First Chapter of ENOCH'S HAMMER

Enoch`s Hammer - A Tale of the Yorkshire Luddites - first chapter

 

Chapter 1

 

November 1811

 

Whether, as with many of his profession, the old soldier was given to exaggeration, or simply drunk, no-one seemed to care. Sitting in the parlour of the White Hart, opposite Cloth Hall - where he had occupied the corner seat by the fire since some time in the middle of the afternoon - he had certainly quaffed enough to make any ordinary man take the opposite way from his senses. The audience which he had gathered, however, seemed to inspire him to more, and yet more tales of the brave life of His Majesty`s soldiery on the Peninsula.

`Picture to yourself, lads, picture to yourself, friends and brothers, what it is to clamber over the bodies of your slaughtered comrades to fill the breach…`

He was talking of the siege of some beleaguered city in Andalusia, or some other exotic location, a Ciudad Rodrigo or a Badajoz, and mouths dropped open at the savagery of the scenes he depicted, the orgy of violence, the dreadful reprisals, the drunken rampages which followed, the looting of the city, the debauchery, and worse. Much worse.

He paused at last and the room fell, momentarily, silent.

Mary, the serving wench, waiting unseen behind the crowd at the door, who had heard enough of the dreadful fate of her Spanish sisters to want to hear no more, now pushed through into the room, as she had been directed, with a new log for the fire. Conscious of the eyes of the room on her, she turned with a withering look, `This is Yorkshire not Spain,` she said, sharply, `so think on!`

Laughter rolled around the room.       

`Mary,` called the soldier. `Mary, come sit by me, and let me tell you a tale that`s fit for a maiden`s ears.`

`I`d as soon sit at the bottom of yonder canal as sit by thee,` she retorted, and with that she was gone.

Undeterred, the soldier, having paused only long enough to assuage the dryness of his mouth, began again.

His listeners, mostly men who laboured in the business of producing cloth, regarded him with both fascination and distrust. The hardness, which was, in their experience, the very essence of life, was as true and reliable as the hardness of the rock which lay underneath the surrounding moorland like its backbone. They did not routinely indulge fanciful imaginings.

`Now lads, I shall tell you more about those brave ladies of Spain, or senoritas, as we call them,` he said, intoning the word with an exotic inflection, as if he belonged to a select group who alone were authorised to enunciate it. The theme of his tale was that the heat of that remote country, together with the richness of its vines, tended to render its female occupants so much more susceptible to the sensual passions than their more northerly counterparts, and so much more inclined to indulge them.

A tall, well-set young man, standing by the door, with his tankard wrapped in his fist, turned away at last, tired of the bragging.

`What do you think, then, George?` asked the landlord.

`Good business for you, I dare say,`

`Not tempted to enlist, then?`

`Not me,` said George Mellor. `Not my war, that.`

`Battles closer to home, eh, George?` said one sitting by the bar.

`Battles closer to home? I don`t know what you`re talking about. What meaning am I to put to that?`

`You needn`t hide stuff here, George. I`m a cropper like you. And like your step-father down the road there at Longroyd Bridge. I know how the wind`s blowing.`

`Oh, you do, do you? Well, happen when you`re sober you`ll tell me all about it,` said Mellor, with an ironic grin.

The landlord placed his replenished tankard on the bar. George Mellor turned and leaned back, with his elbow on the bar. Opposite, near the foot of the stair, a woman eyed him. Dark haired, glossy eyed, and with her proud hat and proud feather, it was a prostitute of the town, Hetty Dyer; he had seen her in other pubs, and in other pubs she had given him the same look. It was a look which said, I don`t go short for customers, as you can no doubt tell, but catch the glimpse of my eye, and make of it what you will.

She thinks she`s special, was George Mellor`s thought. Well, perhaps she was, but George Mellor, as it happened, was not interested. Not tonight, anyway. He returned her glance with an almost imperceptible nod. Some other time maybe.

A few moments later, there entered the man he had been expecting. He was a short man of forty, with a ruddy face and hair hoary about his temples. He wore a dark blue surcoat with the collar turned up and heavy working boots.

`You`re looking hot and mithered, Joe,` said the landlord, flicking the tap on the barrel and filling a pot for him.

