Pentrich December 1816

There’s lots to talk about around Christmas time; a couple of days off wok and extra food and drink, especially drink. But, I’ve got to leave all that and tell thee about what’s bin happenin’ in London. Yo might remember I told thee last month that things were heatin’ up – well this they ha done and wi a bang.

Owd Tom Bacon asked me to go wi ‘im on a trip to Nottingham, he’d managed to ger a ride on a cart wi a man from Swanwick who teks cloth every couple o’weeks. It weren’t half a rough ride along t’sludgy turnpike.

We got there about eleven o’clock and ended up in a pub. Tom told me what he usually said and that’s “watch thesen lad, see all, hear all and keep thee gob shut”. There were some rough tykes in t’pub so I did as I were telled.

There were a couple o’blokes from London who were going around Hampden Clubs tellin’ folks what had happened. Tom musta known about them comin’. Well, there were a group in London who call theirsens Revolutionary Spenceans; they follow an old radical by t’name of Thomas Spence. It were only later when Tom told me Spence had died a couple o’years ago. Anyroad, the tale was that these Spenceans held a meeting on 15th November to get support for a petition to t’Prince Regent seeking reform in parliament and relief from hardship and distress. These blokes reckoned there were ten thousand to hear a speech by Henry Hunt. I’ve never heard of ‘im but Tom told me he were a famous speaker sometimes called the Orator Hunt, whatever that means. I heard out that Hunt were wanting to get a show of hands for a petition to be handed in by him and Sir Francis Burdett.[1]

They told us that that the meeting was peaceful there were no trouble. “But,” they said, “let us top our jugs up and we’ll tell thee what happened then.”

Apparently, Hunt and a MP called Sir Francis Burdett were to deliver this petition but were refused right to see t’Prince or his advisers. Yo can imagine this didna go down well. Apparently, Burdett dropped out at last minute and wouldna go with Hunt, that didna go down well either. We were told that Burdett had fallen out wi Hunt and had said, “I am determined not to be made a cat’s-paw of and not to insult the Prince Regent.[2]” Tom whispered in me ear, “That’ll upset em!” – and it did seem to.

The group in t’pub pushed closer together as the two London men came back wi their full pots. The leaders were not well pleased at being shunned and arranged another meeting on Monday 2nd December, a couple o’weeks ago, mainly to protest against being ignored. They told us that upwards of twenty thousand this time gathered to hear t’speeches. I canna imagine how many ten thousand would look like never mind twenty thousand. I once saw a couple a’hundred at Derby Market but that’s about it

Anyow, Whilst Hunt were speaking, they told us, some broke away lookin’ for trouble. It were said they broke into a gun shop on their way towards Tower a’London and took some guns. Apparently somebody, who just happened to be there, were killed by t’mob. They were met by an Alderman and some constables. Later by troops who dispersed most but not after some had been arrested and taken away. It’s all bubblin’ in London and t’government sempt to be expectin’ more trouble. There were lots o’questions but not many answers as I could hear.

When they calmed down the bloke who was the leader stood up again. “There’s summat else yo all want to know and that’s why we’ve come up ‘ere to see thee,” he took a goodly swig from his pot. “We’re certain that the second meeting were infiltrated and set awry by spies and government agents. If yo are planning owt in and around this area yo need to know that there’s spies about everywhere. Dunna trust anyone tha doesna know or even your own men who’re short a’cash, mark my words there’s more trouble ahead.”

The group settled down and sat down around half a dozen pub tables. Owd Tom, who sempt to be well known, moved around one or before asking me to sup up and get ready.

We met t’carrier closeby and set off back to Pentrich. Whilst bobblin’ along Tom were tellin’ me about some o’Spence’s ideas[3]. He wanted, to get rid o’aristocrats and have all land owned by t’parishes. Rents should be shared and old folks and them as couldna wok would be looked after. Then he went on about parliament reform.

Tom looked at me wi that glint in ‘s eyes, “That’s all well and good and I agree wi lots a’what Spence said. My problem is that if yo give parish big knobs power the’ll end up as a aristocrats – that’s ow it woks, think about it thessen.”

I did think about it most o’naight. Last thing I said to Tom on this matter was that I asked him if we were likely to get trouble in these parts. Tom thought for a while and then said, “Folks is starving and no bugger’s listenin’. Summat will ‘appen, I dunna know where or even when but it will, thee see! Oh, and if tha tells anybody about this meetin’ be careful who might be listenin’.”

Tom needn’t a worried about tellin’ folks about the riots in London, it had bin in t’papers and they all knew summat about it. Mind you, I heard stories in t’White Horse that fifty men and women had been killed and half London were burnt down. It were clear to me that all these stories about trouble, riots and the like need to be carefully read. A little tale gets much more interestin’ after its bin pulled out a bit, more killed, more destruction and more soldiers, yo know wor I mean.

Well, I’m sorry I’ve gone on a bit but I wanted to keep me notes up to date. It’s nearly Christmas now and some o’children are getting’ excited. There’ll be some good food if they’re lucky and mabbe a few toys for t’little ens. Nancy usually puts on a stronger brew when she knows folks are workin’ for a few days. Yo need to be careful, it can make some nasty! Anyhow, merry Christmas one and all.

