I looked around me blinking in the sudden glare. There were many I knew not. More than one I knew. The voice that had haunted was the voice of Soldier Jack, who looked, I thought, somewhat foolish as my eye fell on him. There was William Thorpe, a cropper at Fisher’s, of the Brigg, and Ben Walker and William Smith, who worked at my uncle Wood’s. Thorpe, I knew, was a mate of my cousin George, and I was not much surprised to see him. Smith I knew only by sight, having seen him when I had taken work to be finished at the Brigg. Walker I knew somewhat better. His father was ever styled Buck Walker, having been somewhat of a gallant in his younger days, and even now fancying himself not a little. Ben o’ Buck’s was a young man of about my own age, dark and sallow, with deep set eyes and a sly fawning way. He had gone out of his way to be civil to me, and more than once in the summer–time had walked of a Sunday from Powle Chapel, where his father was a deacon, across the fields home with us. He was attentive in a quiet way to Mary to whom he spoke, I understood, chiefly about his sins, which troubled him greatly. Martha said it was his stomach that was wrong. She knew it by his pasty face and by his hands, cold and damp, like a fish tail. Martha was a lass of some prejudices. My father was rather partial to Ben, a quiet harmless lad, he judged, that would run steady and show no nonsense. I did not greatly care for him myself, but I wondered rather to see him where he was, not having given him credit for so much spunk. But most I marvelled, at Soldier Jack, yet did I gather courage from his presence, for I leaned on his stout heart and his worldly knowledge, gleaned in many strange scenes and lands.
But George was speaking to me again.
“There are signs in our Order, Brother Bamforth, and I will now communicate them to you. The first, the right hand passed behind the neck, thus, signifies ‘Are you a Lud?’ The party challenged should reply by placing two forefingers on his chin, thus. We have also a password which will admit you to our meetings, and to those of others in our movement. It is ‘Work, Win.’ You will now take your seat among the brethren and the business of the meeting will be resumed. ‘Any reports?’”
“Enoch Taylors taken on six more men,” said a Marsden man. “They’re making frames as fast as they can. Orders are rolling in. Horsfall’s putting them into Ottiwells as quick as they’re made. Th’ owd hands are told they’re no use, an’ young ’uns is being browt fra’ no one knows where, to work th’ shearing frames. Aw’n seen some cloth ’ats been finished on a frame, an’ it welly broke my heart. Aw’n been a cropper, lad and man, for thirty year, an’ aw nivver turned aht owt like it. It were as smooth as a babby’s cheek. An’ th’ frame can do th’ work of four men awn heerd th’ mester tell. It’s ruination, stark ruination, an’ me wi’ five childer an’ yar Emma lying in.”
“That’s noan hauf o’ th’ tale—Horsfall’s fair wild wi’ joy. He says he’ll feight Napoleon wi’ a finishin’ frame. He cries shame on th’ Nottingham police. He says th’ magistrates there owt to be drummed off th’ bench. He says they’re a pigeon–livered lot, an’ if he’d been there, he’d a ridden up to th’ saddle girths i’ th’ blood o’ th’ Luds before he’d ha’ been baulked o’ his way.”
“Shame on him, shame on him!” broke out fierce voices.
“Reports come from Liversedge that Cartwright, of Rawfolds, has ordered a set of machines from Taylor. William Hall, have yo’ owt to say?”
A man about thirty, dirty and slovenly, with a blotched face and slouching look, who it turned out lived at Hightown and had been dismissed from Mr. Jackson’s there and had been taken on at Wood’s, then rose. He had a great deal to say. He spoke of Mr. Cartwright: more of a foreigner nor an Englishmen, he called him. A quiet man with a cutting tongue. Had ne’er a civil word for a man an’ down on him in a jiffy if he looked at a pot o’ beer. Drank nowt himself, which Hall looked on as a bad sign and unEnglish. Was sacking th’ owd hands and stocking Rawfolds with machines and Parson Roberson was worse nor him. I had a sight of that same fighting parson not many months after, and Bill Hall was not far off the mark.
“Has any brother owt more to say anent Horsfall or Cartwright?” asked Mellor.
“I move they’re warned,” cried one.