Through the Fray: A Tale of the Luddite Riots

“Thou art roight, lad,” Luke said heartily. “Dang it all, lad, thou speak’st loike a man. Oi be sorry thou art going, Bill, for oi loike thee; but thou be right to go wi’ this poor lad. Goodby, lad, and luck be wi’ ye;” and Luke wrung Bill’s hand heartily.

“I shan’t say goodby, Bill,” Mary Powlett said quietly. “I don’t think Ned Sankey can have done this thing, and if he hasn’t you will find that he will not run away, but will stay here and face it out.”

“Then he will be a fool,” Luke Marner said. “I tell ee the evidence be main strong agin him, and whether he be innocent or not he will find it hard to clear hisself. Oi don’t think much the worst of him myself if he done it, and most in Varley will be o’ my way o’ thinking. Foxey war a tyrant if ever there war one, and the man what was so hard a maister to his hands would be loike to be hard to his wife’s children.”

“Don’t speak like that, feyther,” Polly said; “murder is murder, you know.”

“Ay, lass, and human natur be human natur, and it be no use your going agin it. If he ha been and ill treated the boy, and I don’t doubt as he has, thou may’st argue all noight, but thou won’t get me to say as oi blames him much if he has done it. Oi don’t suppose as he meant to kill him—not vor a moment. I should think hard of him if oi thowt as how he did. He meant, oi reckon, vor to throw his horse down and cut his knees, knowing, as every one did, as Mulready were moighty proud of his horse, and he may have reckoned as Foxey would git a good shake, and some bruises as well, as a scare, but oi doan’t believe, not vor a moment, as he meant vor to kill him. That’s how oi reads it, lass.”

“Well, it may be so,” Mary assented. “It is possible he may have done it, meaning really only to give him a fright and a shake; but I hope he didn’t. Still if that was how it happened I will shake hands, Bill, and wish you goodby and good luck, for it would be best for him to get away, for I am afraid that the excuse that he only meant to frighten and not to kill him will not save him. I am sorry you are going, Bill, very sorry; but if you were my own brother I would not say a word to stop you. Didn’t his feyther give up his life to save little Janey? and I would give mine to save his. But I do think it will be good for you, Bill; times are bad, and it has been very hard for you lately in Varley. I know all about it, and you will do better across the seas. You will write, won’t you, sometimes?”

“Never fear,” Bill said huskily, “oi will wroite, Polly; goodby, and God bless you all; but it mayn’t be goodby, for oi mayn’t foind him;” and, wringing the hands of Luke and Polly, Bill returned to his cottage, hastily packed up a few things in a kit, slung it over his shoulder on a stick, and started out in search of Ned.

Late that evening there came a knock at the door of Luke’s cottage. On opening it he found Bill standing there.

“Back again, Bill!—then thou hasn’t found him?”

“No,” Bill replied in a dejected voice. “Oi ha’ hoonted high and low vor him; oi ha’ been to every place on the moor wheer we ha’ been together, and wheer oi thowt as he might be a-waiting knowing as oi should set out to look for him as soon as oi heard the news. Oi don’t think he be nowhere on the moor. Oi have been a-tramping ever sin’ oi started this mourning. Twice oi ha’ been down Maarsten to see if so be as they’ve took him, but nowt ain’t been seen of him. Oi had just coom from there now. Thou’st heerd, oi suppose, as the crowner’s jury ha found as Foxey wer murdered by him; but it bain’t true, you know, Luke—be it?”

Bill made the assertions stoutly, but there was a tremulous eagerness in the question which followed it; He was fagged and exhausted. His faith in Ned was strong, but he had found the opinion in the town so unanimous against him that he longed for an assurance that some one beside himself believed in Ned’s innocence.

“Oi doan’t know, Bill,” Luke Marner said, stroking his chin as he always did when he was thinking; “oi doan’t know, Bill—oi hoape he didn’t do it, wi’ all my heart. But oi doan’t know aboot it. He war sorely tried—that be sartain. But if he did it, he did it; it makes no difference to me. It doan’t matter to me one snap ov the finger whether the lad killed Foxey or whether he didn’t—that bain’t my business or yours. What consarns me is, as the son of the man as saved my child’s loife at t’ cost of his own be hunted by the constables and be in risk of his loife. That’s t’ question as comes home to me—oi’ve had nowt else ringing in my ears all day. Oi ha’ been oot to a searching high and low. Oi ain’t a found him, but oi ha made oop moi moind whaat I be agoing to do.”