[1] White R.J. “Waterloo to Peterloo” (1957) – a readable synopsis of the Spa Fields saga.

[2] White, op. cit

[3] http://www.historyhome.co.uk/people/spence.htm or http://www.historytoday.com/alastair-bonnett/revolutionary-plan-thomas-spence - if you seek more detail

Pentrich November 1816 

A bantle o’us were in t’White Horse pub at start of t’month, Tom brought a Nottingham newspaper he’s picked up on one of his travels. He told us that Nottingham magistrates were going to Watch and Ward again as they expected some trouble from Luddites, republicans or food rioters in t’city. He’d met with a man called Gravenor Henson who were secretary of t’Framework Knitters Union. Tom said he were a smart fella and someone who cared for t’poor workers. 

Most o’others sempt to know what he were on about but I asked Tom what Watch and Ward was has I’d never heard of it.

“Well lad, it’s complicated and I dunna know all t’details. As far as I know It’s an old system to keep t’peace locally. Guards are set up and the duties of the night constables, that’s t’watch and in daytime, that’s t’ward, were written down. Years ago they used to shut Town gates from dusk to dawn, strangers had to prove their identity and what their business were. The number o’men depended on how big the village or town was. It all points to fact that they expect trouble and, unless working men ger a better deal, they’re raight to expect trouble! We all mow that there’s plenty o’soldiers in and around Nottingham.

This started a debate on how we got information months after things what happened months ago.

Mr Ludlam had a piece a’paper he’d got from somewhere. It were that The Leicester Chronicle of 15th June 1816 had an article about an attack on frames – we all thought it had stopped but ‘No’ an there were a local connection. I borrowed it and copied into me notes next day, it were:

Luddites destroy 19 Lace-frames at New Radford, Nottinghamshire.

On Sunday 9th June 1816, Luddites undertook an action in Nottinghamshire for the first time since September 1814, almost two years. 

Daring Outrage.—On Saturday night last, about one o'clock, a party of men, disguised and armed with various sorts of weapons, forced the door of Mr. William Wright, of New Radford, when about seven of them, having obtained a light, rushed up stairs into the workshop, or shops, where they demolished twelve point net lace-frames; and with such vengeance did they exercise their lawless authority, that the frames, which were principally of superior worth, are rendered of very little value.

And this is t’local bit. It is very singular, that three of the these frames belong to Mr. Benjamin Topham, of Pentrich, Derbyshire, and were broken about four years ago, in his shop, at that village, along with a number more, two of which have made very little work, and the other none since they were repaired.

As it were read out t’men in t’pub went quiet!

One of the other frames belongs to Mr. Platts of Nottingham, four to Mr. Wright, and three to Mr, Waynman, lace-manufacturer of Nottingham, who is Mr. Wright's principal employer, and one to Mr. Cole, lace-manufacturer. The loss thus occasioned must be very great; but this is not all, for the depredators, not content with the mischief thus done, very materially damaged or destroyed (principally the latter) about thirty-one yards of net which was upon the frames, and took away six yards. The clock face in the house was struck with great violence with a hammer, and the corner cupboard was beat in pieces. Mr. Wright was away from home. Mrs. Wright and family were kept in their respective rooms while the mischief was going on, but, as these nightly violators of property and domestic repose had twice to go down stairs for a light, the guarded parties had opportunity of seeing them, and they agree in stating that seven men were in the shop, while Mrs. Wright thinks she saw twelve men that stood watch on the outside.—When the workmen, as those, we understand, are called that actually do the mischief, had completed their purpose at Mr. Wright's, they immediately went in the house of Mr. Mullen, close by, the door of which they broke into pieces, and then rushed up into the workshop, where they demolished seven point net lace-frames, six of which belonged to Mr. Waynman above named, and one to Mr. Mullen—one was left uninjured, and is generally understood, from the watchword of alarm being given from without. They also took from Mr. Mullen's, fifteen yards of net and a shirt, and left an instrument behind them like a tomahawk; they also broke the clock. It is proper to state, that the depredators, in order to render their mischief more complete, broke many of the globes, which contain a mixture of water and aquafortis, and which are used by the workmen in winter evenings to add to the brilliancy of their light, and cast the corroding contents upon the frames.—It seems singular, that neither Mr. Mullen nor his wife heard them; the reason assigned is this, which is a very feasible one, and, from the respectability of Mr. Mullen's character, is universally believed—he had more liquor than he usually takes in an evening, which caused him to sleep very soundly, as he had been in bed about an hour: and Mrs. Mullen, who was also asleep in bed, is very hard of hearing. When these daring offenders had completed the object of their violence, they discharged several pistols—shouted, as though in triumph, and then retired. Two persons are in custody on suspicion.

In fact, Topham of Pentrich had been the target of 3 separate attacks by Luddites during their previous heyday in the midlands. 

“We dunna need to wake that particular owd dog up,” said Owd Tom. Everybody sempt to nod. “Are we aying more beer?” added Tom as he went t’counter.

Well, I knew when to keep me mouth shut but it were interesting and as I copied it into these notes I realised what had happened before. I copied it all as I were interested in what t’Luddites did. Nobody had ever mentioned it and they never did again as far as I know. It were probably the first time I came t’conclusion that the Pentrich men were serious about gerrin’ summat done. Before I thought most of what they talked about were empty threats and beer talkin’. I could tell by their faces last night that they were serious.

