Читать книгу: «Sybil, Or, The Two Nations», страница 32

Book 6 Chapter 9

It was Monday morning. Hatton, enveloped in his chamber robe and wearing his velvet cap, was lounging in the best room of the principal commercial inn of Mowbray, over a breakfast table covered with all the delicacies of which a northern matin meal may justly boast. There were pies of spiced meat and trout fresh from the stream, hams that Westphalia never equalled, pyramids of bread of every form and flavour adapted to the surrounding fruits, some conserved with curious art, and some just gathered from the bed or from the tree.

“It’s very odd,” said Hatton to his companion Morley, “you can’t get coffee anywhere.”

Morley who had supposed that coffee was about the commonest article of consumption in Mowbray, looked a little surprised; but at this moment Hatton’s servant entered with a mysterious yet somewhat triumphant air, and ushering in a travelling biggin of their own fuming like one of the springs of Geyser.

“Now try that,” said Hatton to Morley, as the servant poured him out a cup; “you won’t find that so bad.”

“Does the town continue pretty quiet?” enquired Morley of the servant as he was leaving the room.

“Quite quiet I believe, Sir; but a great many people in the streets. All the mills are stopped.”

“Well, this is a strange business,” said Hatton when they were once more alone. “You had no idea of it when I met you on Saturday?”

“None; on the contrary, I felt convinced that there were no elements of general disturbance in this district. I thought from the first that the movement would be confined to Lancashire and would easily be arrested; but the feebleness of the government, the want of decision, perhaps the want of means, have permitted a flame to spread the extinction of which will not soon be witnessed.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Whenever the mining population is disturbed the disorder is obstinate. On the whole they endure less physical suffering than most of the working classes, their wages being considerable; and they are so brutalized that they are more difficult to operate on than our reading and thinking population of the factories. But when they do stir there is always violence and a determined course. When I heard of their insurrection on Saturday I was prepared for great disturbances in their district, but that they should suddenly resolve to invade another country as it were, the seat of another class of labour, and where the hardships however severe are not of their own kind, is to me amazing, and convinces me that there is some political head behind the scenes, and that this move, however unintentional on the part of the miners themselves, is part of some comprehensive scheme which, by widening the scene of action and combining several counties and classes of labour in the broil, must inevitably embarrass and perhaps paralyse the Government.”

“There is a good deal in what you say,” said Hatton, taking a strawberry with a rather absent air, and then he added, “You remember a conversation we once had, the eve of my departure from Mowbray in ‘39?”

“I do,” said Morley reddening.

“The miners were not so ready then,” said Hatton.

“They were not,” said Morley speaking with some confusion.

“Well they are here now,” said Hatton.

“They are,” said Morley thoughtfully, but more collected.

“You saw them enter yesterday?” said Hatton. “I was sorry I missed it, but I was taking a walk with the Gerards up Dale to see the cottage where they once lived, and which they used to talk of so much! Was it a strong body?”

“I should say about two thousand men, and as far as bludgeons and iron staves go, armed.”

“A formidable force with no military to encounter them.”

“Irresistible, especially with a favourable population.”

“You think the people were not grieved to see them?”

“Certainly. Left alone they might have remained quiet; but they only wanted the spark. We have a number of young men here who have for a long time been murmuring against our inaction and what they call want of spirit. The Lancashire strike set them all agog; and had any popular leader, Gerard for example or Warner, resolved to move, they were ready.”

“The times are critical,” said Hatton wheeling his arm-chair from the table and resting his feet on the empty fire-place. “Lord de Mowbray had no idea of all this. I was with him on my way here, and found him quite tranquil. I suppose the invasion of yesterday has opened his eyes a little.”

“What can he do?” said Morley. “It is useless to apply to the Government. They have no force to spare. Look at Lancashire; a few dragoons and rifles hurried about from place to place and harassed by night service; always arriving too late, and generally attacking the wrong point, some diversion from the main scheme. Now we had a week ago some of the 17th Lancers here. They have been marched into Lancashire. Had they remained the invasion would never have occurred.”

“You haven’t a soldier at hand?”

“Not a man; they have actually sent for a party of 73d from Ireland to guard us. Mowbray may be burnt before they land.”

