Page 145 of The Armor of Light
‘And then more soldiers would join in, and more of your friends.’
‘Very likely.’
‘And that would be a riot.’
‘Well...’
Spade pressed his point. ‘And Jarge, I’m sorry to mention this, but your sister, Joanie, was convicted of riot, narrowly escaped hanging, and got transported to Australia, and may never come back.’
‘I know,’ said Jarge, irritated that he was losing the argument.
Spade was relentless. ‘So, if the hands follow your plan, how many more of you do you think will end up transported or hanged?’
Jarge became indignant. ‘What are you saying, Spade – that we should just sit here and do nothing?’
‘Give it a week,’ Spade said.
‘What for?’
‘To see what happens.’
There was a rumble of discontent, and Sal said: ‘Listen to him, listen. Spade always makes sense.’
Jarge said worriedly: ‘Nothing’s going to happen if we just wait.’
‘Don’t be so sure.’ As always, Spade’s tone was mild, reasonable. ‘Look, what have you got to lose? Wait a week. A lot can happen in a week. Let’s all meet again here on Saturday night, after supper. If I’m wrong and nothing has changed, that will be the time to plan something more drastic.’
Sal nodded approval. ‘No unnecessary risks.’
‘Meanwhile,’ said Spade, ‘stay out of trouble. If you see an Irishman, walk away from him. You’re mill hands. By the unwritten laws of England, you’re guilty until you prove yourself innocent.’
*
Jarge accepted the decision of the group, but he did not like it. Sal watched with trepidation as he became angrier and drank more. On Tuesday evening when she finished work she saw him outside Hornbeam’s new mill, watching the Irish leaving. But he did not speak to anyone and he walked home with Sal.
‘Why are we at war with Bonaparte and the French?’ he said. ‘We should be fighting Hornbeam and the Irish.’
Sal agreed with him. ‘Bloody right,’ she said. ‘But we have to box clever. Hornbeam is sly, and all his sort are the same. We mustn’t let the bastards outsmart us.’
Jarge looked mutinous and made no reply.
The fact that he was not working made his mood worse. Having nothing to do, he spent his days in the alehouse. When Sal came home on Thursday evening she saw that her father’s Bible was missing. ‘He’s pawned it,’ she said to herself. ‘He’s pawned it, and he’s spending the money on drink.’ She sat on her bed and cried for a while.
But she had children to look after.
As she was giving them their supper – cheap stale bread and pork dripping – Jarge staggered in, stinking of ale, bad-tempered because he had no money for more. ‘Where’s my supper?’ he said.
Sal said: ‘Where’s my father’s Bible?’
He sat at the table. ‘I’ll get it back after the strike is over, don’t worry.’ He spoke as if it was not very important, which made her angrier.
She cut a slab of bread, smeared it with dripping, and put it in front of him. ‘Get that inside you to soak up some of the ale.’
He took a bite, chewed, swallowed and made a face. ‘Bread and dripping?’ he said. ‘Why is there no butter?’
‘You know why there’s no butter,’ Sal muttered.
Kit piped up: ‘Because there’s a strike on, didn’t you know?’
