The Master of Liversedge Read online

  The Master of Liversedge

  Alice Chetwynd Ley

  © Alice Chetwynd Ley 1966

  Alice Chetwynd Ley has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1966 by Robert Hale Limited.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  To

  MY MOTHER

  Table of Contents

  Prologue — February, 1812

  ONE: THE ROAD TO LIVERSEDGE

  TWO: ATTACK

  THREE: WILLIAM ARKWRIGHT

  FOUR: A WARNING

  FIVE: THE MARCHERS

  SIX: THE PROMISE

  SEVEN: A DEPUTATION TO MR. ARKWRIGHT

  EIGHT: THE STIGMA OF TRADE

  NINE: ARKWRIGHT MAKES A CONCESSION

  TEN: TWO WOMEN

  ELEVEN: CAROLINE IS MISSING

  TWELVE: THE DARK RIDER

  THIRTEEN: AN EVENING PARTY

  FOURTEEN: THE LETTER

  FIFTEEN: BRADLEY BRINGS A WARNING

  SIXTEEN: AT THE ST. CRISPIN

  SEVENTEEN: A VISITOR FOR MARY

  EIGHTEEN: THE DEFENCE OF THE MILL

  NINETEEN: A LARK SINGING

  TWENTY: TO BUILD JERUSALEM

  TWENTY-ONE: RECONCILIATION

  Author’s Note

  Prologue — February, 1812

  An expectant hush fell over the House of Lords as the young man rose, standing before the assembly a little awkwardly on account of his deformed leg. It was not usual in that Chamber for any particular attention to be paid to a Maiden Speech; experienced speakers, indeed, often found it difficult to obtain a hearing.

  But the young man with the dark, brooding countenance and flashing eye was known to be a poet. In a few days’ time his poem ‘Childe Harold’ was to be produced by the publisher John Murray, and the knowing ones claimed that Murray had great expectations of the work. Curiosity silenced the House, if only momentarily.

  ‘My lords,’ began Lord Byron. ‘The subject now submitted to your lordships for the first time, though new to the House, is not new to the country.’

  Lord Sidmouth nodded grimly. As Home Secretary it was certainly not new to him. During the past few months, he had been inundated with appeals from the north of England to do something to check the Luddite riots. If the House should see fit to pass the Bill at present under discussion, perhaps he might be able to expect a little peace.

  ‘During the short time I recently passed in Nottingham,’ continued Lord Byron, ‘not twelve hours elapsed without some fresh act of violence; and on the day I left the country, I was informed that forty frames had been broken, the preceding evening, as usual without resistance and without detection.’

  Sidmouth leaned towards his neighbour. Lord Liverpool.

  ‘He talks of Nottingham, but the story’s as bad now from Yorkshire,’ he remarked in an undertone. ‘I had General Maitland with me yesterday — he’s in command of the military in the West Riding. He drew a gloomy picture of disaffection up there — burnings, machine breakings, and the like. Manufacturers go in terror of their lives and property, and are constantly appealing to him for military help. He can’t promise it, of course. Not enough men available, with most of ’em fighting in the Peninsula.’

  ‘What about the Militia?’ queried Liverpool.

  Sidmouth shook his head. ‘Can’t rely on ’em in this affair — foot in both camps, most often. I see nothing else for it but to make this Bill law. The death penalty for machine breaking should deter even the boldest spirits, eh? What’s your opinion?’

  His neighbour nodded gravely. Like most other members, he had read the Report of the House’s Secret Committee ‘On the Disturbed State of Certain Counties’, and was fully aware of the seriousness of the present situation. Perceval’s Tory Government never allowed themselves to forget that it was only twenty years since the French revolution; it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that a similar rising might come about on this side of the Channel. The war with Napoleon had sent food up to famine prices, and lately even the weather had played enemy, ruining the harvests. The new inventions in machinery were replacing human labour at a time when already there was unemployment due to trade recessions. In the eyes of the Government, industrial England was a dry faggot waiting only for a spark.

