Through the Fray: A Tale of the Luddite Riots

“Where is it?” Ned asked.

“Aboove the knee somewhere,” the lad said, and Ned put his hand gently to the spot, and to his horror could feel something like the end of a bone.

“Oh! dear, what is to be done? Here, Tompkins, either you or I must go on to the town for help.”

“It’s getting dark already,” Tompkins said; “the sun has set some time. How on earth is one to find the way?”

“Well, if you like I will go,” Ned said, “and you stop here with him.”

The lad, who had been lying with closed eyes and a face of ghastly pallor, now looked up.

“There be soom men not a quarter of a mile away; they be a-drilling, they be, and oi was sot here to stop any one from cooming upon em; but if so bee as thou wilt go and tell em oi has got hurt, oi don’t suppose as they will meddle with ye.”

Ned saw now why the lad had opposed his going any further. Some of the croppers were drilling on the moor, and the boy had been placed as sentry. It wasn’t a pleasant business to go up to men so engaged, especially with the news that he had seriously injured the boy they had placed on watch. But Ned did not hesitate a moment.

“You stop here, Tompkins, with him,” he said quietly, “I will go and fetch help. It is a risk, of course, but we can’t let him lie here.”

So saying, Ned mounted the rock to get a view over the moor. No sooner had he gained the position than he saw some thirty or forty men walking in groups across the moor at a distance of about half a mile. They had evidently finished their drill, and were making their way to their homes. This at least was satisfactory. He would no longer risk their anger by disturbing them at their illegal practices, and had now only to fear the wrath which would be excited when they heard what had happened to the boy.

He started at a brisk run after them, and speedily came up to the last of the party. They were for the most part men between twenty and thirty, rough and strongly built, and armed with billhooks and heavy bludgeons, two or three of them carrying guns.

One of them looked round on hearing footsteps approaching, and gave a sudden exclamation. The rest turned, and on seeing Ned, halted with a look of savage and menacing anger on their faces.

“Who be’est, boy? dang ee, what brings ye here?”

Ned gulped down the emotion of fear excited by their threatening appearance, and replied as calmly as he could: “I am sorry to say that I have had a struggle with a boy over by that rock yonder. We fell together, and he has broken his leg. He told me if I came over in this direction I should find some one to help him.”

“Broaken Bill’s leg, did’st say, ye young varmint?” one of the men exclaimed. “Oi’ve a good moinde to wring yer neck.”

“I am very sorry,” Ned said; “but I did not mean it. I and another boy were walking back to Marsden from fishing, and he wouldn’t let us pass; it was too far to go back again, so of course we had to try, and then there was a fight, but it was quite an accident his breaking his leg.”

“Did’st see nowt afore ye had the voight?” one of the other men inquired.

“No,” Ned replied; “we saw no one from the time we left the stream till we met the boy who would not let us pass, and I only caught sight of you walking this way from the top of the rock.”

“If ‘twere a vair voight, John, the boy bain’t to be blamed, though oi be main grieved about thy brother Bill; but we’d best go back for him, voor on us. And moind, youngster, thee’d best keep a quiet tongue in thy head as to whaat thou’st seen here.”

“I haven’t seen anything,” Ned said; “but of course if you wish it I will say nothing about it.”

“It were best for ee, for if thou go’st aboot saying thou’st seen men with guns and clubs up here on the moor, it ull be the worsest day’s work ee’ve ever done.”

“I will say nothing about it,” Ned replied, “but please come on at once, for I am afraid the boy is in terrible pain.”

Four of the men accompanied Ned back to the rock.

“Hullo, Bill! what’s happened ee?” his brother asked.

“Oi’ve had a fight and hurted myself, and broke my leg; but it wa’nt that chap’s fault; it were a vair voight, and a right good ‘un he be. Doan’t do nowt to him.”

“Well, that’s roight enough then,” the man said, “and you two young ‘uns can go whoam. Marsden lies over that way; thou wilt see it below ye when ye gets to yon rock over there; and moind what I told ee.”

“I will,” Ned said earnestly; “but do let me come up to see how he is getting on, I shall be so anxious to know.”

The man hesitated, but the lad said, “Let um coom, John, he bee a roight good un.”