That brings me to thinkin’ about messen. Am I goin’ to get messen caught up in anything that might happen – or am I already up to me neck in it?

Pentrich October 1816

Yo get t’feelin’ that sommat’s bubblin’ up. Everybody’s talkin’ about being out a’work, short a’food and pissed off wi t’weather. It’s not stopped rainin’ all year and the tracks and fields are like bogs. I canna remember owt like it and nor can any o‘t’others. It sempt to be weird that just as folks were feelin’ t’pinch, t’weather made things wos.

Somebody left a newspaper in t’White Horse one naight and I found a bit about more Luddite trouble – we thought it had stopped after they’d hanged a few.

It said, “There was a revival of violence and machine breaking following a bad harvest and a downturn in trade.  On 28 June the Luddites attacked Heathcote and Boden's mill in Loughborough, smashing 53 frames at a cost of £6,000. Troops were used to end the riots and for their crimes, six men were executed and another three were transported.” 

It didna tek ‘em long to ger ‘em before court and dealt with harshly. Most folks think it all were to do wi factories takin’ men homework and fillin’ some jobs wi women and children at half the price, even less than that sometimes.

One naight in t’White Horse, Tom brought a copy of William Cobbett's paper and it had his view of events, Cobbett reckoned that:

Society ought not to exist, if not for the benefit of the whole. It is and must be against the law of nature, if it exists for the benefit of the few and for the misery of the many. I say, then, distinctly, that a society, in which the common labourer . . . cannot secure a sufficiency of food and raiment, is a society which ought not to exist; a society contrary to the law of nature; a society whose compact is dissolved[1].

When Tom read it owt loud most o’lads went quiet – it took some understandin’ and I dunna think many got it. One o’Ludlams said it were about time summat were done, we’ve had too many fancy wods. Most agreed and Tom put his paper away and sat watchin’ and listenin’. I’m not goin’ to write down what some men were saying, I’d risk me ‘ead.

Yo may recall that I  told thee that I’d moved in wi Tommy Bacon after me mam died. Well, I don’t think I told thee that Tom had allus had a girlfriend who lived in village. I didna say owt cos it’s not my business tha knows.

Anyroad, Tom’s cottage is quite big for two men but not forra crowd. To cut a long story short, he told me one naight that he were moving her in as she’d bin evicted and she were bringin’ all five kids. And if that weren’t bad enough, he told me I’d got to find somewhere else to live. I knew it were too good to last. To mek things wos, Tom said that if t’kids got too noisy he’d come to see me wherever I ended up – cheeky bugger!

It didna tek long to sort messen out. I’d done some buildin’ work for t’blacksmith last year and I did a deal wi ‘im to rent me on old stable at back if I agreed to do it up. So wi-in a week I were gone. So much for friendship. I dunna know what Tom is planning to do wi a woman at his age but there it is. I’m pleased in a way as Tom were going away more and more on meetin’s and delegate work. I’d a’bin left with his woman and her kids – I dunna know how many were Tom’s kids – they all looked different!

More and more villages were seekin’ help from Parish Poor Fund as they were strugglin’ to mek ends meet. This were specially so for frame workers who had less work and, to mek things wos, that were being asked to put out poor quality cut-ups.

For last few years, as the framework knitters were being forced to rent the frames they worked on by the manufactures, hosiers-masters. A bit later mass production was being introduced by the use of wide knitting frames in small factories. These frames made the work less labour intensive, because the stockings were made of a one cut piece of material, which was called a 'cut-up.' Consequently, stockings were cheaper to manufacture. The knitters felt that these methods of manufacturing were displacing skilled labour and that the deterioration in quality, due to the cheaper production practices, was producing the decline in the purchase of stockings[2].

To mek things wos, many used to work a strip a’land with a few tators, greens or a few chickens, mebbe a cow. This were a thing o’past as most land were enclosed. Since t’new game law it were a brave lad as went poaching.

One naight we had a Hampden Club meeting at Cock Inn in Ripley and Old Tom brought a fella called William Stevens from Nottingham, he were a Needlemaker and I think he were some sort o’leader. When he started to talk he had one o’them voices that meks thee listen. He told us ow there were plenty a’men in Nottingham area who were ready to do summat. He told us we’ed need to be careful as there were hundreds a’soldiers barracked in and around Nottingham just waitin’ for a chance to cause a rumpus.

So yo can see how things were goin’, I dunna know if things were t’same everywhere. I’d not bin much farther than Derby and yo could men in pubs there moanin’ abowt their plight. They surely were in t’villages in and around here such as South Wingfield, Swanwick, Ripley and t’rest. As Owd Tom kept sayin’ there’s no bugger listenin’ to us, no bugger’s interested.

I dunna think I’ve had much good news to tell thee this time and, to be ‘onest, I dunna know what’s goin’ to happen. I can see folks gerrin’ more and more wound up.

Mind thee it’s nor all bad. Sun’s out now and I’m going to get stuck in me new room to try and block a few draughts afore I catch me death o’cold.