They had moved a little away from the cottage now, but Luke lowered his voice:

“Oi be agoing down to t’ town in the morning to give moiself oop vor the murder of Foxey.”

Bill gave an exclamation of astonishment:

“But thou didn’st do it, Luke?”

“I moight ha’ done it for owt thou know’st, Bill. He wer the worst of maisters, and, as thou know’st, Bill, oi hated him joost as all the countryside did. He’s been warned by King Lud and ha’ been obliged to get the sojers at his factory. Well, thou knowest it was nateral as he would drive down last noight to see how t’ chaps at t’ engine was a-getting on, and it coomed across my moind as it wer a good opportunity vor to finish un; so ther thou hast it.”

Bill gazed in astonishment through the darkness at his companion.

“But it bain’t true, Luke? Thou wast talking to me arter thou coom’d out of the Coo at noine o’clock, an thou saidst as thou was off to bed.”

“Nowt of the koind,” Luke replied. “Oi told ye, thou know’st, as I wer a-going down to t’ toon and oi had got a job in hand. Oi spoke mysterous loike, and you noticed as how oi had got a long rope coiled up in moi hand.”

Bill gave a gasp of astonishment.

“That’s what thou hast got to say,” Luke said doggedly; “only astead o’ its being at noine o’clock it war at ten. Oi were just a-slipping owt of the cottage, t’ others were all asleep and knew nowt aboot moi having goone out.”

Bill was silent now.

“Oi wish oi had a-thowt of it,” he said at last; “oi would ha’ doon it moiself.”

“Oi wouldn’t ha’ let thee, Bill,” Luke said quietly. “He be a friend of thine, and oi know thou lovest him loike a brother, and a soight mor’n most brothers; but it be moi roight. The captain gave his loife vor moi child’s, and oi bee a going vor to give mine for his. That will make us quits. Besides, thou art young; oi be a-getting on. Jarge, he will be a-arning money soon; and Polly, she can get a place in sarvice, and ‘ul help t’ young uns. They will manage. Oi ha’ been thinking it over in all loites, and ha’ settled it all in moi moind.”

Bill was silent for a time and then said:

“Ther be one thing agin’ it, Luke, and it be this: As we can’t hear nowt of Maister Ned, oi be a thinking as he ha’ made straight vor Liverpool or Bristol or London, wi’ a view to going straight across the seas or of ‘listing, or doing somewhat to keep out of t’ way. He be sure to look in t’ papers, to see how things be a-going on here; and as sure as he sees as how you’ve gived yourself up and owed up as you ha’ done it, he will coom straight back again and say as how it were him.”

“Maister Ned might ha’ killed Foxey in a passion, but not loike this. He didn’t mean to kill him, but only vor to give him a shaake and frighten him. But oi be sartin sure as he wouldn’t let another be hoonged in his place. So ye see thou’d do more harm nor good.”

“Oi didn’t think of that,” Luke said, rubbing his chin. “That be so, surely. He’d be bound to coom back agin. Well, lad, oi will think it over agin avore moorning, and do thou do t’ same. Thou know’st moi wishes now. We ha’ got atween us to get Maister Ned off—that be the thing as be settled. It doan’t matter how it’s done, but it’s got to be done soomhow; and oi rely on thee to maake moi story good, whatever it be.

“There can’t be nowt wrong about it—a loife vor a loife be fair, any way. There be more nor eno’ in Yorkshire in these toimes, and one more or less be of no account to any one.”

“Oi be thy man, Luke,” Bill said earnestly. “Whatever as thou sayest oi will sweer to; but I would reyther change places.”

“That caan’t be, Bill, so it bain’t no use thinking aboot it. Oi know thou wilt do thy best vor Polly and t’ young uns. It ‘ull be rough on her, but it bain’t to be helped; and as she will be going away from Varley and settling elsewhere, it wouldn’t be brought up again her as she had an uncle as were a Luddite and got hoong for killing a bad maister. Goodnoight, lad! oi will see thee i’ t’ morning.”

CHAPTER XIII: COMMITTED FOR TRIAL

After a talk with Luke Marner early in the morning Bill Swinton went down into Marsden to hear if there was any news of Ned. He was soon back again.

“Maister Ned’s took,” he said as he met Luke, who was standing in front of his cottage awaiting his return before starting out to renew his search for Ned.