`So would you be if you`d walked the distance I have,` replied Joe Dawden, taking off his hat and wiping his bald head with a  grubby rag that he pulled from his pocket. He had walked eight miles from Marsden, but, as George knew, he had had detours on the way, calling in at other public houses to see other men about certain business that was at hand.

The two men took their pots and sat in a quiet corner where the older man began to apprise George Mellor of the information he brought.

In the parlour, the old soldier was at last showing signs of fatigue. His cheeks were now aglow, and his eyes had begun to glaze over. He brought his pot carefully to his lips, leaning forward as if he didn`t quite trust the control of his own arm to bring it to the right place, and then sat back in the manner of one minded to take a short nap. The others in the room now turned back to their own tables, and their separate conversations resumed.

`What do you make of it, then? ` said Ben Walker, to his companion, William Thorpe.

`Making half of it up, ` suggested Thorpe. `Never been further than Manchester, I`d wager.`

`Aye, you`re probably right,` said Ben, laughing a little disconsolately. Had Thorpe said otherwise, he might have felt a willingness to indulge the wishful and impressionable side of his nature; the inclination to picture beautiful dark-skinned senoritas in a land where there was an abundance of sunshine and flowing wine.

Ben Walker was shorter than his companion by an inch or two, but he still had a cropper`s strength about his arms and shoulders. In other ways, he was softer edged, with a plump boyish face, freckles and hair the colour of sand.

William Thorpe, in comparison, had a rugged appearance, with a strong brow that shadowed his eyes, cheekbones that gave his face a hollow look, and a jaw expressing determination, perhaps ruthlessness.

`Where`s George, then?` asked Ben Walker.

`Through there, ` said Thorpe. From his position, now that the crowd had cleared from the door, he could see through to the far corner of the saloon where George Mellor was sitting with his companion, the visitor from Marsden.

`Is that him, then?` asked Ben, turning his head to take a look. They were both aware that George had been expecting to meet someone, and that the business was of a secretive nature. `Shall we go over and see what it`s about?`

`No,` said Thorpe, putting his hand over Ben`s wrist. `He`ll tell us what`s needful to tell in good time.`

Thus stopped in his tracks, Ben looked down thoughtfully into his beer. `Did you see Hetty Dyer through there just before?` he asked, after a moment, for he was not one to feel at ease with silence in company.

`Aye. She`ll be out in the back alley a few times before the night`s out, I dare say.`

`Don`t you fancy it?`

`Don`t you?`

`I tried it once. With Hetty, I mean. Had a bit of trouble, though, you know. Well, it was that damned cold.`

`Could you not manage it?` said Thorpe with a huff of derision.

`I tell you, Will, I can lie there in my bed at home, and I`m stiff as a plank of wood just thinking about it, but when it comes to it, `t`as a mind of its own.`

`Maybe you should enlist and go to the Peninsula.`

`Why, do you think I`d be all right with those Spanish wenches?`

`No. I was thinking that there, like, you`d happen get it shot off and then you wouldn`t have to worry about it.`

`I reckon I`d be all right, you know. They say that a bit of action in battle gets the blood up, don`t they?`

As if aware that someone in the room had rekindled his own topic, the veteran now sat forward again and called for another pot of ale.

`I`ll tell you something, lads,` he began, not now in the declamatory style of earlier, but in a graver and more confidential tone, `if some people in these parts had their way, this town would be like a garrison.`

`And who might those some people be?` ventured one.

`You`ve heard the name of Radcliffe, I dare say.`

It was clear from the scowls, and the muttered imprecations, that they had.

`Joseph Radcliffe,` the soldier continued, `Joseph Radcliffe, the magistrate. Joseph Radcliffe of Milnsbridge House.`

`What about him, then?`

The soldier put his finger to his lips, and smiled knowingly.

Ben Walker looked sharply at William Thorpe as if to catch in his eye some spark of urgency, but Thorpe remained calm, seemingly unconcerned.

`Did you hear that?` said Ben Walker.

`I heard it.`

`Happen we should wait till he gets up, then take him round the back and find out what he knows.`

`What for?` said Thorpe, dismissively. `He`s not said ought we don`t know already.`

`No, I suppose not when you put it like that,` replied Ben, the characteristic note of disappointment in his voice.