“Well, if thou would’st like it, Bill, he shall coom.”

“If thou coom oop to Varley and ask vor Bill Swinton, anyone will show ee the place.”

“Goodby,” Ned said to the boy, “I am so sorry you have got hurt. I will come and see you as soon as I can.”

Then he and Tompkins set off toward the rock the man had pointed out, which by this time, in the fast growing darkness, could scarce be made out. They would indeed probably have missed it, for the distance was fully a mile and a half; but before they had gone many yards one of the four men passed by them on a run on his way down to Marsden to summon the parish doctor, for a moment’s examination had sufficed to show them that the boy’s injury was far too serious to treat by themselves.

Tired as the boys were, they set off in his footsteps, and managed to keep him in sight until they reached the spot whence Marsden could be seen, and they could no longer mistake the way.

“Now, look here, Tompkins,” Ned said as they made their way down the hill; “don’t you say a word about this affair. You haven’t got much to boast about in it, sitting there on the grass and doing nothing to help me. I shan’t say anything more about that if you hold your tongue; but if you blab I will let all the fellows know how you behaved.”

“But they will all notice my nose directly I get in,” Tompkins said. “What am I to say?”

“Yes, there’s no fear about their not noticing your nose,” Ned replied. “I don’t want you to tell a lie. You can say the exact truth. We were coming home across the moors; a boy interfered with us, and would not let us pass; we both pitched into him, and at last he got the worst of it, and we came home.”

“But what’s the harm of saying that you and he fell, and he broke his leg?”

“A great deal of harm,” Ned replied. “If it was known that a boy’s leg got broke in a fight with us it would be sure to come to Hathorn’s ears; then there would be an inquiry and a row. Like enough he would go up to see the boy and inquire all about it. Then the men would suppose that we had broken our words, and the next time you and I go out on a fishing expedition there’s no saying what mightn’t happen to us. They are a rough lot those moor men, and don’t stick at trifles.”

“I will say nothing about it,” Tompkins replied hastily; “you may rely on that. What a lucky fellow you are to be going home! Nothing will be said to you for being an hour late. I shall get a licking to a certainty. How I do hate that Hathorn, to be sure!”

They now came to the point where the road separated and each hurried on at his best speed.

“You are late tonight, Ned,” the boy’s father said when he entered. “I don’t like your being out after dark. I don’t mind how far you go so that you are in by sunset; but, halloo!” he broke off, as he caught sight of the boy’s face as he approached the table at which the rest of the party were sitting at tea; “what have you been doing to your face?”

Captain Sankey might well be surprised. One of the boy’s eyes was completely closed by a swelling which covered the whole side of his face. His lip was badly cut, and the effect of that and the swelling was to give his mouth the appearance of being twisted completely on one side.

“Oh! there’s nothing the matter,” Ned replied cheerfully; “but I had a fight with a boy on the moor.”

“It is dreadful!—quite dreadful!” Mrs. Sankey said; “your going on like this. It makes me feel quite faint and ill to look at you. I wonder you don’t get killed with your violent ways.”

Ned made no reply but took his seat at the table, and fell to work upon the hunches of thick brown bread and butter.

“I will tell you about it afterward, father,” he said; “it really wasn’t my fault.”

“I am sure I don’t wish to hear the story of your quarrels and fighting, Edward,” Mrs. Sankey said; “the sight of you is quite enough to upset my nerves and make me wretched. Of course if your father chooses to support you in such goings on I can say nothing. Neither he nor you seem to remember how trying such things as these are to any one with a broken constitution like mine.”

Captain Sankey, knowing from experience how useless it was to attempt to argue with his wife when she was in this mood, continued to eat his meal placidly. Ned seized his mug of milk and water, and took an impatient drink of it.

“Is there anything I had better do for my face?” he asked his father presently.

“I don’t think anything you can do, Ned, will make you presentable for the next few days. I believe that a raw beefsteak is the best thing to put on your eye, but is not such a thing in the house, and if there was, I don’t think that I should be justified in wasting it for such a purpose. I should say the next best thing would be to keep a cloth soaked in cold water on your face; that will probably take down the swelling to some extent.”