[1] Cobbett’s Political Register, 11 September 1819

[2] www.picturethepast.org.uk/

Pentrich September 1816

Livin’ in a village means yo know everybody and their ups and downs, including death of babies and old’ens, although me mam weren’t that old. Yo just have to ger on wi it.

Well, to start off, the wos thing that came about this month were t’Game Laws. Tom had bin to a meeting and then he told a crowd in t’White Horse what it were about.

Tom said that the Game Laws were class based legislation forbidding the rural poor from taking pheasant, partridge, hares and rabbits from the lands of the aristocracy. These laws banned hunting of pheasant, partridge, hares and rabbits except by landowners or their mates. It had been a way for poor folks to eat sommat different every now and again. The sentence for poaching, and that meant even having a net at night, were transportation for 7 years. This were another blow after t’Corn Laws put prices up.

Somebody found a paper cutting and showed it to us in t’pub.

“The strong belief seemed to be that the poor only worked if they had to; starvation was motivation; those who plundered the aristocratic estates would not want to work again; they would end up being transported and depriving the country of their labour, or worse still, hanged. If they were in prison then their relatives would have to be supported by charity. People had to be punished to protect property and morality, not to help the hare. The poor could not eat the game, but the game could eat the poor. Peasants and partridges would eat his grain; rabbits would consume his grass and hares would attack his parsnips and he could do nothing about it.”

There were some big words but we all knew wor it meant.

Some local landlords even put up fences round common land and set on game keepers; we heard that some even put man-traps in runs.

On a different story, one a’local framework knitters used to collect goods from them as weren’t tied into a bag man or frame-master and went off to try and sell t’goods up north. He used to pack a four-wheel wagon and set off behind a couple old ponies and he’s often be gone for a couple a’weeks. He’d collect some money to pay turnpikes and buy food. We all reckoned he used to sleep in cloth on his wagon. Anyroad, he were tellin’ us a strange tale about his trip in July. He’d bin gone for nearly four weeks and some thought he’d done a runner wi t’goods.

He told us that he’d gone on t’turnpike up through Derbyshire, heading towards Manchester. When he got towards Buxton he said that there were a foot or more a’snow and even more on t’hills; he’d never seen owt like it. We knew it had bin a bad winter but it never lasted to July. Mind you th’old bugger struggled to Manchester to sell his stuff – they’re tough men in Derbyshire.

At one meeting of t’Hamden Club, Tom brought a notice from labourers in Norfolk t’gentlemen of the area[i]. He’d written it out and he said there were a few words he couldna mek out but he sat and read it out loud as we sat there. I read it again when we got home and copied it in me letter.

To the Gentlemen of the parish of Ashill, Norfolk.

This is to inform you that you have by this time brought us under the heaviest burden & into the hardest yoke be ever knowed, it is too hard for us to bear; you have oftentimes heeded us saying the fault was all in the Place - men of Parliament; but now you have opened our eyes, we know they have a great power, but they have nothing to do with the regulation of their Parish.

You do as you like, you rob the poor of their Common right, plough the grass up that God sent to grow, that a poor man may not feed a Cow, Pig, Horse, nor Ass, lay muck and stones on the Road to prevent grass growing.

If a poor man is out of work, and wants a day or two's work, you will give him 6 per week, and then a little [XXXX] that does not employ a labourer at all, must help to pay for your work doing, which will bring them chargeable to the Parish. There is 5 or 6 of you have gotten all the whole of the Land in this Parish in your own hands & you should wish to be sick & starve all the other part of the poor of the Parish: If any poor man [XXXX] any thing, there you will call a Town meeting, to hear which could continue to help him the most, which have caused us to have a County meeting, to see if we cannot gain some Redress.

Gentlemen these few lines are to inform you that forthrightly have brought our blood to a proper circulation, that have been in a very bad state a long time, and now without an alteration of the foresaid, we mean to circulate your blood with the leave of God. And we do not intend to give you but a very short time to consider about it, as we have gotten one or two of the Lead, on our side. There was 2 cows and an ass feeding on the road last Saturday & there was 2 farmers went to the keepers & said they would pound them if they did not drive them away; one of them candidly beat him, got a plough & horses and ploughed the grass up, that passed on the road. We deem the killer to be full as big a [XXXX] as your farmers for if the wheat raise I [XXXX], then I will raise 2 [XXXX]. So we shall drive the whole [XXXX] & knock down the hill, set fire to ill beggars legs [XXXX] houses & thanks us he for a day, we shall begin at night.

And the first man that refuse to join the Combination shall suffer death in a moment, or the first person that is catched saying anything against the same, shall suffer death. He have had private ambushers round us for some time, and by this time you will find it is coming to a point.

Take notice that this is a private letter wrote at this time, but [XXXX] fear its too public for your profits, so we wish to prepare yourselves ready for action; for we intend to have things as we like, you have had a good long turn. We have counted up that we have gotten about 60 of us to 1 of you. Therefore, should you go seek so many to 1. No. We will fight for it, and if you gain the day, so be it.

Tom told us wot he thought it all meant. “Yo should see that there’s more folks feelin’ as we do. Men as is trying to form secret combinations to get what they deserve and be treated fair and proper.” That gev me lots to think about, it really did.