“And the castle too,” said Hatton quietly. “These are indeed critical times Mr Morley. I was thinking when walking with our friend Gerard yesterday, and hearing him and his charming daughter dilate upon the beauties of the residence which they had forfeited, I was thinking what a strange thing life is, and that the fact of a box of papers belonging to him being in the possession of another person who only lives close by, for we were walking through Mowbray woods—”

But at this moment a waiter entered and said there was one without who wished to speak with Mr Morley.

“Let him come up,” said Hatton, “he will give us some news perhaps.”

And there was accordingly shown up a young man who had been a member of the Convention in ‘39 with Morley, afterwards of the Secret Council with Gerard, the same young man who had been the first arrested on the night that Sybil was made a prisoner, having left the scene of their deliberations for a moment in order to fetch her some water. He too had been tried, convicted, and imprisoned, though for a shorter time than Gerard; and he was the Chartist Apostle who had gone and resided at Wodgate, preached the faith to the barbarians, converted them, and was thus the primary cause of the present invasion of Mowbray.

“Ah! Field,” said Morley, “is it you?”

“You are surprised to see me;” and then the young man looked at Hatton.

“A friend,” said Morley; “speak as you like.”

“Our great man, the leader and liberator of the people,” said Field with a smile, “who has carried all before him, and who I verily believe will carry all before him, for Providence has given him those superhuman energies which can alone emancipate a race, wishes to confer with you on the state of this town and neighbourhood. It has been represented to him that no one is more knowing and experienced than yourself in this respect; besides as the head of our most influential organ in the Press, it is in every way expedient that you should see him. He is at this moment below giving instructions and receiving reports of the stoppage of all the country works, but if you like I will bring him up here, we shall be less disturbed.”

“By all means,” said Hatton who seemed to apprehend that Morley would make some difficulties. “By all means.”

“Stop;” said Morley, “have you seen Gerard?”

“No,” said Field. “I wrote to him some time back, but his reply was not encouraging. I thought his spirit was perhaps broken.”

“You know that he is here?”

“I concluded so, but we have not seen him; though to be sure, we have seen so many, and done so much since our arrival yesterday, it is not wonderful. By the bye, who is this blackcoat you have here, this St Lys? We took possession of the church yesterday on our arrival, for it’s a sort of thing that pleases the miners and colliers wonderfully, and I always humour them. This St Lys preached us such a sermon that I was almost afraid at one time the game would be spoiled. Our great man was alarmingly taken by it, was saying his prayers all day and had nearly marched back again: had it not been for the excellence of the rum and water at our quarters, the champion of the Charter would have proved a pious recreant.”

“St Lys will trouble you,” said Morley. “Alas! for poor human nature, when violence can only be arrested by superstition.”

“Come don’t you preach,” said the Chartist. “The Charter is a thing the people can understand, especially when they are masters of the country; but as for moral force, I should like to know how I could have marched from Wodgate to Mowbray with that on my banner.”

“Wodgate,” said Morley, “that’s a queer place.”

“Wodgate,” said Hatton, “what Wodgate is that?”

At this moment a great noise sounded without the room, the door was banged, there seemed a scuttling, some harsh high tones, the deprecatory voices of many waiters. The door was banged again and this time flew open, while exclaiming in an insolent coarse voice, “Don’t tell me of your private rooms; who is master here I should like to know?” there entered a very thickset man, rather under the middle size, with a brutal and grimy countenance, wearing the unbuttoned coat of a police serjeant conquered in fight, a cocked hat, with a white plume, which was also a trophy of war, a pair of leather breeches and topped boots, which from their antiquity had the appearance of being his authentic property. This was the leader and liberator of the people of England. He carried in his hand a large hammer which he had never parted with during the whole of the insurrection; and stopping when he had entered the room, and surveying its inmates with an air at once stupid and arrogant, recognizing Field the Chartist, he halloed out, “I tell you I want him. He’s my Lord Chancellor and Prime Minister, my head and principal Doggy; I can’t go on without him. Well, what do you think,” he said advancing to Field, “here’s a pretty go! They won’t stop the works at the big country mill you were talking of. They won’t, won’t they? Is my word the law of the land or is it not? Have I given my commands that all labour shall cease till the Queen sends me a message that the Charter is established, and is a man who has a mill, to shut his gates upon my forces, and pump upon my people with engines? There shall be fire for this water;” and so saying the Liberator sent his hammer with such force upon the table, that the plate and porcelain and accumulated luxuries of Mr Hatton’s breakfast perilously vibrated.

