Through the Fray: A Tale of the Luddite Riots

“Oi hope so, oi am sure, vor oi be main sick of this. However, oi can hold on for another couple of months; they know anyhow as it ain’t from cowardice as I doan’t join them. I fowt Jack Standfort yesterday and licked un; though, as you see, oi ‘ave got a rare pair of black eyes today. If oi takes one every Saturday it’s only eight more to lick, and oi reckon oi can do that.”

“I wish I could help you, Bill,” Ned said: “if father had been alive I am sure he would have let you have a little money to take you away from here and keep you somewhere until it is time for you to enlist; but you see I can do nothing now.”

“Doan’t you go vor to trouble yourself aboot me, Maister Ned. Oi shall hold on roight enow. The thought as it is for two months longer will keep me up. Oi can spend moi evenings in at Luke’s. He goes off to the ‘Coo,’ but Polly doan’t moind moi sitting there and smoking moi pipe, though it bain’t every one as she would let do that.”

Ned laughed. “It’s a pity, Bill, you are not two or three years older, then perhaps Polly mightn’t give you the same answer she gave to the smith.”

“Lor’ bless ee,” Bill said seriously, “Polly wouldn’t think nowt of oi, not if oi was ten years older. Oi bee about the same age as she; but she treats me as if I was no older nor her Jarge. No, when Polly marries it won’t be in Varley. She be a good many cuts above us, she be. Oi looks upon her jest as an elder sister, and oi doan’t moind how much she blows me up—and she does it pretty hot sometimes, oi can tell ee; but oi should just loike to hear any one say a word agin her; but there be no one in Varley would do that. Every one has a good word for Polly; for when there’s sickness in the house, or owt be wrong, Polly’s always ready to help. Oi do believe that there never was such a gal. If it hadn’t been for her oi would ha’ cut it long ago. Oi wouldn’t go agin what ye said, Maister Ned; but oi am danged if oi could ha’ stood it ef it hadn’t been for Polly.”

“I suppose,” Ned said, “that now they have got the soldiers down in Marsden it will be all right about the mill.”

“Oi caan’t say,” Bill replied; “nateral they doan’t say nowt to me; but oi be sure that some’ats oop. They be a-drilling every night, and there will be trouble avore long. Oi doan’t believe as they will venture to attack the mill as long as the sojers be in Marsden; but oi wouldn’t give the price of a pint of ale for Foxey’s loife ef they could lay their hands on him. He’d best not come up this way arter dark.”

“He’s not likely to do that,” Ned said. “I am sure he is a coward or he would have put the mill to work weeks ago.”

Secure in the protection of the troops, and proud of the new machinery which was at work in his mill, Mr. Mulready was now himself again. His smile had returned. He carried himself jauntily, and talked lightly and contemptuously of the threats of King Lud. Ned disliked him more in this mood than in the state of depression and irritation which had preceded it. The tones of hatred and contempt in which he spoke of the starving workmen jarred upon him greatly, and it needed all his determination and self command to keep him from expressing his feelings. Mr. Mulready was quick in perceiving, from the expression of Ned’s face, the annoyance which his remarks caused him, and reverted to the subject all the more frequently. With this exception the home life was more pleasant than it had been before.

Mr. Mulready, in his satisfaction at the prospect of a new prosperity, was far more tolerant with his wife, and her spirits naturally rose with his. She had fully shared his fears as to the threats by the Luddites, and now agreed cordially with his diatribes against the workpeople, adopting all his opinions as her own.

Ned’s acquaintance with Bill Swinton had long been a grievance to her, and her constant complainings as to his love for low company had been one of the afflictions to which Ned had long been accustomed. Now, having her husband by her side, it was a subject to which she frequently reverted.

“Why can’t you leave me alone, mother?” Ned burst out one day when Mr. Mulready had left the room. “Can’t you leave me in quiet as to my friends, when in two or three months I shall be going away? Bill Swinton is going to enlist in the same regiment in which I am, so as to follow me all over the world.

