hair hidden under a fine lace cap, and pearls at her throat. He could find no words with which to address her.

  But they were rescued by their common concern. ‘Is Mary recovered?’ she asked. ‘And her brother, Joe? I think of them often.’

  ‘He was in t’ infirmary six weeks,’ he told her, ‘and no better now he’s out, I fear.’

  ‘Is he able to work?’

  ‘No, ma’am. He still has trouble breathing, d’ye see.’

  ‘You must deliver part of the Bury subscription to him and his family,’ Harriet said at once. ‘Do you return soon?’

  ‘Not till I’ve spoke at Thetford,’ he told her. ‘I’ve a deal to do afore I see Manchester again.’

  ‘If you will tell me your address,’ she said, ‘I will see that the money is dispatched straight to you.’

  ‘You’re uncommon kind,’ he said, smiling at her.

  ‘We have a little supper laid on for ’ee in the dining room,’ Annie said. ‘If you care to walk through….’

  And so the four of them walked into the dining room where the cloth was set with tankards of ale and half a dozen meat pies and two dishes of Annie’s famous lemon pickle, and where their two maids were waiting to serve them. And now that the first awkwardness was gone they all made an excellent meal together, although Harriet noticed that her Mr Rawson was ill at ease when it came to eating the pie and handled his knife and fork awkwardly, and that made her feel more sympathetic towards him than ever, for a little weakness in a man so strong was rather touching.

  But the talk about the table was as uplifting as the meeting had been, and ranged over so many subjects, not just parliamentary reform and universal suffrage, but the proper care of the sick, the rights of man, the necessity and rewards of doing God’s will. It absorbed them all so thoroughly that they were still talking when the grandfather clock struck midnight in the hall behind them.

  ‘We are keeping you from your rest, Mr Rawson,’ Annie said, making a little grimace of apology. ‘If you are to be up and ready for Mr Abbott by six of the clock tomorrow morning….’

  And so the evening had to end. And although Harriet was so excited she hardly slept at all that night, she was up early in the morning ready to wave goodbye to her hero. She and Annie and James took lanterns and walked down to the gate with him when the farm cart arrived.

  He shook them all warmly by the hand, holding Harriet’s just a little longer than the others, then he took a paper out of his pocket and gave it to her before he climbed into the cart. ‘The address you wanted,’ he said.

  ‘Why, yes indeed,’ she said. ‘Thank ’ee kindly. I will see that funds are sent as soon as may be.’

  ‘Happen when we next meet, t’ government will have made some decisions,’ he said, smiling at them all in the flickering light.

  ‘Let us pray so,’ James replied, as the cart went joggling down the lane. ‘Let us pray so.’

  ‘They must have some plans, must they not?’ Harriet asked as she and Annie walked back into the house.

  ‘Who?’ Annie asked vaguely, her thoughts already directed towards her children’s breakfast.

  ‘Why the government, Annie dear, the government. When they return to London in the autumn they will have to bring in a reform bill, will they not?’

  But when Lord Sidmouth and his cabinet returned to the House of Commons, they had no intention of bringing in a reform bill. The mob had risen and the mob were to be put down, or the English aristocracy would suffer the same fate as the French had suffered thirty years ago. To that end they had two simple purposes: one was to prevent any further demonstrations of any kind, the other was to make it impossible for anyone to voice any criticism of the government.

  Their plans were put into operation in December, and highly repressive they were. They took the form of six Acts, couched in vague terms designed to be as helpful as possible to the magistrates, and making it perfectly clear that despite the dead and injured of Peterloo, the reformers’ petitions were to be totally ignored.

  The first Act prohibited drilling, military training and marches; the second gave magistrates the right to enter and search any house, without a warrant ‘on suspicion of there being arms therein’; the third prohibited any meetings of more than fifty people without authorization from the magistrates; the fourth, as Nan had suspected, increased the stamp duty on newspapers and periodicals, raising their cost to sixpence or more; and the fifth and sixth gave increased powers to the authorities to deal with sedition and libel.

  ‘We are gagged and forbidden,’ Caleb told Harriet, when he wrote to thank her for the third donation she’d had sent to his weavers.

  ‘We may not march or meet together or speak or write, and moreover our homes may be entered and searched whenever it takes a magistrate’s fancy so to do. When you consider who the magistrates are, and whose rights and properties they protect, you will see there is little hope for any of us to escape persecution. Many here are in despair. These are miserable times and for the moment it is hard to see how they may be opposed.

  ‘Mary is still unwell, suffering dizzy turns and loss of memory which she finds uncommon distressing. Howsomever Joe says he means to return to the mill come what may. They send their particular thanks for the monies you sent and wish you to know ’twas all spent upon food for the little ones.

  ‘Kindest regards from your despondent friend,

  ‘Caleb Rawson.’

  Harriet was rather thrilled to be receiving these letters, for the more she knew about him, the more Mr Rawson was becoming her hero. It was an honour to be written to by such a man and it made her feel important to know that she was part of the great struggle for reform.

  ‘I cannot imagine what may be done now,’ she wrote back, answering by return of post as she always did.

  ‘In the light of such legislation, how may any of us even make our wishes known? It is a desperate situation, I agree. Mrs Easter is very angry that the stamp duty has been increased again. She is of the opinion that if the price of newspapers is forced any higher by this wretched tax, nobody will buy them. And then how will anybody know what is going on? It is all very distressing.

  ‘I am glad to hear that Joe is better. Pray give my kind regards to Mary.

  ‘Kindest regards to yourself.

  ‘Your friend, who only wishes she knew what could be done at this unhappy time,

  ‘Harriet Easter.’

  But Mr Richards, of the affable smile and the ginger whiskers, who was still lodging most comfortably with
the two Miss Callbecks, Mr Richards knew exactly what should be done. There was a plan to outwit ‘these monstrous men of government’, he said, and at the very moment that Harriet was signing her letter to Caleb Rawson, he was sitting in the snug of the White Hart at Scole pouring that plan into the willing ears of Henry and Jack Abbott.

  ‘There are men gathering in London now,’ he said, ‘who mean to fight these intemperate laws. I can tell you two gentlemen the secret of their whereabouts, where I wouldn’t tell another living soul, you understand, because I know you would never give them away. That is so, is it not?’

  ‘Indeed, ’tis, sir,’ Jack Abbott said rather drunkenly, for Mr Richards had bought them a great deal of ale. ‘You may depend on us sir. Tha’s a fac’.’

  ‘I have two tickets here in my pocket,’ Mr Richards confided, producing them, ‘for the night mail to London from this very inn, this very evening, as ever is; two tickets that would take you to the very meeting house of these brave men, and here is the address, d’ye see, and a letter to their leader, and a map to guide ’ee to the very spot. Two tickets, one letter, one address, one map –’ setting them on the table before him like a winning hand at cards. ‘I would be happy to give ’em to ’ee, so I should, were you prepared to take ’em and use ’em. Are you game? Now don’t say you ain’t, because I won’t believe a word of it.’

  It was late in the evening and they were out of work and full of beer and bravado, and besides Mr Richards was uncommon persuasive.

  ‘With my Nell gone and the boys ’prenticed,’ Jack Abbott said, ‘I’ve nought to lose.’

  ‘And a deal to gain,’ Mr Richards urged.

  So they were persuaded, and took the tickets and the address, and caught the night mail, which by great good fortune, so Mr Richards said, just happened to be ready for the off in the yard outside.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‘Harriet and John grow uncommon dull these days,’ Matilda said. ‘’Tis all work with John and all politics with Harriet. I declare they ain’t fit for polite society, neither the one of ’em.’