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  Feargus O’Connor at the Big Meeting.

  ‘Are we dogs or people?’ he cried. ‘You work for twelve hours a day, and so do your nine-year-old children, and what for? To feed the masters and their families, not yourselves. What can you do with six shillings a week if you’ve got three bairns and an old grandmother to feed? And that’s just when you’re in work, remember three years ago in 1836 when there was no work for six months?’

  Joshua and Ruth did remember, for they had already been working at Edward Heathcote’s mill for one year in 1836, aged nine and eight, when the mill had been closed for six months.

  ‘How many of you had any money coming in at all then?’ shouted the speaker. ‘In some of your houses, only the children were working – and when their wages were stopped, you’d nothing to eat but nettle broth, and nothing to warm yerselves with but what peat you could scratch from the moors.’

  Here, a murmur of approval went up from the crowd, who remembered that bleak winter only too well. The two children remembered it too: after October, they were permanently hungry and hardly had the strength to drag themselves onto the moor to dig for peat.

  ‘And did the masters take pity on you?’

  ‘Aye, Fielden did,’ came a cry from the crowd.

  ‘We know Fielden’s a friend of the working man,’ said the speaker, ‘but what about the rest of them in Todmorden? I hear some of the big farmers, such as they call the freeholders of Langfield Common, sent their minders with dogs to chase off the peat diggers. But you can be sure they want you to work for ’em as soon as their mills have got some business.’

  Joshua felt his ankle. It was healed now, but there had been a great scar there for nearly a year, where a hunting dog had caught him as he and six other men and lads had fled before the gamekeeper’s pack.

  ‘No, my friends, this will never do in Todmorden; never do in Yorkshire; never do in England. How many here fought at Waterloo?’

  Six men raised their hands; one standing on a crutch, for he had lost a leg to Napoleon’s gunners.

  ‘What did you fight for, lads? To stop Boney and those Frenchies who were so easy with the guillotine. And what did you get for stopping ’im? Why, in Lancashire alone, thirty thousand little bairns must go to work to feed their mothers and fathers. And who can speak for the working father, mother or child when Parliament is for the masters only, never mind our Reform Act, and most of them is handpicked by their lordships.

  ‘It’s a vote for every man we want. And a new Parliament to be elected every year, and every town to send its own member.’

  Here the crowd shouted its approval. ‘All this, my friends, is in our Charter.’ And here the speaker’s helpers unfolded a great scroll, held between two pieces of wood, with the six demands written in bold characters:

  ONE MAN ONE VOTE

  VOTE BY BALLOT

  ANNUAL PARLIAMENTS

  NO PROPERTY QUALIFICATION

  EQUAL REPRESENTATION

  PAYMENT FOR MPs

  Like most of the crowd, Ruth and Joshua could not read, and a Parliament far away in London didn’t mean much to them but they knew that their families were badly treated and that somebody must be able to speak for them.

  ‘Lads and lasses, it’s a million signatures we want,’ cried the speaker. ‘And every one of them to go to Parliament in London to let them know that the people must be heard. And to let me know that there are hundreds of thousands that’s not afraid of redcoats or prisons. How many of you will sign here today?’

  Here, his assistants began to unravel an enormous roll of paper which was already covered with signatures and the signs of those who could not write. It was far from a million but could be numbered in many hundreds of thousands.

  ‘Now come forward and fight to better yerselves, for no one else will do it for you. The Charter’s the best hope you’ve got.’

  A trickle of people came forward from the crowd and were given feather quills to write with. Those who could not write made a sign with the pen, and the speaker’s helpers wrote their names for them.

  But the numbers were not enough.

  ‘Where’s your courage, lads? There’s not a redcoat in sight, and I doubt that London’s got its spies in this place – to be sure, they think you don’t know what a vote is here!’

  Moved to show they were not so ignorant, nearly two hundred of the crowd moved forward to sign the Charter. Joshua and Ruth saw their father join the line.

  ‘Now, lads,’ cried O’Connor, ‘we’re going to march from Manchester to London next month to put the Charter to Parliament directly and if they won’t see us, we’ll go to her Majesty herself. It’ll be a long, tough march, starting outside Manchester and going on through Nottingham, where they’re all for the Charter. We need every man we can get, aye, and women and children too if you can spare ’em. Now, who here will join us?’

