Gibson paused here; he was attempting to sound detached, as though he had long been beyond the reach of sorrow or regret or resentment. He needed a moment to compose himself, before he continued, “But as for—as for your sister, I have taught myself to feel, as she must feel, that it is for the best. I always said I would not marry. Then I met Fanny, and I forgot my resolution for a while. I did have a strong inclination, a longing, to protect her. She had been wounded and ill-used from an early age—and yet she was so… so… decent and good and upright. I wanted to see her safe, to see her treated with respect. And in the end, I was the one who showed her no respect, no consideration. So you see, as her husband—I could not have made her happy as she deserves to be happy. In short, I am not suited for the state.”
“I did wonder, for you never asked about Fanny, nor mentioned her, when you wrote from prison.”
Gibson smiled grimly. “Because Lord Sidmouth’s agents in the post office were in the habit of opening and reading all my letters—the thought of some repulsive government lackey seeing her name, reading of her, peering into my sentiments—I could not endure the thought of it.”
Price nodded in sympathy. He was still of an age to be all for love and he had himself been lucky in love. He esteemed his sister and his friend in almost equal measure, and was therefore unable to blame either. His friend Gibson seemed quite decided that he was not made for matrimony.
Gibson slowed his pace, as they were coming to the crest of a hill. They were alone, in a vast stretch of rugged scenery, save of course for William Gibson’s manservant, riding ahead of them with a cart which held their provisions, tents and equipment. They were in no danger of being overheard, except by the ghosts of Roman centurions.
“At the time, I believed myself to be acting rationally and with justification. There was something wrong and strange about the business. The day before their execution, I spoke with the men convicted of the murder of the mill-owner. They were all so young—scarcely more than lads! George Mellor told me the chief witness against them was notorious for being the most radical Luddite in the district—older, as well, than the others, yet he put himself forward as being under their direction and sway, then repented of it, and turned King’s evidence. Benjamin Walker is his name. I saw him giving his evidence at the trial. Walker testified that Mellor was the instigator of the crime, while Mellor said it was Walker.”
“So they blamed each other.”
“Yes, and the younger man swung from a rope and the older, so I am told, received two thousand pounds. I am convinced that some of the testimony against Mellor was a put-up job. According to witnesses against him, George Mellor went to the shearing shop and told everyone, including the owner, of his plan to shoot William Horsfall. He discussed Horsfall’s murder over drinks at the tavern, as you might discuss the weather. ‘May I borrow your pistol? I intend to shoot Mr. Horsfall with it.’ ‘Who will come with me to shoot Mr. Horsfall?’ ‘Here, hide these guns that we shot Mr. Horsfall with.’ Is this to be believed? And I wrote as much, and you know how Sidmouth dealt with me.”
“So what became of this Benjamin Walker?”
“I’m told he left Yorkshire for his own safety. The night before he died, Mellor said to me, he would rather be where he is now—that is, facing his own execution—than be in Walker’s shoes.”
“Yes, certainly, he would need to make himself scarce after breaking the Luddite oath and betraying his comrades!”
The two walked in silence for a time. Finally William Price said, “I dare say Lord Sidmouth believes that offering bribes for testimony is the prudent thing to do. Yet there is something mean and contemptible about it.”
“It is even worse than that—there were government spies and agents among the Luddites, minions of Lord Sidmouth. Sidmouth expects to find radicals; he firmly believes the labouring classes are on the verge of rising up. His spies, his paid hirelings, tell him what he wants to hear. And if they cannot find the evidence, they manufacture it.”
“Do you think he is wrong? About the danger of rebellion, I mean.”
“Of course some men are bent on revolution. Take any large body of men, and you will find all shades of opinion. There are those who take no interest in politics, there are poor men who only want bread for their families, and yes, there are radicals who are convinced they are about to usher in a new Jerusalem. This latter category are few, but they are always the loudest, they will always try to run to the head of the procession, so to speak. But they are fanatics, by and large, and I believe the average working man wants nothing to do with revolution.”
William Price shaded his eyes with his hand and pointed ahead at the crest of a low hill before them, where they could see the derelict remains of an old Roman fort.
“Perhaps some Roman sentries were on patrol exactly where we walk today, and congratulating themselves that there appeared to be no danger of an uprising.”
Mr. Gibson laughed, but as they looked to the north, it was very easy to imagine hordes of frenzied tribesmen springing up out of the tall grass with their spears and shields.
“So, Gibson, will you continue to write and publish about politics?”
“Yes, no doubt I will, for better or worse.
