Further Trials

Hardly can I persuade myself that they are facts I am narrating, and not the creations of my imagination. It was Monday morning, and mother had been for hours sitting, in deep thought, before the fire, pleating her apron. I easily got permission to go down town to see what would become of my brother and the five other men who had been locked up with him. The streets were full of people, anxiously waiting the opening of the police court. I had not been in town many minutes before Will Bryan found me out. He was always finding me out. I speedily learned some interest was felt in me, as the brother of one of the prisoners, and, as regards some of the charges, the most important of them. I met some friends of Bob, who asked how my mother was, and gave me each a penny. Will said, “Take care of those pence; they’ll come in right handy just directly.” I did not know what he meant, and was too much occupied to ask for an explanation; but I gave him the credit always of seeing farther than I. Almost immediately afterwards, I chanced on other friends of Bob, and got more pence —making five in all. Never in my life had I been so rich, Will, who had a penny of his own, suggested we should amalgamate our funds. I handed him over my five pennies, not caring a bit about them, in my grief, and having a boundless faith in Will’s honesty. No sooner was the money in his hand than he slipped into a shop where they sold pork pies. I thought he was going to indulge in that particular delicacy, and had no objection to his doing go. When he came out I was disappointed at his showing me, in the palm of his hand, a silver sixpence he had got in change for the coppers, and which, with a knowing wink, he deposited carefully in his waistcoat pocket. I was thoroughly in the dark as to what he meant to do with the sixpence, and I am not sure I did not rather fancy that he purposed feeing an attorney with it to defend my brother. So little did I, at that time, know concerning the reasonable charges of that honest section of the human race.

I was resigning myself wholly into Will Bryan’s hands, to do as he pleased, both with me and mine, when I noticed a considerable stir, occasioned by the appearance of the owner of the Hall driving rapidly towards the Court House. He was the principal justice of the peace. Before my companion and I could reach it, the spacious building was tightly packed, and hundreds besides ourselves unable to obtain admission. On each side of the door were two police officers—embodiment of authority—declaring positively that every inch of room inside was crammed full. “But,” said Will, in my ear, “we are bound to get in.” I did not see how he could hope for that. After a while the crowd shifted a little, and Will Bryan and I edged on into the neighbourhood of the officer’s blue coat-tails. Almost directly, we were able to reach the door. Will was obliged to make more than one tug at the flap before attracting its owner’s attention. All at once, the officer bent his head; Will spoke a few words in his ear, the officer opened wide his eyes, as if he had received a piece of astounding information, the two shook hands, and next minute Will and I had been let into the Court House, while hundreds of great strong men were struggling outside. But I knew our joint property had changed hands. The Americans talk of the “Almighty Dollar!” Tut! A book might be written upon the miraculous powers of a sixpence. Will had found out, even thus early, that the pass-word, the “open sesame,” to all places was a sixpence. In the present circumstances, I felt that my friend had sunk our money to excellent purposes; and had it been six shillings, instead of sixpence, I should not have grumbled.