[i] Nation Archives. Catalogue reference: HO 42/150, folio 130v-13 May 1816.

Pentrich August 1816

I nearly threw all me notes away, it’s tekken a few days afore I decided to pick up me pen and ink. Me head’s bin spinnin’ but to be ‘onest, I had this feelin’ she were going and soon. I aint got round to any decisions yet.

I dunna think me mam would want me to change much, though she never knew about me notes.

Though I miss me dad, it’s different this time, mam dying cuts me from me upbringing if tha knows wa I mean.

Time moved fast, everybody came round, including t’vicar and we had a funeral and buried mam in less than a week. Most o’village came to t’funeral and we had a few beers in t’White Horse; Nancy put some bread and meat on. Some folks were more worried about who were goin’ to look after their kids now me mam’s gone.

Tom Bacon came to see me to say how sorry he were and he really did look upset. But I didna say owt abowt what me mam had sed afore she passed and neither did he. O’course, he probley didna know she a’told me.

Mebbe because folks were feelin’ sorry for me but I suddenly found messen with plenty o’work. Time passed on as it usually does and I kept messen busy.

Then, one naight I were at hom suppin’ a jog’a soup when Owd Tom called round.

“How you keepin’ lad?”, he said fallin’ into me dad’s old chair by t’fire.

“I’m OK, Tom,” I thought t’messen should I tell ‘im what I know.

After sitting quietly for a few minutes, he said, “I want to mek thee a offer, listen me owt. I live in a family cottage on me own and thee’s in this rented cottage now your poor mam’s gone. How about movin’ in wi me, there’s plenty o’room.”

Puttin’ Tom’s plan to one side, I thought now’s t’time.

“Tom, neither of us is bein’ ‘onest wi each other. Afore she passed me mam told me that yo were me real dad.”

Tom were tekken aback, I could tell. “Oh!” he said, I sat back lookin’ at ‘im.

“Well, ‘ow does tha feel about that?”

“To be ‘onest, Tom, I dunna know. I’ve bin thinkin’ about it since she went. I dunna want to know th’ins and outs, it’s years ago. We seem to get on alraight so I’ll tek thee offer and move in your cottage up t’village. As far as I’m concerned it’s our secret and that’s that.”

“I’m pleased, I really am. Mind yo, one a’two old ens knew me and you mam had a fling but nubdy seys owt, it were over twenty years ago. I never cheated on thee dad.

I could tell Tom didna want to go on about it and neither did I.

So, wi in a fortnaight I were living wi Tom. I had me own room and t’best thing about this were that this room had a case wi all Tom’s books and papers. I found Thomas Paine’s papers some bits by William Cobbett and other names that I adna heard of.

Tom told me I could read what I wanted but I were to tell nubdy unless he said so.

When Tom were at home, and he sometimes went away for a few days at a time, we used to talk about politics. We talked abowt why folks were poor, why they had no say, why they had no votes and what he thought should be done. Tom didna think much of parliament, that were obvious.

It wer clear that Tom knew lots a’folks and travelled to meetings all over t’place. He told me that there were thousands a’men who wanted to change things. He told me about t’revolution in France twenty odd years ago when King and Queen and aristocrats were executed. It were interesting but it were also frightening.

“There’s one thing tha needs to know,” said Tom as we sat in t’corner of White Horse. “The whole county’s full a’spies, dozens of em. Magistrates have spies, Colonel Halton for one, Duke o’Devonshire will have spies – yo met one didn’t yo, and, worse a’all, there’s government spies. Them are men who get money for reportin’ on wot men are doin’ and, even wos, what they are thinkin’. They’re likely to be men yo know, men yo’ve seen around for years. Dunna trust anybody unless you are sure. Yo can trust Weightmens and Ludlam and a few others but be careful wi foundry men.”

I were just goin’ to say sommat when Tom went on, “And”, he when on in a strong voice, “wots even wos is that some o’these spies tell lies abowt what’s happening and try to get men involved in trouble only to get themsens arrested, sent to prison and even wos.”

“Bloody ‘ell, is it all worth it?”

“Yes, lad, it is; some bugger’s got to do sommat else we’ll all starve.”

I began to realise that Tom were involved in sommat serious and that me living wi ‘im meant he trusted me and, to be ‘onest, I felt good about that.”

We went on talkin’ but I can’t remember everything.

Any road, that’s where I am now an we’ll see wot happens. My life went on as usual, I dunna know if Tom sed owt around t’village but nubdy sed owt about me move. T’Duke’s agent put one of me mates into our old cottage after he’d got married. I dunna mind, there’s too many bad memories there.

Prices were goin’ up week after week and folks were allus complaining about food and loss a’work. Folks were leaving every month, sometimes families setting off on a cart wi all they had and, sometimes, walkin’ to Derby, Cromford or Belper. I can only remember one or two ever coming back.

I might a’mentioned this but there’s problems being caused by bad weather, wos than anyone can remember – no sunshine and rain, loads a’rain.

Talkin’ to me mates, most a’them young men looking for regular work, it were clear that there wos work on some farms but that were mainly family, Butterley sempt to be steady after t’loss of war trade. There wos work in some local pits but mosta me mates thought that were last ditch unless their dad took ‘em there.