  They listened while Lord Byron described with undisguised contempt the ineffectual measures which had been taken by the authorities to deal with the recent disturbances in Nottingham.

  ‘Wonder if he can suggest anything better?’ muttered Liverpool impatiently. ‘These writer chaps are all the same — look how bitterly Sheridan opposed this Bill when it came up before the Commons — nothing constructive to offer in its place, though.’

  ‘Well, at least it sounds as though this one will be in favour of it,’ replied Sidmouth. ‘If he don’t like what’s being done already, presumably he’ll support more stringent methods.’

  He yawned discreetly. He had been late to bed, and up at an unseasonable hour that morning on affairs of State. He allowed himself to slump forward a little on the bench, and closed his eyes. Words drifted over his nodding head.

  He sat up again suddenly at a change in the note of the speaker’s voice.

  ‘These men,’ declaimed Lord Byron, in challenging tones, ‘are liable to conviction on the clearest evidence of the capital crime of — poverty; they have been nefariously guilty of lawfully begetting several children whom — thanks to the times! they are unable to maintain ... ’ His voice rose accusingly. ‘You call these men a mob, desperate, dangerous, and ignorant — but even a mob may be better reduced to reason by a mixture of conciliation and firmness than by additional irritation and redoubled penalties. Are we aware, my lords, of our obligation to the mob? It is the mob that labour in our fields, serve in our houses — that man your navy and recruit your army — that have enabled you to defy the world! And that can also defy you when neglect and calamity have driven them to despair! I have traversed the seat of war in the Peninsula: I have been in some of the worst oppressed provinces of Turkey: but never under the most despotic of infidel governments did I behold such squalid wretchedness as I have seen since my return into the very heart of a Christian country! And what are your remedies?’

  An excited murmur ran round the House.

  Lord Sidmouth groaned. This was all very well; no doubt it was in the true Byronic style, and it had certainly made an impression on the assembly. But could the poet suggest any practical alternative to the Frame-Breaking Bill? He listened carefully to what followed, in the hope of hearing something constructive, something that a hard-pressed government might do to check the disaffection and the violence. He soon realized that Lord Byron had not concerned himself with such matters; instead, he was intent upon exposing the injustice, treachery, and uselessness of the present proposals.

  ‘When a proposal is made to emancipate or relieve,’ he sternly accused the House, ‘you hesitate, you deliberate for years; but a death Bill must be passed off hand, without a thought of the consequences! And if you do succeed in passing this Bill, if you do bring to justice these men meagre with famine, sullen with despair, careless of a life which your lordships are perhaps about to value at something less than the price of a stocking frame — if you do, I say you will still need two things to convict and condemn them; twelve butchers for a jury, and Jefferies for a judge!’

  He sat down amid a startled silence. It broke, and an excited babble of voices filled the Chamber.

  ‘What d’you think of that?’ asked Lord Liverpool, nudging his neighbour.

  Sidmouth pursed his lips. ‘Poetical, but nonsensical. Shouldn’t
think it will carry much weight with the majority of members.’

  ‘Tell you something though, Sidmouth,’ persisted the other, ‘if that young fellow’s poem creates half as much stir, he may congratulate himself, what?’

  His companion gave a moody, taciturn nod. At that moment a note was handed to him. He scanned its contents quickly, then rose and left the Chamber.

  He entered an ante-room leading off the hall. A man was sitting there alone, wearing regimentals which bore the insignia of a General. He rose at Sidmouth’s entrance, extending his hand in greeting.

  ‘Didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Maitland,’ said Lord Sidmouth, taking the outstretched hand. ‘You’ve found what you wanted, then?’

  General Maitland nodded. ‘Three men — Government intelligence agents, they call themselves. Spies, in plain Army language. Their part will be to mingle with the workers in the West Riding, and try to get themselves sworn into this damned Luddite Brotherhood. I’ve posted them off straight away to Colonel Grey, who’s stationed in Halifax. He tells me that he’s already found a good opening for one of ’em, at least — seems he knows of a manufacturer up there who used to be an Army man himself, and who’s willing to employ a spy in his mill. From what Grey tells me, it must be a welcome change to find a manufacturer who’s prepared to stand out against these damned Luddites. They’re all scared to death, and begging for military help.’