“Would any of the fine friends you would like me to make do that? I like all the fellows at school well enough, but there is not one of them would do a fiftieth part as much for me as Bill would. Even you, mother, with all your prejudices; must allow that it will be a good thing for me to have some one with me who will really care for me, who will nurse me if I am sick or wounded, who would lay down his life for mine if necessary. I tell you there isn’t a finer fellow than Bill living. Of course he’s rough, and he’s had no education, I know that; but it’s not his fault. But a truer or warmer hearted fellow never lived. He is a grand fellow. I wish I was only half as true and as honest and manly as he is. I am proud to have Bill as a friend. It won’t be long before I have gone, mother. I have been fighting hard with myself so that there shall be peace and quietness in the house for the little time I have got to be here, and you make it harder for me.”

“It’s ridiculous your talking so,” Mrs. Mulready said peevishly, “and about a common young fellow like this. I don’t pretend to understand you, Ned. I never have and never shall do. But I am sure the house will be much more comfortable when you have gone. Whatever trouble there is with my husband is entirely your making. I only wonder that he puts up with your ways as he does. If his temper was not as good as yours is bad he would not be able to do so.”

“All right, mother,” Ned said. “He is an angel, he is, we all know, and I am the other thing. Well, if you are contented, that’s the great thing, isn’t it? I only hope you will always be so; but there,” he said, calming himself with a great effort as his father’s last words again came into his mind, “don’t let’s quarrel, mother. I am sorry for what I have said. It’s quite right that you should stick up for your husband, and I do hope that when I go you will, as you say, be more comfortable and happy. Perhaps you will. I am sure I hope so. Well, I know I am not nice with him. I can’t help it. It’s my beastly temper, I suppose. That’s an old story. Come, mother, I have only a short time to be at home now. Let us both try and make it as pleasant as we can, so that when I am thousands of miles away, perhaps in India, we may have it to look back upon. You try and leave my friends alone and I will try and be as pleasant as I can with your husband.”

Mrs. Mulready was crying now.

“You know, Ned, I would love you if you would let me, only you are so set against my husband. I am sure he always means kindly. Look how he takes to little Lucy, who is getting quite fond of him.”

“Yes, I am very glad to think that he is, mother,” Ned said earnestly. “You see Lucy is much younger, and naturally remembers comparatively little about her father, and has been able to take to Mr. Mulready without our prejudices. I am very glad to see that he really does like her—in fact I do think he is getting quite fond of her. I shall go away feeling quite easy about her. I wish I could say as much about Charlie. He is not strong, like other boys, and feels unkindness very sharply. I can see him shrink and shiver when your husband speaks to him, and am afraid he will have a very bad time of it when I am gone.”

“I am sure, Ned, he will get on very well,” Mrs. Mulready said. “I have no doubt that when he gets rid of the example you set him—I don’t want to begin to quarrel again—but of the example you set him of dislike and disrespect to Mr. Mulready, that he will soon be quite different. He will naturally turn to me again instead of looking to you for all his opinions, and things will go on smoothly and well.”

“I am sure I hope so, mother. Perhaps I have done wrong in helping to set Charlie against Mulready. Perhaps when I have gone, too, things will be easier for him. If I could only think so I should go away with a lighter heart. Well, anyhow, mother, I am glad we have had this talk. It is not often we get a quiet talk together now.”

“I am sure it is not my fault,” Mrs. Mulready said in a slightly injured tone.

“Perhaps not, mother,” Ned said kindly. “With the best intentions, I know I am always doing things wrong. It’s my way, I suppose. Anyhow, mother, I really have meant well, and I hope you will think of me kindly after I have gone.”

“You may be sure I shall do that, Ned,” his mother said, weeping again. “I have no doubt the fault has been partly mine too, but you see women don’t understand boys, and can’t make allowances for them.”

And so Ned kissed his mother for the first time since the day when she had returned home from her wedding tour, and mother and son parted on better terms than they had done for very many months, and Ned went with a lightened heart to prepare his lessons for the next day.

CHAPTER XII: MURDERED!

In spite of Ned’s resolutions that he would do nothing to mar the tranquillity of the last few weeks of his being at home, he had difficulty in restraining his temper the following day at tea. Never had he seen his stepfather in so bad a humor. Had he known that things had gone wrong at the mill that day, that the new machine had broken one of its working parts and had brought everything to a standstill till it could be repaired, he would have been able to make allowances for Mr. Mulready’s ill humor.

Not knowing this he grew pale with the efforts which he made to restrain himself as his stepfather snarled at his wife, snapped at Lucy and Charlie, and grumbled and growled at everything throughout the meal. Everything that was said was wrong, and at last, having silenced his wife and her children, the meal was completed in gloomy silence.