  About twenty of the crowd put their hands in the air, but as the speaker called for more, Joshua and Ruth saw their father, Jess Midgeley, join them. They stared at each other in astonishment.

  ‘What’ll me mam say?’ said Ruth.

  ‘She’ll never let ’im go,’ cried Joshua.

  ‘I’d want to go too, Joshua,’ said Ruth.

  ‘What, you!’ said her brother. ‘You walk to London… tha’d never get as far as Manchester.’

  ‘You wait,’ said Ruth. ‘Just wait and see.’

  As their dad turned back to the crowd after signing the petition, he saw the two children, who by this time had wormed their way to the edge of the crowd. He hurried over to them crying:

  ‘This is no place for the likes of you two. Get ’ome to yer mam or there’ll be no tea for you today.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t we be ’ere?’ cried Ruth. ‘If we can work in Stansfield’s mill, we can support t’Charter.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Jess Midgeley. ‘No more o’ that from you,’ and taking the hands of both children, he walked them firmly away from the crowd.

  ***

  The Midgeleys’ cottage lay in a row of cottages at Oldroyd, about a mile from the marketplace where the meeting had been held. From its windows, you could see a sloping field and the canal, and the River Calder running alongside it. Behind the cottage, the hill rose more steeply; first through woods, and then to open fields and then onto the moor where they had dug for peat. If you stood outside the cottage and looked to the east, you could see the tall column of Stoodley Pike, a monument built to peace with the French after the long war.

  In summer, the scene was often fair, although the steam engines which most of the mills now used were belching out smoke so that the air was never really clear. In winter, the scene was nearly always dismal: dark clouds hung over the hills, and Joshua and Ruth went to work before six o’clock in the dark, and returned at eight o’clock in the evening when it had already been dark for nearly four hours. In winter, Sundays were the only days when they saw their house in daylight.

  On this Sunday, as they walked up the hill towards the house with their father, they could see their mother, Ellen, standing anxiously in the doorway. For years now, she had looked pale and drawn, partly from the long hours she worked herself when there was work, and partly from concern for Ruth and Joshua. The mill life was new to her – as a child, she had lived high up on the moor at her father’s farm, and run wild amongst the heather and sheep. But her father had been forced to abandon the farm; the family had moved to the valley bottom, and he and Ellen’s mother had taken work in the first big cotton mills. They had found the change unbearable, and both had died within five years.

  When Ellen married Jess, it was her greatest delight that they could rent a cottage set at least a little way up the hill but her greatest sorrow was that the children would never run free as she had done.

  ‘Why, where ’ave you been?’ she cried, as Jess and the children returned
to the cottage. ‘Yer late for yer tea.’

  ‘Well, I’m late for good reason,’ said Jess, still holding both children by the hand. ‘But why these two are late is another question.’

  ‘We were on ’t ’market, mam,’ said Joshua, ‘and there were a big meeting wi’that big Irishman, what’s called Feargus O’Connor. There were ’undreds there. An’ O’Connor were calling for t’Charter, an’ ’e wants a million people to sign it.’

  ‘Well, ’e wouldn’t get many in this town, we’re that ground down,’ said Ellen.

  ‘Hundreds signed,’ said Ruth, ‘and Dad were one of ’em.’

  Jess Midgeley looked sheepish.

  ‘You did what, Jess Midgeley?’ said Ellen.

  ‘Wait on, if nobody comes forward, we’ll soon ’ave all ’t ’childer in this country working in ’t ’mills, and dying afore they’re twenty. O’Connor’s rough but ’e’s right. I’d no choice, Ellen. Besides, Fielden’s wi’em right enough.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ruth, ‘of course Dad were right – and ’e should be on ’t ’march to London.’

  ‘March to London!’ said Ellen. ‘What march?’

  ‘To give t’Charter ’t ’Parliament men, Mam,’ said Joshua, ‘and to let ‘em know that what’s ’appening in ’t ’country’.’