“We will enquire into this, Sir,” said Field, “and we will take the necessary steps.”

“We will enquire into this and we will take the necessary steps,” said the Liberator, looking round with an air of pompous stupidity, and then taking up some peaches, he began devouring them with considerable zest.

“Would the Liberator like to take some breakfast?” said Mr Hatton.

The Liberator looked at his host with a glance of senseless intimidation, and then as if not condescending to communicate directly with ordinary men, he uttered in a more subdued tone to the Chartist these words, “Glass of ale.”

Ale was instantly ordered for the Liberator, who after a copious draught assumed a less menacing air, and smacking his lips, pushed aside the dishes, and sate down on the table swinging his legs.

“This is my friend of whom I spoke and whom you wished to see, Sir,” said the Chartist, “the most distinguished advocate of popular rights we possess, the editor of the Mowbray Phalanx, Mr Morley.”

Morley slightly advanced, he caught the Liberator’s eye, who scrutinized him with extreme earnestness, and then jumping from the table shouted; “Why this is the muff that called on me in Hell-house Yard three years ago.”

“I had that honour,” said Morley quietly.

“Honour be hanged,” said the Bishop, “you know something about somebody; I couldn’t squeeze you then, but by G— I will have it out of you now. Now, cut it short; have you seen him, and where does he live?”

“I came then to gain information, not to give it,” said Morley. “I had a friend who wished much to see this gentleman—”

“He ayn’t no gentleman,” said the Bishop; “he’s my brother: but I tell you what, I’ll do something for him now. I’m cock of the walk you see, and that’s a sort of thing that don’t come twice in a man’s life. One should feel for one’s flesh and blood, and if I find him out I’ll make his fortune, or my name is not Simon Hatton.”

The creator and counsellor of peers started in his chair and turned pale. A look was interchanged between him and Morley which revealed their mutual thoughts, and the great antiquary—looking at the Liberator with a glance of blended terror and disgust—walked away to the window.

“Suppose you put an advertisement in your paper,” continued the Bishop. “I know a traveller who lost his keys at the Yard and got them back again by those same means. Go on advertising till you find him, and my prime minister and principal doggy here shall give you an order on the town council for your expenses.”

Morley bowed his thanks in silence.

The Bishop continued—“What’s the name of the man who has got the big mill here, about three mile off, who won’t stop his works and ducked my men this morning with his engines. I’ll have fire I say for that water—do you hear that Master Newspaper—I’ll have fire for that water before I am many hours older.”

“The Liberator means Trafford,” said the Chartist.

“I’ll Trafford him,” said the Liberator and he struck the table with his hammer. “He ducks my messenger does he? I tell you I’ll have fire for that water,” and he looked around him as if he courted some remonstrance in order that he might crush it.

“Trafford is a humane man,” said Morley in a quiet tone, “and behaves well to his people.”

“A man with a big mill humane!” exclaimed the Bishop; “with two or three thousand slaves working under the same roof, and he doing nothing but eating their vitals. I’ll have no big mills where I’m main master. Let him look to it. Here goes,” and he jumped off the table. “Before an hour I’ll pay this same Trafford a visit and I’ll see whether he’ll duck me. Come on my prime Doggy,” and nodding to the Chartist to follow him, the Liberator left the room.

Hatton turned his head from the window, and advanced quickly to Morley. “To business, friend Morley. This savage can-not be quiet for a moment; he exists only in destruction and rapine. If it were not Trafford’s mill it would be something else. I am sorry for the Traffords; they have old blood in their veins. Before sunset their settlement will be razed to the ground. Can we prevent it? And why not attack the castle instead of the mill?”