The two boys went into the little room off the hall which they used of an evening to prepare their lessons for next day. Charlie, who came in last, did not abut the door behind him.

“That is a nice man, our stepfather,” Ned said in a cold fury. “His ways get more and more pleasant every day; such an amiable, popular man, so smiling and pleasant!”

“Oh! it’s no use saying anything,” Charlie said in an imploring voice, “it only makes things worse.”

“Worse!” Ned exclaimed indignantly; “how could they be worse? Well may they call him Foxey, for foxey he is, a double faced snarling brute.”

As the last word issued from Ned’s lips he reeled under a tremendous box on the ear from behind. Mr. Mulready was passing through the hall—for his gig was waiting at the door to take him back to the mill, where some fitters would be at work till late, repairing the damages to the machine—when he had caught Ned’s words, which were spoken at the top of his voice.

The smoldering anger of months burst at once into a flame heightened by the ill humor which the day’s events had caused, and he burst into the room and almost felled Ned to the ground with his swinging blow. Recovering himself, Ned flew at him, but the boy was no match for the man, and Mr. Mulready’s passion was as fierce as his own; seizing his throat with his left hand and forcing him back into a corner of the room, his stepfather struck him again and again with all his force with his right.

Charlie had run at once from the room to fetch his mother, and it was scarcely a minute after the commencement of the outbreak that she rushed into the room, and with a scream threw her arms round her husband.

“The young scoundrel!” Mr. Mulready exclaimed, panting, as he released his hold of Ned; “he has been wanting a lesson for a long time, and I have given him one at last. He called me Foxey, the young villain, and said I was a double faced snarling brute; let him say so again and I will knock his head off.”

But Ned just at present was not in a condition to repeat his words; breathless and half stunned he leaned in the corner, his breath came in gasps, his face was as pale as death, his cheek was cut, there were red marks on the forehead which would speedily become black, and the blood was flowing from a cut on his lip, his eyes had a dazed and half stupid look.

“Oh! William!” Mrs. Mulready said as she looked at her son, “how could you hurt him so!”

“Hurt him, the young reptile!” Mr. Mulready said savagely. “I meant to hurt him. I will hurt him more next time.”

Mrs. Mulready paid no attention to his words, but went up to Ned.

“Ned, my boy,” she said tenderly, “what is it? Don’t look like that, Ned; speak to me.”

His mother’s voice seemed to rouse Ned into consciousness. He drew a long breath, then slowly passed his hand across his eyes, and lips, and mouth. He looked at his mother and seemed about to speak, but no sound came from his lips. Then his eye fell on his stepfather, who, rather alarmed at the boy’s appearance, was standing near the door. The expression of Ned’s face changed, his mouth became set and rigid, his eyes dilated, and Mr. Mulready, believing that he was about to spring upon him, drew back hastily half a step and threw up his hands to defend himself. Mrs. Mulready threw herself in Ned’s way; the boy made no effort to put her aside, but kept his eyes fixed over her shoulder at his stepfather.

“Take care!” he said hoarsely, “it will be my turn next time, and when it comes I will kill you, you brute.”

“Oh, go away, William!” Mrs. Mulready cried; “oh! do go away, or there will be more mischief. Oh! Ned, do sit down, and don’t look so dreadful; he is going now.”

Mr. Mulready turned and went with a laugh which he intended to be scornful, but in which there was a strong tinge of uneasiness. He had always in his heart been afraid of this boy with his wild and reckless temper, and felt that in his present mood Ned was capable of anything. Still as Mr. Mulready took his seat in his gig his predominant feeling was satisfaction.

“I am glad I have given him a lesson,” he muttered to himself, “and have paid him off for months of insolence. He won’t try it on again, and as for his threats, pooh! he’ll be gone in a few weeks, and there will be an end of it.”

After he had gone Mrs. Mulready tried to soothe Ned, but the boy would not listen to her, and in fact did not seem to hear her.

“Don’t you mind, mother,” he said in a strange, quiet voice, “I will pay him off;” and muttering these words over and over again he went out into the hall, took down his cap in a quiet, mechanical sort of way, put it on, opened the door, and went out.