  ‘Ellen, they’re right,’ said Jess. ‘I should be there.’

  ‘You walk to London!’ said Ellen. ‘It’d tak you nigh on a year.’

  ‘But we’ve got to act, Ellen. You want yer grandchildren to be starting work afore six too?’ said Jess.

  ‘’E’s right, Mam. ’E must go, and Joshua and I should go too – folk in London don’t just need to ’ear about us childer what are in ’t ’mills – they need to see us.’

  ‘But what about your jobs? You’ll lose ’em.’

  ‘Well, you won’t ’ave to feed us while we’re away, and you’ve got some money coming in from Crossley’s sewing shop.’

  Ruth looked appealingly to her father, who realised that the Chartists needed children to march with them. But he knew too that the three shillings per week that Ellen earned would not go far, and how lonely she would be if they left her on her own.

  ‘Let them come, Ellen,’ he said quietly. ‘They’ll ’ave to fight for themselves in life one day, and they might as well start now. Anyway, it’ll be no ’arder than ’Eathcote’s mill before six.’

  Ruth and Joshua looked amazed. Was their dad really agreeing they could march too? And to London?

  Their mother looked helpless. She could never win against the three of them.

  ‘When would you start?’ she said limply.

  ‘It won’t be till next month,’ said Jess. ‘There’ll be a big meeting outside Manchester and then the march will begin. We’ll ’ear the date soon enough.’

  ‘It’ll be October,’ she said. ‘You’ll freeze to death o’nights. I’ll ’ave to make you two clothes o’that blanket.’

  ‘So you’ll agree, Mam?’ said Ruth.

  ‘Only because I must.’

  The children ran to her and hugged her, while Jess Midgeley looked at them smiling – and wondered if they really would reach London and Parliament.

  CHAPTER 3

  GATHERING STRENGTH

  It was a rare clear autumn morning when they left, with the sun creeping over the moor’s edge. As Joshua and Ruth came to the door, they could look up and see the hills bathed in a soft light, and look below and see the pall of smoke through which they normally walked to work.

  ‘Wish you were going to work, Josh?’ said Ruth.

  ‘No fear,’ said her brother. ‘But I’ll miss Jim that I pull ’t ’trolley with.’

  ‘Well, we should find other children on ’t ’march, and I’ll be glad to be well away from t’mill. I ’ate it.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad it’s not forever,’ said Joshua. ‘I want to see this place again.’

  Their mother called them inside to give them the coats she’d made from their only blankets. Their father would carry a cloth bag with bread and cheese which would have to last them their first day’s march to Manchester. After that, they were to depend on the goodwill of the Chartist supporters on the route to London.

  ‘Well, we ’ave to be going, lass,’ said Jess to his wife, putting on a brave face.

  Ellen could hardly bear to look at her children, now grey and lumpy in their blanket-coats. But their faces were brave and she knew they wanted to go.

  ‘Well, go then,’ she said quietly, ‘but for God’s sake, come back.’ She clasped the children to her, but a minute later they broke away as their father called them to the door.

  ‘See you in a month Mam,’ they cried as they followed their father down the path to the town. Ellen watched them go and wondered if it would not be longer than that.

  Jess Midgeley had arranged to meet the other marchers from Todmorden at the market by the River Calder where they had heard Feargus O’Connor speak. About a dozen other men had volunteered to join the march, nearly all of them out of work. Only six were ready for the march when Jess and the children arrived. Their gruff “Good mornings” masked the respect they had for Jess, who was known to be a man ready to speak up for others. But they looked doubtfully at Ruth and Joshua, worried that they might hold them up.

  ‘Nay, Jess, tha’s not bringin’ childer as well as tha’ self?’ said a big man with clogs and a twisted walking stick, who looked as though he might kick or beat the children off the march anytime.

  ‘I am that, Ralph Murphy – we want them Parliament men to meet some of these childer what never see the light of a winter’s day.’

  ‘But they’ll never get to Manchester, never mind London, Jess,’ said Murphy, clutching his stick.

  ‘We will n’all,’ said Ruth. ‘If we can work twelve hours a day year round, we can do owt you men can.’