“Oi hear, at noine o’clock last noight he walked in to Justice Thompson’s and said as he had coom to give hisself up. He said as how he had been over at Painton, where the old woman as was his nurse lives; and directly as the news coom in t’ arternoon as Foxey had been killed and he was wanted for the murder, he coom straight over.”

“That’s roight,” Luke said heartily; “that settles it. He must ha’ been innocent or he would ha’ bolted straight away, and not coom back and gi’d hisself oop to justice. It were only his hiding away as maade oi think as he moight ha’ done it. Noo in course he will be able to clear hisself; for if he was over at Painton, why, he couldn’t be here—that be plain to any one.”

“Oi be aveared, by what t’ constable told me, as he won’t be able vor to prove it. It seems as how he didn’t get to Painton till t’ morning. He says as how he were awalking aboot on t’ moor all night. So you see he will have hard work vor to clear hisself.”

“Then I shall ha’ to give meself up,” Luke said quietly. “Ye see as it can’t do him harm now, ‘cause he ha’ coom back; and ef oi says as I killed the man they will open the doors, and he will only have to walk out.”

“Oi ha’ been a-thinking of that as I coom back,” Bill said, “and oi doan’t think as oi see my way clear through it now. Firstly, if Maister Ned did it, of course he will hold his tongue and leave ‘em to prove it, which maybe they can’t do; so he has a chance of getting off. But if you cooms forward and owns up, he will be saaf, if he did it, to say so at once; and so you will have done him harm rather nor good. Vor of course he will be able to prove his story better nor you will yourn, and you will have put the noose round his neck instead of getting it put round yourn. In the second place, it be loike enough as they lawyer chaps moight find out as your story weren’t true when they coom to twisting me inside owt in the box. They might foind as oi war a-swearing false. There be never no saying. They moight prove as that bit of rope warn’t yourn. Polly moight swear as she hadn’t been asleep till arter the time you said you went out, and that you never moved as long as she war awake. Lots of unexpected things moight turn up to show it war a lie and then you know they’d drop onto Maister Ned wourse nor ever.”

“I doan’t believe they would ask you any questions, Bill. When a man cooms and says, ‘Oi did a murder,’ they doan’t want to ask many questions aboot it. They takes it vor granted as he wouldn’t be such a fool as vor to say he did it when he didn’t. But th’ other point be more sarous. It be loike enough as t’ lad did it, and if he did he will out wi’ it when oi cooms forward. If oi could get to see him first oi moight argue him into holding his tongue by pointing owt that moi loife bain’t of so much valley as hissen, also that I owe a debt to his feyther.”

“Well, oi ha’ been thinking it over,” Bill said, “and moi opinion is thou had best hold thy tongue till the trial. Thou can’st be in the court. Ef the jury foind him innocent, of course thou will’t hold thy tongue; ef they foind him guilty, then thou’lt get up in the court, and thou’lt say to the joodge, civil loike:

“Moi lord, the gentlemen of the jury have made a mistake; oi am the chap as killed Foxey and oi ha’ got a young man here as a witness as moi words is true.”

“Perhaps that will be the best way, Bill,” Luke said thoughtfully. “Oi ha’ bin thinking how we moight get over Polly’s evidence agin me; every noight oi will get up regular and coom and ha’ a talk wi’ you; oi will coom out wi’out my shoes as quiet as a cat, and then if Polly sweers as oi didn’t leave t’ house that noight thou can’st sweer as she knows nothing at all aboot it, as oi ha’ been out every noight to see thee.”

So the matter was allowed to stand for the time; and Bill and Luke, when they had had their breakfast, went down again to Marsden to hear what was going on. Marsden was greatly excited. The sensation caused by the news of the murder scarcely exceeded that which was aroused when it was heard that Ned Sankey had come in and given himself up. Some thought that at the examination which was to take place at noon he would at once confess his guilt, while others believed that he would plead not guilty, and would throw the burden of proving that he killed his stepfather upon the prosecution.

All through the previous day Mrs. Mulready had been the central object of interest to the town gossips pending the capture of her son. Dr. Green had been in and out of the house all day. It was known that she had passed from one fit of hysterics into another, and that the doctor was seriously alarmed about her state. Rumors were about that the servants, having been interviewed at the back gate, said, that in the intervals of her screaming and wild laughter she over and over again accused Ned as the murderer of her husband. Dr. Green, when questioned, peremptorily refused to give any information whatever as to his patient’s opinions or words.