“Oh! Charlie,” Mrs. Mulready said to her second son, who, sobbing bitterly, had thrown himself down in a chair by the table, and was sitting with his head on his hands, “there will be something terrible come of this! Ned’s temper is so dreadful, and my husband was wrong, too. He should never have beaten him so, though Ned did say such things to him. What shall I do? these quarrels will be the death of me. I suppose Ned will be wandering about all night again. Do put on your cap, Charlie, and go out and see if you can find him, and persuade him to come home and go to bed; perhaps he will listen to you.”

Charlie was absent an hour, and returned saying that he could not find his brother.

“Perhaps he’s gone up to Varley as he did last time,” Mrs. Mulready said. “I am sure I hope he has, else he will be wandering about all night, and he had such a strange lock in his face that there’s no saying where he might go to, or what he might do.”

Charlie was almost heartbroken, and sat up till long past his usual time, waiting for his brother’s return. At last his eyes would no longer keep open, and he stumbled upstairs to bed, where he fell asleep almost as his head touched the pillow, in spite of his resolution to be awake until Ned returned.

Downstairs Mrs. Mulready kept watch. She did not expect Ned to return, but she was listening for the wheels of her husband’s gig. It was uncertain at what time he would return; for when he rose from the tea table she had asked him what time he expected to be back, and he had replied that he could not say; he should stop until the repairs were finished, and she was to go to bed and not bother.

So at eleven o’clock she went upstairs, for once before when he had been out late and she had sat up he had been much annoyed; but after she got in bed she lay for hours listening for the sound of the wheels. At last she fell asleep and dreamed that Ned and her husband were standing at the end of a precipice grappling fiercely together in a life and death struggle. She was awaked at last by a knocking at the door; she glanced at her watch, which hung above her head; it was but half past six.

“What is it, Mary?”

“Please, mum, there’s a constable below, and he wants to speak to you immediate.”

Mrs. Mulready sprang from the bed and began to dress herself hurriedly. All sorts of mischief that might have come to Ned passed rapidly through her mind; her husband had not returned, but no doubt he had stopped at the mill all night watching the men at work. His absence scarcely occasioned her a moment’s thought. In a very few minutes she was downstairs in the kitchen, where the constable was standing waiting for her. She knew him by sight, for Marsden possessed but four constables, and they were all well known characters.

“What is it?” she asked; “has anything happened to my son?”

“No, mum,” the constable said in a tone of surprise, “I didn’t know as he wasn’t in bed and asleep, but I have some bad news for you, mum; it’s a bad job altogether.”

“What is it?” she asked again; “is it my husband?”

“Well, mum, I am sorry to say as it be. A chap came in early this morning and told me as summat had happened, so I goes out, and half a mile from the town I finds it just as he says.”

“But what is it?” Mrs. Mulready gasped.

“Well, mum, I am sorry to have to tell you, but there was the gig all smashed to atoms, and there was the little black mare lying all in a heap with her neck broke, and there was—” and he stopped.

“My husband!” Mrs. Mulready gasped.

“Yes, marm, I be main sorry to say it were. There, yards in front of them, were Mr. Mulready just stiff and cold. He’d been flung right out over the hoss’ head. I expect he had fallen on his head and must have been killed roight out; and the worst of it be, marm, as it warn’t an accident, for there, tight across the road, about eighteen inches above the ground, was a rope stretched tight atween a gate on either side. It was plain enough to see what had happened. The mare had come tearing along as usual at twelve mile an hour in the dark, and she had caught the rope, and in course there had been a regular smash.”

The pretty color had all gone from Mrs. Mulready’s face as he began his story, but a ghastly pallor spread over her face, and a look of deadly horror came into her eyes as he continued.

“Oh, Ned, Ned,” she wailed, “how could you!” and then she fell senseless to the ground.

The constable raised her and placed her in a chair.

“Are you sure the master’s dead?” the servant asked, wiping her eyes.

“Sure enough,” the constable said. “I have sent the doctor off already, but it’s no good, he’s been dead hours and hours. But,” he continued, his professional instincts coming to the surface, “what did she mean by saying, ‘Oh, Ned, how could you!’ She asked me, too, first about him; ain’t he at home?”