  ‘Mind your tongue, lass,’ said Jess. ‘They’re coming, Ralph, and if you can get to London, so will they. Now who else are we waiting for?’

  ‘Abraham Eastwood and Fred Dawson ’ave both been kept back by their wives, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Eric Naylor, a small man whose mouth always seemed open in laughter, though he had little enough to laugh about. A man with no family, he drifted from job to job in Todmorden, cleaning out cotton waste or helping load the canal barges.

  ‘Better to ’ave seven stout hearts and two strong childer than twelve doubting Thomases,’ said Judd Ackroyd, a fit man in his forties who carried a sledgehammer over his shoulder. As a young man, he had been in the Luddite gangs which used sledgehammers to smash wool shearing machines in mills in Halifax. Whenever he felt danger might be in the air, he carried his hammer.

  ‘Aye, tha’s reet enough there, Judd,’ said Jethro Strongitharm, a big dark man with one leg and a crutch. ‘If we’d ’ad these two at Waterloo, we’d ’ave finished off Boney by lunchtime, and I’d ’ave me two legs.’

  Jethro had fought against Napoleon at Waterloo, and in one of the last charges had lost his leg to a cannonball. In the last seventeen years, he’d eventually learned to walk with one leg and a crutch almost as fast as he marched as a soldier. ‘Let ’em come. They’ll get to London alreet.’

  Jess Midgeley, pleased that his children had two strong supporters in the group, decided to make no more of it. ‘Now, lads; where’s this banner Annie Rowley’s lass promised to make? Folk ’av got to know who we are and why we’re marching.’

  ‘There she is, coming up ’t ’Calder,’ said Jim Knotts, a sandy-haired young man of about twenty who was always ready for an adventure. The march to London was about the biggest adventure he could think of, and he was in a boisterous mood. ‘That’s Marion Rowley, all right,’ and he ran over to welcome her.

  ‘Let’s see t’banner then, Marion,’ he almost shouted at her as they met at the riverside.

  ‘All in good time, Ji
m Knotts,’ Marion replied in a musical voice, as they walked together back to the others. Marion was small, with dark hair tied in a bun and with a warm look to her face. She had learned sewing from her mother, Annie, who worked in the sewing shop which was part of Edward Heathcote’s mill. For a time, Marion had worked there herself; but when the mill closed for six months three years previously, she’d never got her job back and had not found work anywhere else.

  ‘Cum on, what ’ave you done for us, lass?’ said Jess. ‘Let’s see it.’

  Ruth and Joshua partly knew Marion from Sunday School outings where her singing was always the most popular event of the afternoon. On those occasions – sometimes out on the moors – the music seemed to pour out of her in a rich stream of sound, full of feeling for the hardships of the world around her.

  ‘Hullo, Ruth and Joshua,’ she cried. ‘Going on a bit of a walk, are you? Better than ’t ’mill anyroad. Come ’an ’elp us unfurl this banner.’

  The banner was tied between two poles, each about six feet long, and the children bent down to separate the poles and stretch the banner. The black lettering had been sewn onto a four-foot square of grey cloth – of the kind which Heathcote’s mill was producing at the rate of thousands of yards per month.

  It read:

  THE CHARTER TODAY ­—

  OR NO WORK TOMORROW

  ‘That’ll do fine, lass,’ said Jess Midgeley. ‘We’ll be thinking of thee then.’

  ‘Thinking of me! I’m coming with you, and I’m ready to start now. I’ve got me bundle ’ere,’ said Marion as she produced a knapsack in the same grey cloth from under her coat.

  ‘Well, that caps it,’ said Ralph Murphy. ‘The two children and a woman – we’ll not get beyond the ten miles to Rochdale.’

  Marion knew Ralph as a killjoy who never clapped her singing and could be relied on to see the worst in any situation.

  ‘Ralph Murphy, I’ll ’ave you know that I walked the twenty mile to Manchester to see me Aunt Flo last week. We started at five o’clock and got there at one. I’ll make it to London, don’t you worry. Besides, somebody’s got to keep these two warm at night,’ she said, smiling at Ruth and Joshua.