`I`ll tell you something about Justice Radcliffe,` said the soldier, now looking round for someone who might be interested in his story, `and I had this from an army chaplain who knows him, who knew him when he was no Joseph Radcliffe at all but Joe Pickford. Joe Pickford, he was, until his dear uncle remembered him in his will, and then he was quick enough to change his name to get what was coming to him.`

`Are you lads right, or do you want filling up?` said Mary, who had been moving round the room making similar enquiries.

`Fill us up,` said Thorpe, seeing through the bar that George Mellor was still deep in conversation with his Marsden visitor. `And one for our friend, the soldier boy.`

Mary rolled her eyes. `He`ll be making his bed on the floor there if he sups any more.`

`I need to piss some of this off before I have any more,` said Ben Walker. `I`m fit to burst.`

He made his way out through the back to the yard, and began to relieve himself. It took him a long time to empty his bladder, but he didn`t mind, enjoying the slow relief it brought. Sometimes, down the narrow side alley, you could see someone humping a girl against the wall, just silhouetted in the shadow, but it was early for that, yet, tonight. When he returned to the parlour, George Mellor had re-joined them at the table.

`Come on, sup up, we`re walking down.`

`What already?`

Mellor and Thorpe were already standing as he attempted to quaff a decent amount of his ale.

`Here`s to you, sirs!` said the old soldier, raising his pot in their direction as they left the room.

The three men crossed behind Cloth Hall and then began to make their way down the lane towards Longroyd Bridge. It was now eight o`clock and darkness had fallen, save where, along the western skyline, a smear of red, like a fresh wound, still persisted. As they reached the bottom of the lane, there were lights from some of the cropping shops, clustered round the bridge over the Colne and the new canal. It was not uncommon for men to go for a drink, two or three pints, at five o`clock and then go back to work until ten, if there was work to do, but tonight, things being slack at John Woods, where both Mellor and Walker worked, they made their way straight to The Albion, just by the bridge.

`Well, then,` said William Thorpe, when they were settled in the room which looked across towards the canal. `Did he say ought?`

`Aye. A bit.`

`What, then?`

`The Moorcock. Tomorrow night.`

`What about it?`

`Tomorrow. Meeting there.`

`Where`s that, then?` asked Ben Walker.

`Where he`s from. Above Marsden. There`ll be people there, from Halifax and Rochdale as well as hereabouts.`

`You mean croppers, like us.`

`Aye. Croppers. And others. People who have an interest in things, same as us.`

`Right,` said Ben Walker, not entirely convinced. He understood that the shearing frames which some mill owners were installing were a threat to his livelihood. He also knew that in Nottingham, for similar reasons, the lace knitters had smashed up frames.  That, he understood, and he was not averse to the idea of wielding a sledge-hammer to do the same, if he could get away with it. So far, so good. And there were many, not least in the room where he now sat, that would not turn a hair to hear such a conversation as this going on. But what he didn`t really grasp was the need to have meetings about it and discuss things as if it were a matter of doctrine like Church and Chapel.

`What about the drills?` asked William Thorpe.

`Same as last week,` Mellor replied. `Sunday night. Up on the tops over Longwood.`

`Right,` said Ben Walker. The drills he understood, too, and enjoyed. Over the moor at night, doing roll-calls, making formations, listening for the signals and noises that were like orders and instructions. That all made very good sense.

`Are you right for it, then? At The Moorcock?`

`I`ll be there,` said Thorpe.

`Not sure about tomorrow night,` said Ben. It had occurred to him that he might go up to the White Hart on his own and see if Hetty Dyer, or one of the other girls,  might be about. Have another go at it. `I`ll be there Sunday, though.`

Later, so full of beer that he could hardly believe his own happiness, he bade goodnight to his companions, and went, unbeknown to anyone, to sit by the canal. It was only half a mile to where his mother lived, but he knew he wasn`t right to go home yet.

The clouds had broken up above, and there was a spangle of light around the clustered stars.

Who made all that, he asked himself? He knew the answer, of course, because there was only one possible answer. It was God, and there was only one of him, sitting up there and watching it all; but knowing the answer wasn`t quite the same as sitting there, by the canal, and asking yourself. He looked up at it for long enough to start his head spinning. And then, in remarkably large draughts, much, much better than pissing, the beer began to come back up through his throat. He coughed, at last, recognising, gratefully, that he was finished, wiped his streaming eyes with his sleeve, and then, very much at one with the world, began to make his way home to bed.