“No, he ain’t,” the servant said, “and ain’t been at home all night; there were a row between him and maister last even; they had a fight. Maister Charlie he ran into the parlor as I was a clearing away the’ tea things, hallowing out as maister was a-killing Ned. Missis she ran in and I heard a scream, then maister he drove off, and a minute or two later Maister Ned he went out, and he ain’t come back again. When I went in with the candles I could see missis had been a crying. That’s all I know about it.”

“And enough too,” the constable said grimly. “This here be a pretty business. Well, you had best get your missis round and see about getting the place ready for the corpse. They have gone up with a stretcher to bring him back. They will be here afore long. I must go to Justice Thompson’s and tell him all about it. This be a pretty kittle of fish, surely. I be main sorry, but I have got my duty to do.”

An hour later Williams the constable with a companion started out in search of Ned Sankey, having a warrant in his pocket for his arrest on the charge of willful murder.

The excitement in Marsden when it became known that Mr. Mulready had been killed was intense, and it was immensely heightened when it was rumored that a warrant had been issued for the arrest of his stepson on the charge of murder. Quite a little crowd hung all day round the house with closed blinds, within which their so lately active and bustling townsman was lying.

All sorts of conjectures were rife, and there were many who said that they had all along expected harm would come of the marriage which had followed so soon after the death of Captain Sankey. The majority were loud in expression of their sympathy with the dead mill owner, recalling his cheery talk and general good temper. Others were disposed to think that Ned had been driven to the act; but among very few was there any doubt as to his guilt. It was recalled against him that he had before been in the dock for his assault upon Mr. Hathorn, and that it had been proved that he had threatened to kill his master. His sullen and moody demeanor at the marriage of his mother told terribly against him, and the rumors of the previous quarrel when Ned had assaulted his stepfather, and which, related with many exaggerations, had at the time furnished a subject of gossip in the town, also told heavily to his disadvantage.

Williams having learned from the servant that Ned was in the habit of going up to Varley had first made his inquiries there; but neither Bill nor Luke Marner, who were, the constable speedily learned, his principal friends there, had seen him. Varley was greatly excited over the news of the murder. Many of the men worked at Mulready’s mill, and had brought back the news at an early hour, as all work was of course suspended.

There was no grief expressed in Varley at Mr. Mulready’s death, indeed the news was received with jubilant exultation.

“A good job too,” was the general verdict; and the constable felt that were Ned in the village he would be screened by the whole population. He was convinced, however, that both Bill Swinton and Luke Marner were ignorant of his whereabouts, so genuine had been their astonishment at his questions, and so deep their indignation when they learned his errand.

“Thou duss’n’t believe it, Luke?” Bill Swinton said as he entered the latter’s cottage.

“No, lad, oi duss’n’t,” Luke said; “no more does Polly here, but it looks main awkward,” he said slowly stroking his chin, “if as how what the constable said is right, and there was a fight atween them that evening.”

“Maister Ned were a hot ‘un,” Bill said; “he allus said as how he had a dreadful temper, though oi never seed nowt of it in him, and he hated Foxey like poison; that oi allows; but unless he tells me hisself as he killed him nowt will make me believe it. He might ha’ picked up summat handy when Foxey hit him and smashed him, but oi don’t believe it of Maister Ned as he would ha done it arterward.”

“He war a downright bad ‘un war Foxey,” Luke said, “vor sure. No worse in the district, and there’s many a one as would rejoice as he’s gone to his account, and oi believe as whoever’s done it has saved Captain Lud from a job; but there, it’s no use a talking of that now. Now, look here, Bill, what thou hast got to do be this. Thou hast got to find the boy; oi expect he be hiding somewheres up on t’ moors. Thou knowst better nor oi wheere he be likely vor to be. Voind him out, lad, and tell him as they be arter him. Here be ten punds as oi ha had laying by me for years ready in case of illness; do thou give it to him and tell him he be heartily welcome to it, and can pay me back agin when it suits him. Tell him as he’d best make straight for Liverpool and git aboard a ship there for ‘Merikee—never moind whether he did the job or whether he didn’t. Things looks agin him now, and he best be on his way.”

“Oi’ll do’t,” Bill said, “and oi’ll bid thee goodby, Luke, and thee too, Polly, for ye won’t see me back agin. Of course I shall go wi’ him. He haven’t got man’s strength yet, and oi can work for us both. I bain’t a-going to let him go by hisself, not loikely.”