“The woman is well nigh a fool at the best of times,” he said irritably, “and at present she knows no more what she is saying than a baby. Her mind is thrown completely off any little balance that it had and she is to all intents and purposes a lunatic.”

Only with his friend Mr. Porson, who called upon him after the first visit had been paid to Mrs. Mulready immediately after her husband’s body had been brought in, did Dr. Green discuss in any way what had happened.

“I agree with you, Porson, in doubting whether the poor boy had a hand in this terrible business. We both know, of course, that owing to the bad training and total absence of control when he was a child in India his temper was, when he first came here, very hot and ungovernable. His father often deplored the fact to me, blaming himself as being to a great extent responsible for it, through not having had time to watch and curb him when he was a child; but he was, as you say, an excellently disposed boy, and your testimony to the efforts which he has made to overcome his faults is valuable. But I cannot conceal from you, who are a true friend of the boy’s, what I should certainly tell to no one else, namely, that I fear that his mother’s evidence will be terribly against him.

“She has always been prejudiced against him. She is a silly, selfish woman. So far as I could judge she cared little for her first husband, who was a thousand times too good for her; but strangely enough she appears to have had something like a real affection for this man Mulready, who, between ourselves, I believe, in spite of his general popularity in the town, to have been a bad fellow. One doesn’t like to speak ill of the dead under ordinary circumstances, but his character is an important element in the question before us. Of course among my poorer patients I hear things of which people in general are ignorant, and it is certain that there was no employer in this part of the country so thoroughly and heartily detested by his men.”

“I agree with you cordially,” Mr. Porson said. “Unfortunately I know from Ned’s own lips that the lad hated his stepfather; but I can’t bring myself to believe that he has done this.”

“I hope not,” the doctor said gravely, “I am sure I hope not; but I have been talking with his brother, who is almost heartbroken, poor boy, and he tells me that there was a terrible scene last night. It seems that Mulready was extremely cross and disagreeable at tea time; nothing, however, took place at the table; but after the meal was over, and the two boys were alone together in that little study of theirs, Ned made some disparaging remarks about Mulready. The door, it seems, was open. The man overheard them, and brutally assaulted the boy, and indeed Charlie thought that he was killing him. He rushed in and fetched his mother, who interfered, but not before Ned had been sadly knocked about. Mulready then drove off to his factory, and Ned, who seems to have been half stunned, went out almost without saying a word, and, as you know, hasn’t been heard of since.

“It certainly looks very dark against him. You and I, knowing the boy, and liking him, may have our doubts, but the facts are terribly against him, and unless he is absolutely in the position to prove an alibi, I fear that it will go hard with him.”

“I cannot believe it,” Mr. Porson said, “although I admit that the facts are terribly against him. Pray, if you get an opportunity urge upon his mother that her talk will do Ned horrible damage and may cost him his life. I shall at once go and instruct Wakefield to appear for him, if he is taken, and to obtain the best professional assistance for his defense. I feel completely unhinged by the news, the boy has been such a favorite of mine ever since I came here; he has fought hard against his faults, and had the makings of a very fine character in him. God grant that he may be able to clear himself of this terrible accusation!”

Ned’s first examination was held on the morning after he had given himself up, before Mr. Simmonds and Mr. Thompson. The sitting was a private one. The man who first found Mr. Mulready’s body testified to the fact that a rope had been laid across the road. Constable Williams proved that when he arrived upon the spot nothing had been touched. Man and horse lay where they had fallen, the gig was broken in pieces, a strong rope was stretched across the road. He said that on taking the news to Mrs. Mulready he had learned from the servants that the prisoner had not slept at home that night, and that there had been a serious quarrel between him and the deceased the previous evening.

After hearing this evidence Ned was asked if he was in a position to account for the time which had elapsed between his leaving home and his arrival at his nurse’s cottage.

He replied that he could only say that he had been wandering on the moor.

The case was remanded for a week, as the evidence of Mrs. Mulready and the others in the house would be necessary, and it was felt that a mother could not be called upon to testify against her son with her husband lying dead in the house.

“I am sorry indeed to see you in this position,” Mr. Simmonds said to Ned. “My friendship for your late father, and I may say for yourself, makes the position doubly painful to me, but I can only do my duty. I should advise you to say nothing at this period of the proceedings; but if there is anything which you think of importance to say, and which will give another complexion to the case, I am ready to hear it.”