  ‘If only we could spare more troops for the disaffected areas — ’

  The General shook his head. ‘Hopeless, with the bulk of our men fighting in the Peninsula. However, if once we get our hands on the ringleaders, it shouldn’t be difficult to quash this affair. I’m depending on these spies to help us with that.’

  ‘Do you know anything of this so-called General Ludd who’s said to be the chief ringleader?’

  General Maitland gave a short laugh. ‘There’s no such man, m’lord. There is no national leader, thank God, though undoubtedly each locality has its own ringleaders. I’m told on good authority that the name Luddite derives from a Nottingham apprentice — one Ned Ludd — who broke a stocking frame in a fit of temper after having been whipped by his master for idleness. Hence all machine breakers are Luddites.’

  ‘But what about all the threatening letters I’ve been shown which were signed “General Ludd”?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen ’em, too; sent to manufacturers threatening action if they bring machines into the mill. They’re sometimes signed “General Snipshears” in the West Riding. It’s all one.’ He shrugged forcefully. ‘There’s no real General Ludd, but it’s a convenient name for putting to an incriminating document.’

  ‘So you’re satisfied that there is no central control of this movement?’

  The General nodded emphatically. ‘Certain of it, m’lord. These are simply isolated local outbreaks. Admittedly, one serves to spur on another, but I’m confident that there’s no organization on a national scale. Come to think of it, how could there be? These people have no money for campaigns, nor the freedom to move about the country at will. Half of ’em can’t read or write. How can they achieve any co-ordination of effort?’

  ‘I sincerely hope you’re in the right of it,’ returned Lord Sidmouth with a frown. ‘I must confess that I shan’t feel easy until we have some of these ringleaders safely behind bars. I don’t know — three spies doesn’t seem enough — ’

  ‘More would defeat the object by drawing attention to themselves. Colonel Grey is satisfied, m’lord. Leave it in his hands — he’s a sound man.’

  ‘He’s stationed in Halifax, you say? That’s right in the seat of the West Riding troubles, at any rate. I tell you, Maitland — ’

  He broke off, as a knock sounded on the door.

  In response to his summons, a clerk entered, and handed him a letter.

  Lord Sidmouth dismissed the man with a nod, and broke the seal. For a moment, he read in silence, frowning heavily: then he threw the paper down on the table in disgust.

  ‘More news from Yorkshire,’ he explained briefly. ‘Fresh outrages — two mills attacked near Leeds, shearing frames broken and extensive damage done to the premises. My God, will this kind of thing never end? A magistrate at Horbury is appealing to all manufacturers to get rid of their machines, so as not to incite riots. A magistrate, mark you, Maitland! If the law is to condone these outrages, then we’re already living in a state of revolution! What say you?’

  The General smiled grimly. ‘I, m’lord? I say, bide your time. Well see who’ll carry the day in the end, never fear.’

  ONE: THE ROAD TO LIVERSEDGE

  It had begun to snow again when the coach reached Huddersfield, and the bleak February daylight had long since waned. Mary Lister alighted stiffly, her feet numb with cold inside thin, shabby half-boots.

  She waited patiently while the guard sorted through the baggage, and presently handed her a worn carpet bag. She flashed him the quick warm smile which always succeeded in making hirelings forget that they could expect no great pickings from this particular customer.

  ‘Where will I get a conveyance for Liversedge?’ she asked pleasantly.

  The guard, usually a sour man, checked an answering smile, and shook his head.

  ‘Nowhere — not tonight, tha’ won’t, ma’am. There’s nowt taks t’road after dark.’

  The smile vanished, and a shade of alarm crossed Miss Lister’s face.

  ‘But I must reach Liversedge tonight — already I am overdue. I didn’t anticipate being so long on the road — ’

  ‘Nor me, ma’am. But in weather like this, we’re lucky to get through at all.’