Book 6 Chapter 10

About noon of this day there was a great stir in Mowbray. It was generally whispered about that the Liberator at the head of the Hell-cats and all others who chose to accompany them was going to pay a visit to Mr Trafford’s settlement, in order to avenge an insult which his envoys had experienced early in the morning when, accompanied by a rabble of two or three hundred persons, they had repaired to the Mowedale works in order to signify the commands of the Liberator that labour should stop, and if necessary to enforce those commands. The injunctions were disregarded, and when the mob in pursuance of their further instructions began to force the great gates of the premises, in order that they might enter the building, drive the plugs out of the steam-boilers, and free the slaves enclosed, a masqued battery of powerful engines was suddenly opened upon them, and the whole band of patriots were deluged. It was impossible to resist a power which seemed inexhaustible, and wet to the skins and amid the laughter of their adversaries they fled. This ridiculous catastrophe had terribly excited the ire of the Liberator. He vowed vengeance, and as, like all great revolutionary characters and military leaders, the only foundation of his power was constant employment for his troops and constant excitement for the populace, he determined to place himself at the head of the chastising force, and make a great example which should establish his awful reputation and spread the terror of his name throughout the district.

Field the Chartist had soon discovered who were the rising spirits of Mowbray, and Devilsdust and Dandy Mick were both sworn on Monday morning of the council of the Liberator, and took their seats at the board accordingly. Devilsdust, used to public business and to the fulfilment of responsible duties, was calm and grave, but equally ready and determined. Mick’s head on the contrary was quite turned by the importance of his novel position. He was greatly excited, could devise nothing and would do anything, always followed Devilsdust in council, but when he executed their joint decrees and showed himself about the town, he strutted like a peacock, swore at the men and winked at the girls, and was the idol and admiration of every gaping or huzzaing younker.

There was a large crowd assembled in the Market Place, in which were the Liberator’s lodgings, many of them armed in their rude fashion, and all anxious to march. Devilsdust was with the great man and Field; Mick below was marshalling the men, and swearing like a trooper at all who disobeyed or who misunderstood.

“Come stupid,” said he addressing Tummas, “what are you staring about? Get your men in order or I’ll be among you.”

“Stupid!” said Tummas, staring at Mick with immense astonishment. “And who are you who says ‘Stupid?’ A white-livered Handloom as I dare say, or a son of a gun of a factory slave. Stupid indeed! What next, when a Hell-cat is to be called stupid by such a thing as you?”

“I’ll give you a piece of advice young man,” said Master Nixon taking his pipe out of his mouth and blowing an immense puff; “just you go down the shaft for a couple of months, and then you’ll learn a little of life, which is wery useful.”

The lively temperament of the Dandy would here probably have involved him in an inconvenient embroilment had not some one at this moment touched him on the shoulder, and looking round he recognised Mr Morley. Notwithstanding the difference of their political schools Mick had a profound respect for Morley, though why he could not perhaps precisely express. But he had heard Devilsdust for years declare that Stephen Morley was the deepest head in Mowbray, and though he regretted the unfortunate weakness in favour of that imaginary abstraction called Moral Force for which the editor of the Phalanx was distinguished, still Devilsdust used to say that if ever the great revolution were to occur by which the rights of labour were to be recognised, though bolder spirits and brawnier arms might consummate the change, there was only one head among them that would be capable when they had gained their power to guide it for the public weal, and as Devilsdust used to add, “carry out the thing,” and that was Morley.

It was a fine summer day, and Mowedale was as resplendent as when Egremont amid its beauties first began to muse over the beautiful. There was the same bloom over the sky, the same shadowy lustre on the trees, the same sparkling brilliancy on the waters. A herdsman following some kine was crossing the stone bridge, and except their lowing as they stopped and sniffed the current of fresh air in its centre, there was not a sound.

Suddenly the tramp and hum of a multitude broke upon the sunshiny silence. A vast crowd with some assumption of an ill-disciplined order approached from the direction of Mowbray. At their head rode a man on a white mule. Many of his followers were armed with bludgeons and other rude weapons, and moved in files. Behind them spread a more miscellaneous throng, in which women were not wanting and even children. They moved rapidly; they swept by the former cottage of Gerard; they were in sight of the settlement of Trafford.

“All the waters of the river shall not dout the blaze that I will light up to-day,” said the Liberator.

