Ben o' Bill's, the Luddite: A Yorkshire Tale

by D. F. E. Sykes; George Henry Walker

CHAPTER IV.

IN February of 1812, it was borne in upon our minds that something more than distress and disaffection were in our midst. These we were used to, and they had come to seem matters of course. It was painful to go to the Huddersfield Market these days. The old brick rotunda was opened as usual, and as usual the stalls were piled with cloth. The manufacturers stood by their wares, or gathered in anxious groupes in the alleys between the stalls. But buyers were rare, and prices ruinous. Shop–keepers in the New–street stood on their steps looking for a customer as eagerly as a becalmed captain for a cap of wind. Round the old market cross the famished workmen stood sullen and scowling. They had not much to say. They were too far gone even for anger. Their faces were now pinched and haggard. If a man had thrown a loaf among them they would have fought for it. It was said that at that time families had not twopence a head to live on each day. At the market dinners at the Cherry Tree and the Pack Horse the manufacturers dined together as usual but it was doleful work. We sat down to our meat as to funeral cakes.

Bad trade long drawn out had tired the staunchest of us, and there was not one ray of hope to brighten the outlook. War still dragged on, now a victory, now a defeat. But we had ceased to look for an issue from our troubles from the success of our arms. The contest seemed interminable, and meanwhile banks were breaking, credit was destroyed, old firms were failing; and men who had struggled on bravely, making goods to stock rather than close their mills and sack their old hands, saw no choice but to give up and own themselves beaten. Wheat was eight shillings a stone, and so bad at that, that it could not be baked; the poor rate was at twelve shillings in the pound, and worst of all, the poor were cursing their masters in their hearts and thinking their sufferings lay at their master’s doors.

Now I cannot for my part think such a time was fitting for bringing in machinery. I know full well that water power and steam power and improved machinery have been of untold good to the poor; but those who were to reap the first profit should to my thinking have bided their time. But Mr. Cartwright, of Rawfold, Mr. Horsfall, of Ottiwells and some others, seemed callous to the sufferings round them. Perhaps it was they looked so intently at the distant object, that they could not see the things at their feet. They were both men impatient of obstacles; they resented interference; they pooh–poohed those who counselled delay.

In that month of February we had the first news of any violence in our neighbourhood. Late of a Saturday night a number of men with faces blacked and their dress disguised, some wearing women’s gowns and others strange hood gear, broke into the dressing shop of Mr. Joseph Hirst, of Marsh, destroyed the dressing frames, the shears and other furniture of a gig–mill. The same evil fate befell Mr. James Balderson, of Crosland Moor, and Mr. William Hinchcliffe, of Leymoor. Then came the soldiers, the Scots Greys and the Second Dragoon Guards. They were billeted in the various hostelries of the town at free quarters, and it was not long before there was much scandal at their carrying on a drinking, swearing lot of men, a terror to decent girls, reeling on the streets in broad day with the loose women of the town, singing lewd songs, with no respect even to the gravest and most dignified magistrates in the town, paying heed only to their own officers, and that only when on guard or patrol. They were a bye–word and a reproach in the town, and of no sort of use at all.

Then, too, did the Head Constable of Huddersfield call upon all men over seventeen, and under fifty, paying rates to the poor, to enrol themselves as special constables, and among them was none other than John Wood, who looked mighty big with his constable’s staff, and talked large to my aunt and George and to me, when I called at the Brigg about the valiant deeds he would do if ever Luddite fell into his hands. For by this time the name “Luddite” had crept into the district, how I know not. And at his step–father’s big talk George Mellor smiled grimly.

I say I called at Mr. Wood’s house at Longroyd Bridge. I had meant to have a talk with George about the smashing of the machines of which, and of nothing but which, the market talk had been. I was not easy in my mind about the matter. I thought, after my promises to George, it was but my due to know if he had any share in these doings. But I was let. My aunt had her ailments to talk of, and burdened me with messages to my mother. Then Mr. Wood was there whilst we took a dish of tea, and all his talk was of the dressing the Luds would get. I asked him if he intended to try the new machines in his own shop, to which, for my aunt’s sake, we sent our own goods to be finished. But I gathered that my astute uncle deemed it safe to see how the cat jumped before committing himself. He was ever one for letting others do the fighting, and then coming softly in and reaping the spoils. So with one thing and another I got no talk with my cousin, and started off by my lone to walk to Slaithwaite over Crosland Moor. And near the Brigg itself I came on Soldier Jack, with a poke slung over his shoulder.

“Bide your time, Ben, and I’ll be with you,” he cried. “Good company makes short miles. I’ve a little errand o’ my own to see to on Paddock Brow. Will ta come as far as th’ Nag’s Head and drink a glass and tarry there for me, or will ta company me to th’ Brow? I’st noan be long, for it’s not exactly a wedding I’m bahn to.”

“Oh, I’ll go with you,” I said, willingly enough, for Jack was always well met.

“It’s Tom Sykes I’m bahn to see. Yo’ dunnot know him belike, a decent body but shiftless, and a ailing wife and a long family. There’s a sight o’ truth in what young Booth was reading to us th’ other neet from a great writer, a Mr. Malthus, ’at a man who is born into a world already possessed, or if society does not want his labour, has no claim or right to the smallest portion of food; and, in fact, has no business to be where he is. At nature’s mighty feast there is no cover for him. That’s what you call pheelosophy. I’m bahn to comfort Tom Sykes wi’ a bit o’ pheelosophy.”