  He turned to another passenger, pointedly ignoring her. She made a final appeal.

  ‘Is there anyone in the town who might be going that way tonight, and would be willing to take a passenger?’

  Busy with luggage, the guard shook his head, tersely recommending her to inquire from the landlord of the inn where they had stopped.

  She turned away at that, unable to help a certain sinking of spirits. It had been a long, cold journey, and she would have liked nothing better than to put up at the inn for tonight, and go on to Liversedge in the morning. The thought of a hot meal in the warm coffee-room was tempting, but she was bound to resist it. Already her slender purse had been depleted by the cost of extra meals for which she had not allowed when setting out: moreover, she was many hours late in keeping her appointment with her new employer. It was a bad beginning, she reflected with dismay; more especially as he had not seemed the kind of man to tolerate shortcomings, however excusable.

  She recalled their brief interview of some weeks since, and a frown marred her normally pleasant expression. There had been something so very uncompromising about the dark, taciturn man who had towered above her, asking short questions which were always very much to the point. She had gained an impression of unyielding strength, and some other quality which was not quite so simple to define.

  She dismissed the thought and entered the inn. She found the landlord among a group of travellers standing in the passage. He shook his head at her request.

  ‘Not this time o’ year ma’am, and ’specially not in this weather.’ He ran a professional eye over her, noting the new green ribbons which made a brave attempt to revive last year’s bonnet, the grey pelisse which was just a little rubbed at the cuffs. ‘Of course,’ he added doubtfully, ‘I can put thee up for t’ night, if so be tha wants it.’

  Her answering smile was a little wistful. ‘I must reach Liversedge tonight if at all possible. Is there no means you can suggest?’

  He expressed regret with pursed lips. He had no time to waste on a customer, however charming, who plainly would leave his house without purchasing more than a hot beverage.

  He moved away from her into the taproom, and she was obliged to retrace her steps towards the door. Before she reached it, she heard quick footsteps behind her, and felt a light touch on her arm.

  She turned, to find a man standing ther
e. He was dressed in a frayed suit of rough homespun, but the muffler tied about his neck was spotless.

  ‘I heard thee askin’ for anyone goin’ to Liversedge,’ he began, in a low tone.

  A flicker of hope crossed her expressive face. ‘Yes! Do you know of anyone going there tonight — now?’

  ‘Hush!’ He shook a warning finger and looked furtively behind him. ‘Happen I do — but it ’bain’t a proper passenger vehicle — tha’ll need to sit on t’floor an’ it’s none too clean, if tha’s partic’lar.’

  Mary gave a short laugh and shook her head. ‘Not I — not at present! So long as I can get to Liversedge tonight — ’

  ‘Hush!’ he admonished again.

  ‘I am sorry.’ She looked puzzled but obediently lowered her voice. ‘But I don’t quite see why — ’

  ‘Never mind why,’ he answered cryptically. ‘I’m not rightly supposed to tak’ anyone up this journey. But a slip o’ a lass like thee can’t do no manner o’ harm that I can see, an’ I can’t bear to think o’ thee being stranded in this thievin’ ’ole. What dost say? Will it suit?’

  ‘Anything will.’ The warm smile lit her face. ‘You are very good, and I promise not to do any harm — though quite what harm I could do,’ she added, with a puzzled frown, ‘is more than I can guess.’

  ‘Happen I’ll tell thee — when we’re outside,’ he whispered, once more casting a quick glance behind him. ‘Please to follow me into t’yard, ma’am. T’waggons are out there. I’ll settle thee in, then round up t’ lads. We must make haste.’

  She nodded, and began to follow him, though not without some misgivings. He seemed a respectable enough working man, and she was willing to believe that his offer to take her to Liversedge had been prompted only by kindness: but she did not like the aura of mystery which he raised. However, her disposition was to seize opportunities when they came her way, and not to let herself be deterred by bogies of her own imagining. These attempts at secrecy might have no significance beyond the desire of a simple man to appear important in a stranger’s eyes.