“He is a most inveterate Capitalist,” said Field, “and would divert the minds of the people from the Five Points by allotting them gardens and giving them baths.”

“We will have no more gardens in England; everything shall be open,” said the Liberator, “and baths shall only be used to drown the enemies of the People. I was always against washing; it takes the marrow out of a man.”

“Here we are,” said Field, as the roofs and bowers of the village, the spire and the spreading factory, broke upon them. “Every door and every window closed! The settlement is deserted. Some one has been before us and apprised them of our arrival.”

“Will they pour water on me?” said the Bishop. “It must be a stream indeed that shall put out the blaze that I am going to light. What shall we do first? Halt there, you men,” said the Liberator looking back with that scowl which his apprentices never could forget. “Will you halt or won’t you? or must I be among you?”

There was a tremulous shuffling and then a comparative silence.

The women and children of the village had been gathered into the factory yard, of which the great gates were closed.

“What shall we burn first?” asked the Bishop.

“We may as well parley with them a little,” said Field; “perhaps we may contrive to gain admission and then we can sack the whole affair, and let the people burn the machinery. It will be a great moral lesson.”

“As long as there is burning,” said the Bishop, “I don’t care what lessons you teach them. I leave them to you; but I will have fire to put out that water.”

“I’ll advance,” said Field, and so saying he went forward and rang at the gate; the Bishop, on his mule, with a dozen Hell-cats accompanying him; the great body of the people about twenty yards withdrawn.

“Who rings?” asked a loud voice.

“One who by the order of the Liberator wishes to enter and see whether his commands for a complete cessation of labour have been complied with in this establishment.”

“Very good,” said the Bishop.

“There is no hand at work here,” said the voice; “and you may take my word for it.”

“Your word be hanged,” said the Bishop. “I want to know—”

“Hush, hush!” said Field, and then in a louder voice he said, “It may be so, but as our messengers this morning were not permitted to enter and were treated with great indignity—”

“That’s it,” said the Bishop.

“With great indignity,” continued Field, “we must have ocular experience of the state of affairs, and I beg and recommend you therefore at once to let the Liberator enter.”

“None shall enter here,” replied the unseen guardian of the gate.

“That’s enough,” cried the Bishop.

“Beware!” said Field.

“Whether you let us in or not, ‘tis all the same,” said the Bishop; “I will have fire for your water, and I have come for that. Now lads!”

“Stop,” said the voice of the unseen. “I will speak to you.”

“He is going to let us in,” whispered Field to the Bishop.

And suddenly there appeared on the flat roof of the lodge that was on one side of the gates—Gerard. His air, his figure, his position were alike commanding, and at the sight of him a loud and spontaneous cheer burst from the assembled thousands. It was the sight of one who was after all the most popular leader of the people that had ever figured in these parts, whose eloquence charmed and commanded, whose disinterestedness was acknowledged, whose sufferings had created sympathy, whose courage, manly bearing, and famous feats of strength were a source to them of pride. There was not a Mowbray man whose heart did not throb with emotion, and whose memory did not recall the orations from the Druid’s altar and the famous meetings on the moor. “Gerard for ever” was the universal shout.

The Bishop who liked no one to be cheered except himself, like many great men, was much disgusted, a little perplexed. “What does all this mean?” he whispered to Field. “I came here to burn down the place.”

“Wait awhile,” said Field, “we must humour the Mowbray men a bit. This is their favourite leader, at least was in old days. I know him well; he is a bold and honest man.”

“Is this the man who ducked my people?” asked the Bishop fiercely.

“Hush!” said Field; “he is going to speak.”