Well, I’ve rambled on abowt messen this time but I thought you should know. If I’m spared I’ll get back to me usual tack next time.

Pentrich July 1816

Me mam has took a turn for t’worse and I’m not surprised we all this rain and cold weather – June were really awful, it made you feel down.

She took to her bed in t’middle o’day often and looks really grey around her face. T’skin on her arms were hangin’ loose. I couldna ger her to eat at all.

I dunna know who asked for her but Mrs Turner came to see her. Old Mrs Turner is big woman wi loads a’kids who lives in a tidy cottage in between Swanwick and Pentrich, as long as I can remember she’wer allus there. She brought a basket full o’herbs and flowers and set about chopping them up in a wooden bowl. She gev me a handful of weeds, well they looked like weeds anyroad, and told me to mix them in some hot water. Mrs Turner got mam to drink all this tincture without stoppin’ or tekin’ breath.

She left after about a hour and as she passed me she said, “There’s a leak in back corner of me cottage. I expect you’ll not mind fixing it will you.”

“I will Mrs Turner, thank you.” I opened the door for her, she walked out and set off back towards Swanwick.

On the way out she whispered in my ear, “You ought to know that your mam’s quite poorly and needs lookin’ after. I’ll pop by when I pass next week.”

Well, mam bucked up when the sun shone for a hour or two and she sat in t’door hole for a while. I thought Ma Turner’s physic might be workin’. I know it wer serious cos she’s stopped all t’work and cleanin’ she were doing for folks.

I went a walk to Ripley last Sat’ day to get a few beers we me mate and to get out o’house for a while and get me head raight, I left me mam on her own. We went to t’Cock Inn in Ripley village centre. I noticed that Owd Tom were in t’back room wi a couple o’Ripley lads. I put me hand up to Tom but he didn’t seem to see me, or perhaps didna want to see me or me to see ‘im, if you know wa I mean.

Everywhere you go nowadays folks is whispering in corners and luckin’ ower their shoulders. I get t’feelin’ that’s sommats amiss, I really do. I remember saying to me mate that everybody seems miserable, angry or, in a funny way, suspicious. The whole area seems miserable, I think it’s more than t’weather.

A week or so later me mam, her didna seem to be any better, asked me to sit by her bed. “I want ti talk to thee son, there’s things you should know.” I pulled up a stool, “What’s on thee mind mam?”

“You’ll know that your dad and me never had any more kids, there’s only ever been thee. I didna have any that died at birth, nor any miscarriage.”

I shuffled about on me stool, I’d never heard mam talk like this, I didna know what to say.

“Well you see, your Dad had some sort a problem that stopped us having kids, he didna seem interested, he even spoke t’vicar about it. He thought it wer God’s plan for ‘im.”

“That did’t matter mam, did it?” I said that without thinking. I looked at me mam, I could see she were strugglin’. Then a thought come into me head. “But Mam, where did I come from then?”

“Well, that’s what I wanted to tell thee. You see, you’re not your dad’s, if you knows what I mean.”

This were all gerrin’ a bit heavy for me. I had hundreds a’ questions but I didna know where to start.

“Did me Dad know?”, this wer all I could think a’saying

“Yes, he did, it was just before we got married. He wanted to look after me, he were a good man and I miss ‘im. You know he never ill-treated me and until he got badly he kept food on t’table. It’s a good job I’ve got thee we woulda bin in a mess good and proper.”

Mam changed subject, “I’m gerrin’ a bit tired, go an see Nany Weightman while I have a little sleep. A jar a’ale will do thee good.”

I could tell she didna want to say owt else so I made her comfy and wandered off t’White Horse.

When I wrote these notes I didna know what to put, it were a shock but I see that mam wanted to be honest wi me.

Anyhow, when I got t’pub I sat wi a couple a’lads who were playing doms.

It didna tek long until I drifted into deep thoughts, I couldna get what mam had said outa me head.

“What’s up wi thee, tha looks like tha’s lost a threep’ny bit and found a hapny.” It were John, one a’village lads.

“I’m alraight, it’s just that me mam’s badly an I dunna know what to do for her. Ma Turner’s bin to see her so I’m hoping she’ll tek a turn for t’better.”

They all accepted this and nubdy said owt else about it. It were normal in t’village when someone were badly, t’men didna say much, it were never a subject wey talked abowt. We all know that they either get better or they’d die and, most a’time, it didna tek long one way or t’other.

I went back home after a couple of pints and found that mam had gone to bed. I wer fulla questions. I wanted to know everything.

I went to mam’s side, she wer lookin’ no better, but she did manage a smile o’sorts. I put me hand on her forehead, I expected she’d be hot as i’d left fire burning, but she were stone cold.

I thought abit and I were becoming to understand a bit clearer, “Did me dad know who it was as were me real dad?”

“Yes, he did and it’s a secret he took to his grave. It’s that what I wanted to tell thee afore it’s too late.”

I looked at mam wondering what she wer goin’ to say next.”

“You real father is Thomas Bacon.”

You coulda knocked me down with a feather. I stared at mam in a daze.

“Go an get me a drink o’water, lad, and I’ll tell thee all abowt it. I need to get it off me mind afor it’s too late.”