“I have nothing to say, sir,” Ned said quietly, “except that I am wholly innocent of the affair. As you may see by my face I was brutally beaten by my stepfather on the evening before his death. I went out of the house scarce knowing what I was doing. I had no fixed intention of going anywhere or of doing anything, I simply wanted to get away from home. I went on to the moors and wandered about, I suppose for some hours. Then I threw myself down under the shelter of a pile of stones and lay there awake till it was morning. Then I determined to go to the house of my old nurse and to stop there until I was fit to be seen. In the afternoon I heard what had taken place here, and that I was accused of the murder, and I at once came over here and gave myself up.”

“As you are not in a position to prove what you state,” Mr. Simmonds said, “we have nothing to do but to remand the case until this day week. I may say that I have received a letter from Dr. Green saying that he and Mr. Porson are ready to become your bail to any amount; but we could not think of accepting bail in a charge of murder.”

Ned bowed and followed the constable without a word to the cells. His appearance had not been calculated to create a favorable impression. His clothes were stained and muddy; his lips were swollen, his eyes were discolored and so puffed that he could scarcely see between the lids, his forehead was bruised and cut in several places. He had passed two sleepless nights; his voice had lost its clearness of ring and was low and husky. Mr. Simmonds shook his head to his fellow magistrate.

“I am afraid it’s a bad case, Thompson, but the lad has been terribly ill used, there is no doubt about that. It’s a thousand pities he takes up the line of denying it altogether. If he were to say, what is no doubt the truth, that having been brutally beaten he put the rope across the road intending to punish and even injure his stepfather, but without any intention of killing him, I think under the circumstances of extreme provocation, and what interest we could bring to bear on the matter, he would get off the capital punishment, for the jury would be sure to recommend him to mercy. I shall privately let Green and Porson, who are evidently acting as his friends in the matter, know that I think it would be far better for him to tell the truth and throw himself on the mercy of the crown.”

“They may not find him guilty,” Mr. Thompson said. “The jury will see that he received very strong provocation; and after all, the evidence is, so far as we know at present, wholly circumstantial, and unless the prosecution can bring home to him the possession of the rope, it is likely enough they will give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“His life is ruined anyhow,” Mr. Simmonds said. “Poor lad! poor lad! Another fortnight and I was going to apply for a commission for him. I wish to heavens I had done so at Christmas, and then all this misery would have been spared.”

As soon as Ned had been led back to the cell Mr. Porson obtained permission to visit him. He found him in a strange humor.

“Well, my poor boy,” he began, “this is a terrible business.”

“Who do you mean it is a terrible business for, Mr. Porson, me or him?”

Ned spoke in a hard unnatural voice, without the slightest tone of trouble or emotion. Mr. Porson perceived at once that his nerves were brought up to such a state of tension by the events of the preceding forty-eight hours that he was scarce responsible for what he was saying.

“I think I meant for you, Ned. I cannot pretend to have any feeling for the man who is dead, especially when I look at your face.”

“Yes, it is not a nice position for me,” Ned said coldly, “just at the age of seventeen to be suspected of the murder of one’s stepfather, and such a nice stepfather too, such a popular man in the town! And not only suspected, but with a good chance of being hung for it.”

“Ned, my dear boy,” Mr. Porson said kindly, “don’t talk in that way. You know that we, your friends, are sure that you did not do it.”

“Are you quite sure, sir?” Ned said. “I am not quite sure myself. I know I should have done it if I had had the chance. I thought over all sorts of ways in which I might kill him, and I wouldn’t quite swear that I did not think of this plan and carry it out, though it doesn’t quite seem to me that I did. I have no very definite idea what happened that night, and certainly could give but a vague account of myself from the time I left the house till next morning, when I found myself lying stiff and half frozen on the moor. Anyhow, whether I killed him or not it’s all the same. I should have done so if I could. And if some one else has saved me the trouble I suppose I ought to feel obliged to him.”

Mr. Porson saw that in Ned’s present state it was useless to talk to him. Two nights without sleep, together with the intense excitement he had gone through, had worked his brain to such a state of tension that he was not responsible for what he was saying. Further conversation would do him harm rather than good. What he required was rest and, if possible, sleep. Mr. Porson therefore only said quietly: