Heh heh.
Lay the dust in that throat an listen to this. There be a tree, a gurt fine oak, haafway atween Stiff’s place an here. It be right agin the road, an all splashed white in the wet, an good’n thick in the leaf, so as thee can hide up there an narn don’t ever sees thee. You can be a right King Charlie up there in that oak. Belike it were the same one as he used. I dunno. Anyways, early next mornin, bein back on the job, like, we comes to the tree, on the way to Stiff’s, an shins up it, an sits in all them branches, hearts a pit-a-pat, an we watches the old sun do his bit, an we giggles, an gets sittin easy, like, on them gurt branches, an minds what we’ve to do, that we’ve gone over yeserday, an sits tight, waitin.
For Abraham, see.
Now I weren’t a lad, but I feeled like one up there in that oak. I used to get pleasure from climbin trees as a lad, if you gets my meanin. I were allus shinnin up an down, as a nipper, an wonderin why I were gettin damp in the britches, like, an it so pleasin. An this, I’ll be honest, were the same kind o’ pleasure, this piece o’ mischuf. I were in great spout, up there in that oak, waitin for Abraham Webb.
For I had the deepest voice, like. It were I as had the job in hand. My heart was a pit-a-pat, I can tell thee, waitin.
Aye. I be dry, thinkin on it. Fill her up.
You’ll recall what it be like, up a tree. Thee be king, up there. Thee be master. All spread pokey aneath ’ee, an thee gurt proud, an tall, up there in them branches. Like the old tree be spreadin through thee, growin up through thee, king o’ the world, master o’ the fields, up there in that tree. Aye. Thee be God, up there.
God.
Aye.
For thee be the one a-rustlin now, with thy gurt proud limbs o’ pure oak!
Aye.
A-comin to it. I’ll find thee a wench, don’t fret. Plenty o’ time for that. A clean squishy wench. Give me a spell more an I’ll seek one out wi’out a splotch on her. Let I finish.
Gin-trap, see. That be what it were. Gin-trap for master. To be struck by he. Narn else.
So he comes, don’t he? — bang on church strikin six he comes over the brow, on his way to Stiff’s, checkin up on us. An I cups my hands about my mouth all ready, see, like this, big dubby hands about my mouth, an I sits bolt up, an the other two anigh me sits stock as a hare, an stops their breathin they be so still, an lo behold Abraham’s step be comin nearer an nearer, his boots a-clippin them flints like old Bowsher in his forge, see, an my heart be hammerin louder an louder, an all three on us creamy-faced an a-muck with fear, but stock still up that gurt tree like three dead men, only our hearts a-goin, an lo behold Abraham be under us wi’ the top of his head an I hears the whistlin through his nose an smells his sweetness an through them leaves I sees him an I sings out, like, I don’t blare I sings out, like:
‘A-bra-ham …!’
Jus like that, see. Heh.
‘A-bra-ham …!’
Heh.
And he stops bang in his tracks, an he looks up, an I thinks I be for a whippin or worse, I feels so a-feared, but astead o’ that I hears him say,
‘Yea, my Lord?’
Wi’ such a gingerly look on his face I well nigh bust out laughin. For I knew I had done him, then.
It were like the squawk of a hare when the trap strikes. It were tip-top.
Aye.
An then I says, all sing-song like, but mortal strong an more bellockin it out this time:
‘If thee keepest thy lads at work till eleven,
Thee shalt not enter the kingdom of Heaven!’
An then the two old boys, they gives out a great sigh, like as if God were closin off into the clouds, out of the mortal world full of sin, into His Kingdom, leavin old Abraham starin upperds, up at the sky, as though he have a-had a big crack a-top o’ the head.
An he says, all quiet, but wi’ a mouth big as a saw-pit:
‘Dang un.’
Then he comes to it, like, as though he be on a sudden doushed in cold water, an gets down on his knees, an claps his two hands into one, an makes a gugglin noise out o’ his throat, an coughs, an starin upperds he says:
‘Lord, dost thou forgive me?’
Aye. An we were quiet as the grave. I tells thee. Sir.
An when he gets up an walks all gawky, like, off, as we thought it, to Stiff’s, lookin up now an agin, a mite a-feared, it seemed, o’ them old clouds o’ early mornin openin wi’ a big voice agin, we shins down an runs like the Devil be ater our souls the crow-way across the down to Mapleash Farm — for the road way do a dog-leg, don’t it? — an old Abraham, well, we be hid from him by that hedge as were jus about tall enough by then, though it be a mite thicker now, an by the brush as were north o’ the road them days.
So we gets a-pantin to Stiff’s afore he do, an gets to on the browsins in the cow-stalls, as we were hammerin up afresh, an tryin to clap our mouths up, we were that gleeful, but there be no Abraham that mornin. An we gets over to the Manor an lays the last three steps, an fixes the ballusters, for the Squire’s ascension, like, but no Abraham. An we be a mite worrited now, an when it be time we gets over to the shop, a snick glum-faced, for we be reckonin as how Abraham might’ve spied us, an be workin his revenge, when eight strikes on the church, an in walks he. An he looks at all on us, an we looks at him as innocent as milk, like, an he says, like the words were skrunged together, an he were puilin ’em a-two wi’ his lips:
‘Put thy work away, lads. Put thy work away.’
An that be all he says. But spot on eight each day, till the day he kecked his last a-bed, he’d say the same.
‘Put thy work away, lads. Put thy work away.’
Like he was a-feared we mightn’t, see.
Aye.
A-feared we mightn’t.
Heh heh.
That Abraham.
7. Deposition, 1830
I DON’T KNOW who they were against the ricks. The lanthorn was doused by one of them. There was a great press of the men in the yard and one holloed ‘Never mind Harry let us set the blaze off.’ Then one I don’t know with a brown smock on set his tinderbox to the straw beneath the iron Plough and it were set alight. Then I went with the mob into the Barn & in the middle was the drum of the machine and there were four men including Alfred Dimmick & John Oadam who were breaking the said machine. I don’t know the other two men. As they were beating the machine Alfred Dimmick said to Tom Knapp who was standing a few yards from him ‘This is a hard job Tom’ — and Knapp answered ‘Never mind Ally if you are tired I am willing to take your place.’ They were smashing the machine with sticks and an axe. Then I saw Farmer Stiff with a lanthorn. He threw a smart little lot of shillings to John Oadam as he came out of the Barn into the yard, very nearly two hundred. I heard Farmer Stiff say as he would mark that d — d ploughman another day (meaning the Prisoner John Oadam). Then we left the Yard by the big gate. I saw about a hundred persons by the light of the burning Plough.
Then we went to the Malt Shovel at the crossroads on the brow and had a pot of beer apiece. The men demanded of the landlord some bread & Cheese. The landlord set candles on the tables as it was not yet light but the men took the candles with them as they left. Some men staid the main of the day there but most of the mob departed at about six o’clock to press more persons. They pressed the occupants of the dwellings on the turnpike into Ulverton. Two carters came up: these carters are James Malt and Harold Tagg. They were willing to come with them on their donkeys. Some of the Mob talked with those in Withy Field & Ley Dean: the said men left their Ploughs in the stitch and joined us: about twenty in all. They carried one stick apiece that were cut from the hedgerows and two had mattocks. One of them was William Bray. He said to me ‘Hannah what beest thee doing here?’ I replied that I wd not stand aside. We came back into Ulverton to break open the blacksmiths but he (Richard Bowsher) opened it for us: we took the hammers and a sledge-hammer and crow-bars. The horn was blown before the Church and again by the main well. It was not yet light & I was unable to see many Faces I knew: I did not know whether they were willing or unwilling.