I went to get some water, I thought to messen that it wer twice she said ‘afor it’s too late.’

I came back with water and I knew straight away, mam were dead.

Pentrich June 1816

Since I started these notes I’ve been made to think more than I ever have before. I’ve never bin to school, except Church reading classes, but I do turn things o’er in me mind an I talks to Owd Tom about things.

Last week, t’Dukes agent visited Pentrich and probably most o’villages hereabouts. I were laying some bricks on a wall on t’main road where a drover’s cart had knocked it down trying to get through t’mud.

There were two or three men who’d left their two-horse carriage by t’side of the Dog Inn. It were a dry day, for a change, and these men were walking through t’village. They stopped opposite where I were working, I’d just ignored ‘em and kept on wi my job.

One of these man said, “What are you doing young man?” I thought to messen, it must be bloody obvious.

“I’m building up a wall some silly bugger knocked over last week.”

He looked at me in a odd way and walked on.

One of t’other men came back to where I was. He kneeled down by the wall.

“Have you been told that you should show more respect to a gentleman. You should stop work, stand up and pay your respects. Remember that you might find yourself short o’work one day, mind what I say.”

He tapped his cane on t’wall I was building and went to catch up with t’others.

It weren’t until later when I sat down wi a mug a’beer me mam had brought that I thought about this afternoon’s event. How did this man get to be a gentleman, what is a gentleman, wor he born a gentleman? I knew me dad weren’t a gentleman even when he died. Can I ever be a gentleman? These ideas kept goin’ round in me head.

Later on I met Tom Bacon in t’White Horse and I decided to tell ‘im.

“Did thee see them men in t’village this afternoon, Tom?”

“Aye, I did lad and kept out their bloody way. They’d not want to see t’likes a’me, I can tell thee! We don’t see eye to eye!”

“One on ‘em told me off for not respecting a gentleman. Who does he think he is?” Tom smiled as tho’ I’d sed sommat he liked talkin’ about.

“Well, now you’re beginning to learnt sommat, lad. We’re what they call lower orders, that means we’re at bottom a’pile. The only buggers behind us are them in t’wokhouse.”

I jumped to their side. “Some a’them in t’wokhouse have done nowt wrong.”

“Steady, I know that lad but it meks n’diffrence. There’s three classes and we’re all at t’bottom of ‘em. There’s lords at top, like t’Duke o’ Devonshire and t’other landowners, then there’s gentlemen, lawyers, priests, clerks and the like. We canna get there and it’s bloody wrong – and sommat needs doin’ about it.” Tom was getting angry and banged his jug pot on t’table.

“Be careful Tom, tha’ll spill thee ale.”

“Now listen to me and say na more. Yo’ve already bin to a meeting, yo know what some think. Just keep yor ‘ed down and wait and see.”

One or two more came in t’pub. It turned out that Dukes men were tellin’ villagers wi animals on Duke’s land that he were goin’ to enclose more land an they a’ter move their livestock. They were none too ‘appy about this, it sempt to be another way of stopping folks mekin’ a few extra pennies. They had to do it cos stockingers pay were going down and down.

Anyroad, I dunna want to be all gloomy. I found a old paper in t’Peacock other day and somebody had drawn a big circle round one bit – it were interesting. Oh, I should tell thee it were London Morning Post 17th April 1816 – it musta bin there for ages. Well, some poor bugger called Tim Higgins, who were a thief, had been sentenced to hang at Newgate. He’d wrote a poem to his mate and the hangman – I thought it fit in t’what we were talkin’ about. I wrote it down and yo must excuse me mistakes!

Newgate Melody

Since the Jury and Judge, oh Jack Ketch!

Have agreed that Tim Higgins must stretch;

Since ‘tis too late to kick up a row,

Since I must hang, Oh, Jack, hang me now!

Now the run of my thieving is o’er,

St. Giles will behold me no more!

If the hand of a friend the cord bring,

There will be little pain in the swing.

And of this, my dear Jack, be now sure,

That Tim Higgins has pluck to endure,

Not only to hang – but he’d say

Not one word, tho’ dissected next day.

Tho’ the Virgins of Newgate lament,

Be Jack Ketch, be my hangman unbent:

My mother’s transported you know,

And my father you hang’d long ago.

When my body’s been picked by the crows,

And my soul gone, where, nobody knows,

Let my mem’ry be thy pride,

And forget not – I liv’d till I died.

Does like it – I know it’s sad but it tells thee how some poor soul lost his parents and never had a chance. I know there are one a’two about ‘ere who feel like this.

There were a cartload a’men in t’village t-other day – all old soldiers back from t’army – about six o’them. They were lookin’ for wok. I heard as Nancy told ‘em they’d no change in Pentrich, South Wingfield or Swanwick as most o’stockingers is starving; as it is. She sent ‘em to try at Pentrich Pit but they didna fancy that – and I, for one, dunna blame ‘em. They looked a desperate lot. Somebody told ‘em they could try t’Ironworks at Butterley, but they’d bin layin’ off after t’war, or t’new pottery at Denby – that’s if they got skills to do it. Nancy gave ‘em a glass each, but only a small glass – she never were too generous, and they trundled off – I dunna know where to.