It became immediately evident that the officer had spoken no more than the truth when he said the court was filled to overflowing. Will, however, did not find much difficulty in bringing himself and me into a position which enabled us to see and hear all that was going on. He drove me in front of him, like a wedge, into the heart of the crowd, and when he found a stoppage, he would, with an air of importance, say to those who were in the way, “Robert Lewis’s brother; Robert Lewis’s brother!’ with which words, a speedy path would be made for us, just as if I was going up to give evidence in the case. There was simply no end to Will’s scheming. I had heard that Mr. Strangle had returned to the place a few hours after he was packed off. He was one of the first I recognised in court, and surly and defiant enough he looked. The magistrates on the bench were Mr. Brown, the clergyman, and the gentleman from the Hall. As I have previously observed, Mr. Brown was a genial, kindly man; but the owner of the Hall was quite a different personage. The latter was huge, unwieldy, pompous, over-bearing, and merciless. One would think that everybody and everything had been created for his service; and it was the general opinion that, did the law permit him, he would unhesitatingly hang a man caught killing a pheasant. His natural severity appeared to have been watered—or rather wined—too often, and, as a consequence, to have sprouted up through his face, which was of the colour of parboiled American beef and was ornamented (?) by a monstrous lump of a nose, wherein a kind of perpetual shiver was observable, and through which its owner, when roused, would snort like a warhorse. Nobody ever discovered what other qualifications the gentleman from the Hall possessed for the magisterial bench, except that he was a rank Tory, a zealous Churchman, was very wealthy and always wore spurs, save when in bed. Even Mr. Brown dreaded him, and I myself had noticed that that pleasant, respected gentleman, in speaking to him on the road, always kept a dubious, wary eye upon those spurs, as if he feared their wearer might jump suddenly on his back and drive him to the ——, well, the place the wearer himself was speedily going to, more’s the pity. The senior magistrate appeared that Monday morning to “be in his oil,” as Will Bryan expressed it. To try a lot of collier fellows was always a congenial task with him, for he believed them all to be poachers, Those knew, who wished to know, that but three of the six prisoners before the bench had taken any part in the attack on Mr. Strangle. Morris Hughes, John Powell and my brother had done all they could to prevent such folly. But then Mr. Strangle and the two police officers swore that these three were ringleaders in the scandalous business; and, although neither overseer nor constables understood a word of Welsh, they declared on oath that Bob had instigated the attack, for, they said, they heard him naming Mr. Strangle when the rush was made upon that individual by the workmen. The prisoners had no one to defend them—a fact chiefly due to my brother’s obstinacy. He would not have any one to defend him, he declared, and his example was followed by the rest. The owner of the Hall accepted the evidence of the officials with avidity; and nothing was too bad for him to believe concerning the accused.

Having heard the witnesses, he asked, as a matter of form, whether the prisoners had any defence to make. Of course, three of them had nothing to say, for they were clearly guilty of the offence with which they were charged; while as to Morris Hughes and John Powell, they were not the most ready of speech, particularly in English. After a second or two’s silence, Bob said that, speaking for himself, he was perfectly innocent of the charge of taking part in the attack on Mr. Strangle. Not only that, but he had done his best to defend the gentleman, and it was this he was actually doing when he was struck by the police officer.

“Do you expect the Bench to believe a story of that sort, after all the evidence we have heard?” asked the owner of the Hall with a contemptuous smile.

“I scarcely expect the Bench to believe anything I say,” replied Bob, “for the reason that it is true. Were it of any use, I could bring several eye-witnesses to testify to the fact.”

“Several who were mixed up in the business, life yourself, doubtless,” observed the magistrate with a sneer. “If we listened to you, you never did anything wrong, you never in your life told a lie. But we happen to know something of your history. You are one of those who want to make the masters workmen, and the workmen masters. But wait a little! We’ll see directly how all this speech-making pays. We have heard of you already, and we know your family, young man, before to-day.”

“My family has nothing to do with the charge now laid against me,” said Bob.

“We say it has everything to do with it,” the magistrate replied.

“If so, you had better fetch my mother here,” said Bob.

“No,” returned the magistrate, “we have quite enough in you. We don’t want any old women here.”

“How should I know,” retorted Bob, “but that you might like to have another on the bench.”

“None of your impertinence, young man, or you may have to pay for it,” cried the magistrate furiously.

Mother had many times advised Bob to learn how to hold his tongue; but the task was too hard for him, his excuse always being that his was a family failing. The owner of the Hall having engaged in a brief consultation with Mr. Brown, who listened to him in trembling deference, said:—

“The Bench do not see any necessity for a remand in this case. The evidence is, to their minds, conclusive. They regret very much that more of the scoundrels have not been brought before them to receive their deserts; but the Bench are determined to make an example of those upon whom the police have laid hands. The Bench are determined to show that the master is to be master, and that it is a workman the workman is to remain. And the Bench wish to show that the colliers must not take the law into their own hands, and that proper people have been appointed to administer the law. And the Bench are determined to show that the law is stronger than the colliers, however numerous they may be. And so the Bench are going to sentence five of you, namely, Morris Hughes, John Powell, Simon Edwards, Griffith Roberts, and John Peters to one month’s imprisonment with hard labour, and Robert Lewis to two months’ imprisonment with hard labour, the Bench believing him to have been the chief agitator. And the Bench trust this will be a warning, not only to the prisoners, but to others who ought to be in the same situation with them, who are equally guilty with them, not only of creating a disturbance and breaking the law in this fashion, but also of poaching on gentlemen’s estates.”