“My friends,” said Gerard, “for if we are not friends who should be? (loud cheers and cries of “Very true”), if you come hear to learn whether the Mowedale works are stopped, I give you my word there is not a machine or man that stirs here at this moment (great cheering). I believe you’ll take my word (cheers, and cries of “We will”). I believe I’m known at Mowbray (“Gerard for ever!”), and on Mowbray Moor too (tumultous cheering). We have met together before this (“That we have”), and shall meet again yet (great cheering). The people haven’t so many friends that they should quarrel with well-wishers. The master here has done his best to soften your lots. He is not one of those who deny that Labour has rights (loud cheers). I say that Mr Trafford has always acknowledged the rights of Labour (prolonged cheers and cries of “So he has”). Well, is he the man that we should injure? (“No, no”). What if he did give a cold reception to some visitors this morning—(groans)—perhaps they wore faces he was not used to (loud cheers and laughter from the Mowbray people). I dare say they mean as well as we do—no doubt of that—but still a neighbour’s a neighbour (immense cheering). Now, my lads, three cheers for the National Holiday,” and Gerard gave the time, and his voice was echoed by the thousands present. “The master here has no wish to interfere with the National Holiday; all he wants to secure is that all mills and works should alike stop (cries of “Very just”). And I say so too,” continued Gerard. “It is just; just and manly and like a true-born Englishman as he is, who loves the people and whose fathers before him loved the people (great cheering). Three cheers for Mr Trafford I say;” and they were given; “and three cheers for Mrs Trafford too, the friend of the poor!” Here the mob became not only enthusiastic but maudlin; all vowing to each other that Trafford was a true-born Englishman and his wife a very angel upon earth. This popular feeling is so contagious that even the Hell-cats shared it—cheering, shaking hands with each other, and almost shedding tears—though it must be confessed that they had some vague idea that it was all to end in something to drink.

Their great leader however remained unmoved, and nothing but his brutal stupidity could have prevented him from endeavouring to arrest the tide of public feeling, but he was quite bewildered by the diversion, and for the first time failed in finding a prompter in Field. The Chartist was cowed by Gerard; his old companion in scenes that the memory lingered over, and whose superior genius had often controlled and often led him. Gerard too had recognized him and had made some personal allusion and appeal to him, which alike touched his conscience and flattered his vanity. The ranks were broken, the spirit of the expedition had dissolved, the great body were talking of returning, some of the stragglers indeed were on their way back, the Bishop silent and confused kept knocking the mane of his mule with his hammer.

“Now,” said Morley who during this scene had stood apart accompanied by Devilsdust and Dandy Mick. “Now,” said Morley to the latter, “now is your time.”

“Gentlemen!” sang out Mick.

“A speech, a speech!” cried out several.

“Listen to Mick Radley,” whispered Devilsdust moving swiftly among the mob and addressing every one he met of influence. “Listen to Mick Radley, he has something important.”

“Radley for ever! Listen to Mick Radley! Go it Dandy! Pitch it into them! Silence for Dandy Mick! Jump up on that ere bank,” and on the bank Mick mounted accordingly.

“Gentlemen,” said Mick.

“Well you have said that before.”

“I like to hear him say ‘Gentlemen;’ it’s respectful.”

“Gentlemen,” said the Dandy, “the National Holiday has begun—”

“Three cheers for it!”

“Silence; hear the Dandy!”

“The National Holiday has begun,” continued Mick, “and it seems to me the best thing for the people to do is to take a walk in Lord de Mowbray’s park.”

This proposition was received with one of those wild shouts of approbation which indicate the orator has exactly hit his audience between wind and water. The fact is the public mind at this instant wanted to be led, and in Dandy Mick a leader appeared. A leader to be successful should embody in his system the necessities of his followers; express what every one feels, but no one has had the ability or the courage to pronounce.

The courage and adroitness, the influence of Gerard, had reconciled the people to the relinquishment of the great end for which they had congregated; but neither man nor multitude like to make preparations without obtaining a result. Every one wanted to achieve some object by the movement; and at this critical juncture an object was proposed, and one which promised novelty, amusement, excitement. The Bishop whose consent must be obtained, but who relinquished an idea with the same difficulty with which he had imbibed it, alone murmured, and kept saying to Field, “I thought we came to burn down the mill! A bloody-minded Capitalist, a man that makes gardens and forces the people to wash themselves: What is all this?”

Field said what he could, while Devilsdust leaning over the mule’s shoulder, cajoled the other ear of the Bishop, who at last gave his consent with almost as much reluctance as George the Fourth did to the emancipation of the Roman Catholics; but he made his terms, and said in a sulky voice he must have a glass of ale.

“Drink a glass of ale with Lord de Mowbray,” said Devilsdust.