During the ride to the court in the hired clarence, he toyed with the notion of avoiding Clifton Heights altogether, but supposed he’d better show up since he hadn’t been back to his ancestral home for over two years.
Entering the crowded court proved to be as unpleasant as he’d expected. A hostile, scowling mob glared, every last man clad in unrelenting gray homespun, and scruffy women cocooned in ragged black shawls. The place reeked of unwashed bodies.
The only bright spot was an elegantly dressed woman seated on the bench reserved for the gentry. She might have taken his fancy had she been blonde, though he had to admit her raven locks were striking—at least they would be if they weren’t bound up in a severe bun. He normally liked theEnglish rosetype of complexion, rosy cheeks and all that. This woman’s olive coloring gave her the look of an exotic gypsy. Her tits were shapely; big enough to fit his hands; a lower décolletage would have shown them to better advantage. He smiled politely as he sat on the other end of the bench, but she kept her lips tightly pursed and ignored him. A prude, clearly. The high neckline should have been an indicator.
When the justices entered and the proceedings got underway, a group of shackled and bruised men were shoved into the dock. To his surprise, he didn’t recognize any of them.
A barrister came to his feet and began to explain the charges. “On the tenth of March, 1817, five thousand marchers, mainly spinners and weavers, met in St. Peter’s Field, near Manchester, along with a large crowd of onlookers, perhaps as many as twenty-five thousand people in total.”
Griff was shocked so many had been involved.
The barrister droned on. “Naturally, in the face of this subversive gathering, the magistrates had no choice but to read the Riot Act. The mob was broken up by the King’s Dragoon Guards, and twenty-seven people were arrested.”
The woman sharing Griff’s bench was becoming increasingly agitated. He supposed the notion of dragoons attacking unarmed people might be upsetting for a lady.
“Many marchers then dropped out or were taken into custody by police and the yeomanry between Manchester and Stockport. The majority were turned back or arrested under vagrancy laws before they reached Derbyshire.
“I therefore ask that the justices see fit to find these men guilty of sedition and punished accordingly.”
Given the barrister’s succinct summary, Griff estimated the whole farce would be over in a half-hour at most. His hopes were dashed when he was called to the witness box.
He returned to his seat minutes later, relieved the Crown counsel had merely asked him to verify his name and title. Since there appeared to be no counsel acting for the defense, he assumed the matter was at an end. He was astonished when the lady was summoned to testify.
*
“These men arenot Luddites, my lords,” Lady Susan Crompton insisted. “Nor are they seditionists. They are weavers who merely want to feed their families.”
The chief justice adjusted his steel-rimmed spectacles and peered down at her from the bench. “They intended to march to London. We cannot have a repeat of the recent attack on the Prince Regent, Miss…er…”
Gripping the wooden railing, Susan struggled to hold on to her temper. Anger would further alienate the three elderly justices of the peace whose portly stature and fat jowls indicated they hadn’t missed a meal in their entire privileged lives. She strove for a more even tone. “The marchers intended to appeal to the Prince Regent for relief before they and their children starve. Heaven knows Parliament has done nothing to mitigate their plight.”
Stern scowls and mumbling greeted her criticism of the House of Commons. “With the growth of the cotton industry, I’m confident these men could have found work,” one of the judges averred.
Susan fumed inwardly. The pompous fellow clearly knew nothing of the hundreds of weavers forced to leave their rural communities to seek low paying jobs in the cotton mills of the larger towns. “Many have done so, my lords. However, the fact remains, thousands of hard working weavers in villages the length and breadth of Lancashire—men who have produced quality goods for decades in their humble cottages—are now without work as factories spring up everywhere. The failed harvests caused by last year’s abysmal summer have made things worse. They cannot afford to pay for what little food is available.”
The three graybeards gaped. She had a sinking feeling they hadn’t understood a word she’d said, but couldn’t hold her tongue. “The Corn Laws of 1815 were intended to protect British agriculture from cheap foreign imports but their effect has been to increase grain prices and decrease supplies, causing hardship among the poor.”
Anger reddened the men’s wrinkled faces. “My dear lady, women have no business criticizing the decisions of Parliament,” the chief justice blustered.
And there it was. The same prejudice Susan had faced all her adult life. She’d actually been shocked they’d accepted Gabriel’s letter and allowed a woman to speak on behalf of the men unjustly accused of inciting sedition. Trembling with frustration, she narrowed her eyes. A terrible injustice was about to be visited upon innocent men. She could not stay silent. “The marchers carried no weapons, only a blanket to provide warmth on the journey and serve as a symbol of their industry. Many of them came from the estates of a local earl with a seat in the great Parliament of this land—a man who cares so little for the welfare of his northern tenants he spends all his time in London.”
A murmur rose from the crowded gallery of spectators as backsides shifted on benches and heads swiveled to the arrogant aristocrat of whom she spoke. The chief justice banged his gavel and called for order.
Susan’s gaze finally came to rest on the man dressed in expensive raiment who sat in the private bench far removed from those he likely considered riffraff. A burly liveried footman stood behind him. She’d never met the earl before, but had known who he was as soon as he entered and ogled her breasts. She despised his cool arrogance, his sense of entitlement, his perfectly proportioned physique and broad shoulders. She swallowed hard, momentarily distracted by the unsettling memory of his perusal of her breasts before regaining her composure. “The Earl of Pendlebury has deigned to travel north to be here today, no doubt thirsting to see his starving tenants punished.”
Pandemonium ensued. Men shook clenched fists, shouting angrily. Women snarled.
The chief justice banged his gavel repeatedly, calling in vain for order.
The earl showed no sign of emotion as he stared back at Susan. She refused to look away, though there was something unsettling about the hateful man’s hooded gaze.
When order was finally restored, a verdict of guilty was hastily pronounced on the so-called Blanketeers. They were sentenced to transportation for life.
“You have just condemned their families to death,” Susan shouted as her anger exploded and pandemonium broke out.
Confrontation
Determined not tolet the riffraff see he was perturbed, Griff nevertheless seethed inwardly.