As soon as sentence was delivered, there was a general movement in court, the noise of people’s feet and the talk being so loud, that hardly could I hear myself sobbing—which I did to some effect. Will sympathised with me most sincerely and did his best to comfort me. So poignant was my sorrow that my friend was, for a minute or so, at a loss to know how to assuage it. Suddenly, however, a thought struck him. He handed over all he possessed to me, namely, his pocket knife, which, he remarked with emphasis, he gave me to keep for ever. I have the knife to this day; and although instrinsically not worth sixpence, I rank it with the mite of the widow and, valuing it as the sacrifice of a heart full of disinterested compassion, I would not for a good deal part with it.

The interest taken in the trial was manifested by the size of the crowd which had by this time gathered outside the Court House, unwilling to disperse without a last look at the prisoners, as they were being conveyed to the county gaol. I can answer for it that the majority of the Red Fields’ workmen were sober, industrious, and moral; but amongst them, as it commonly happens in large works, there were a number of worthless characters, given to excessive drinking, the pity being that the best class often got blamed for their misdeeds. Several of these latter had, on the morning in question, been soaking about the public houses, and were not in the best of tempers on that account. But there, I see I am constantly slipping into detail, despite my promise to myself not to do so. How some of the colliers set fiercely upon the police who were conveying my brother and his associates to prison; how the assailants were arrested, tried, and found guilty; how the military were called out, were attacked and beaten; and how, under cruelest provocation, they opened fire upon the rioters, killing several, and so on, it does not concern me to narrate. I can say this much, when the disturbance was at its highest, the feeling of the majority, which included some men of reason and intelligence, was in favour of the colliers; but when things had cooled down, and opportunity was given of looking calmly at the circumstances, these same people were obliged to acknowledge the unwisdom and iniquity of the whole proceeding, and to view with apprehension the frightful lengths to which even sensible and religious men may be led when governed by their passions, instead of by reason and grace.

I remember that I was afraid to go home, because of the shock to mother’s feelings which this shame would produce. I knew someone had already notified her of my brother’s fate, and I feared it would be her death. But in this I was agreeably disappointed. Dear is the memory of that day to me, for the proof it afforded of what true religion can bring its owner in time of tribulation. Going into the house, I met, coming out of it, two female neighbours, who had been condoling with mother, on whose face I found signs of heavy weeping. The smile it now wore was as a rainbow in the clouds, after a heavy shower, and proved clearly that God had not forgotten his covenant with her. I think I can accurately recollect all she said to me that afternoon. Among other things, these:—

“Well, my son, it is getting worse and worse with us. Something tells me, however, that the light will come soon. The darker the night the nearer the dawn; the tighter the cord the sooner ‘twill break. The Lord, I shall believe, has a hand in this. The furnace must, occasionally, be seven times heated before the form of the Fourth can come to sight. I never dreamt it would go so hard with your brother, but I think none the less of him, for all that has taken place. I know he is innocent, for he never told me a lie in his life. There are a hundred times worse than he now at large. From a child he was too ready with his tongue, and all the bother I had with him was when he would be telling too much of the truth. He was a little too decided of purpose; that was why he left the Society. But he led a better life than many of us who profess. Who knows but that the Great King’s design, through all, has been to bring him back, and to show him how he has lost the shelter and the defence,”

I have noticed since, that the mother, when her son is overtaken by disgrace, as well as when he is overtaken by death, forgets his every fault and delights only in bringing up his virtues.

“It would be very difficult for me to believe,” my mother added, “that Bob was not a Christian. If he is not in the house, he belongs to the family, I am pretty certain, and peradventure it is from the far-off country of the prison that the yearning will arise in him for his Father. How did he look, tell me? Middling well? Yes? It’s wonderful how he can take everything so composedly. I know what is uppermost in his mind, and that is, what’ll become of us both, how are we to live, because there never was a lad who thought more of his mother, my poor darling!”

Upon this she burst out crying, a proceeding at which I helped. After quieting, she said:—

“Do they have a Bible in jail, tell me? They have? I’m glad to hear it; but, for that matter, Bob knows enough of the Bible to chew the cud upon, for two months, anyhow. What vexes me most is that I never had a look at him. It seemed a bit cold of me that I did not go to the Hall, but I could not for the life of me set out, somehow. Do you think he’d get a letter if we were to write? You do? Well then, I’ll not sleep to-night until you’ve sent him a word. I’m glad you’re a bit of a scholar, because I don’t want all the world to know our affairs.”

I was then obliged to set to and write a letter. At my mother’s suggestion, I wrote it first on the unused leaf of a copy book, “For fear,” she said, “we might want to alter it.” The original is still in my possession, and perhaps I can’t do better than finish this chapter with a transcript. There is nothing particular in its contents, what makes it precious to me being the proof it affords of my mother’s acquaintance with the Bible. I give it exactly as she dictated it, with the exception of a few changes in the colloquialisms where the meaning is not quite clear.

“Dear Son,—I write you these few lines hoping you are quite well as it leaves us at present. I feel mixed and moithered very much, and I know you’re the same. My complaint to-day is bitter—Job twenty third and second. But who is he that saith and it cometh to pass when the Lord commandeth it not—Lamentations, third and thirty seventh. I Know very well you’ll be troubling your mind about us as we are about you; but I hope you know where to turn, as you said I did when you were leaving the house on Saturday night, And call upon me in the day of trouble; I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me—Psalms, fiftieth and fifteenth. It I’m not deceiving myself much, I think I’ve had a fulfilment of that promise to-day. Dear son, I fear greatly you will let your spirits go down and lose your health, because you’ve been wrongfully put in prison. Perhaps it’ll be some comfort to you to call to mind those spoken of in Scripter who were wrongly put in prison like yourself, and the Lord showed afterwards that they did not deserve to be there. If you have leisure turn to the following:—Genesis thirty-ninth, Acts fifth, eighth and sixteenth. Remember also it was from prison and from judgment that He was t£&en—Isaiah fifty-third and eighth. You know the trouble I got with your father; the trouble to-day is very different. I’m pretty sure that even if you were a little amiss you were quite honest, and that your conscience is easy, as you said; and, if that is anything for you to think of, though you are in jail you’re not an atom the worse in your mother’s eyes, and I hope you’re no worse in your Redeemer’s eyes either. Same time, I much hope you’ll now come to see you have offended the Man of the house by leaving the Society, and though I believe you’re not at any time strange to the great things of the Gospel, I trust I shall see you, when all this is over, turning your face towards the shelter. Dear son, the wind is high and the waves are rising, but if through that we are brought to call on the Master to save us, all will be well. Read Luke eighth and the eighth of Romans. If Morris Hughes and yourself are put with each other, it’ll be no harm in the world it you gave a tune now and then, as Paul and Silas did of old, and I know of no better verse for you than Ann Griffis’s:—

You know how it finishes, and who can tell but that you’ll get inspiration by singing of the Man whose fan is in his hand. I have a lot of things I would like to tell you; but I must come to an end. Keep your spirits up; two months is not much; it?ll be over very soon. Pray night and day; if they stop you from reading, nobody can stop you from praying. In my mind you were a good enough boy before, but for one thing; but something tells me you’ll be a better man than ever after the present trouble. We wish to be remembered to you very warmly. This in short from your loving mother and brother, Mary and Rhys Lewis.”

After I had re-written the foregoing, and read it to mother many times over, I put it carefully into an envelope, and addressed it. Mother made me write “Haste” on one corner, and, inasmuch as she had not much faith in gum, she insisted on the addition of red wax, which she sealed with her thimble. When all was done, she appeared calm and resigned to the decrees of Providence. The manner in which my brother’s imprisonment affected our worldly circumstances, and marked an epoch in my history will be shown in the next chapter.