I betta get to bed as I’ve to ger-up early and ‘elp a man stick a cottage roof on at Ripley, near t’back of t’Cock Inn – I might ger a pint or two! Oh, I ought to tell thee its started rainin’ again – wot a year we’re gerrin’. Somebody sed it were Boney’s Revenge! I dun know abut that but yo need a good pair a’boots to ger about even in summer!

Pentrich May 1816

I allus said that I’d never work down t’pit and after what I saw t’other day, I’ll stick by that as rule for messen. One of t’bosses asked me to build a brick shed round top of a shaft at Pentrich Pit. They’d got plenty a’bricks so I walked down from t’village wi me tools and some stuff in me little cart. It were raining, as usual, but that didna matter, it’s nice to get a bit of steady work for a few days.

They wanted a tall brick building to cover some o’windin’ apparatus. They’d managed to get some lime, sand and clay. I did what me father had taught me and I set a fire to burn some o’lime with clay. I dun know how it works but when you mix this burnt stuff wi sand and then some water it serves as a paste to go inbetween t’bricks and, if yo are lucky, it sets and sticks.

Anyroad, while I were doing this they were winding men down and tubs o’coal up from t’bowels of t’earth. On one journey up there were a young lad sat on t’top of a tub of coal. He jumped off and come across to where I was wokin’. I had to smile at his black face, all I could see were t’white of his eyes

“Wot yo doin’ mister?” I noticed he were a lad not much more than a toddler.

“How old are you? What you doing there?” I said, leaving off me work.

“I’m eight but as I’m little I can’t pull tubs.”

“What do you do then?”

The little lad, no higher than a pile a’pennies, stood up with pride, “I’m a trapper. I sit by a big door and open it for them as wants to go through to work or pulling tubs. It’s an important job to mek sure good air gets around workins. If I’m not there men could be gassed”

“Is it dark down there.”

“Cause it dark, it’s darker than yo know. Sometimes one o’men, maybe be dad or me uncle, leaves me the dog end of a candle and I keep that until t’wind comes through t’door and blows it out. I have to wait til somebody comes past we a flint to light it again. Dust tha want to come down and look, my grandad works that winding machine with hosses, he’ll not mind.”

I looked at him and thought about his kind offer for a second or two. “No thanks, I’m too busy.” What I shoulda said was I’m too scared.

I know lads and some lasses worked down t’pit but it’s only when you get there does it seem real.

Me job at Pentrich Pit lasted four days. I never saw me new friend agin and it made me mind up never to go back there – nor did I.

Whist I were there it were a real busy place all day. Tubs full o’coal were being rasied up and tipping into carts which were then dragged by horses probably to new canal. Wooden stakes, they called ‘em props, were being sent down t’shaft and every now and agin some men travelled up or down. Them that came up looked rough, covered in dust, dirt and some were ringing wet. I recognised some men, I’d seen ‘em in White Horse.

During the morning one cage (that’s what they call the contraption that goes up and down the shaft) came up wi two men on. I saw that one chap had a real deep gash across his back and blood were pourin’ out and seepin’ through t’coal dust on his body. I heard somebody say that he bin trapped when a slab o’coal fell from t’face while he were clearin’ coal out. They took him down the yard, I don’t know what happened but he were really poorly. I already knew that several men had been killed at this same pit. What a place to work! Well, that’s enough o’that tale.

I must say that I thought this Luddite nonsense had all stopped as nobody were talkin’ about it in t’pub since they started to hang ‘em. I found a newspaper in t’Peacock when I were roamin’ around, there were a story about trouble in Suffolk. I think Suffolk is on coast but I’ve never bin.

Anyroad it were talkin’ that on Friday 26th April 1816[1] some serious disturbances took place. I’ve copied it out for yo, I’ve tried to get the words the same, yo’ll have t’bear wi me.

About two o'clock on Friday morning an alarming fire broke out on the premises of Mr. Kingsbury, of Bungay, which, from the quantity of tallow, tar, oil, &c. therein, threatened total destruction to the adjoining buildings, but was fortunately got under by the very prompt and active exertions of the inhabitants, though not until the offices were destroyed. 

Same day a fire was discovered in two barns occupied by Mr. Scott, of Kettlebaston, during the time the men who had been threshing therein were gone to breakfast, which circumstance leads to a strong suspicion they were wilfully set on fire. The flames raged so furiously, that the whole were destroyed in a short time, together with a stable, cowhouse, and a stack of stover. 

Same morning a fire broke out in a cottage in the occupation of Mr. Rosier, of Grundisburgh, which was entirely consumed, and not an article of the furniture saved. It then mentioned several other incidents in and around that area. It didna say what caused it all but it proves that folk aren’t happy there.

I think most o’t’words are right. Mind you, they use words that yo wouldna use normally. I reckon that they write stuff in these newspapers that they don’t really want likes o’me to read. I bet there’s no more than a handful in Pentrich as can read and write. Let me think, there’s vicar and his curate, there’s Owd Tom Bacon, rent collector for t’Duke but I think he only writes numbers and I think Nancy Weightman at t’White Horse can. Anyhow yo often see her sat in corner wi a paper, perhaps she’s pretending or maybe Tom learnt her, she is his sister after all.

I’d better leave off, me mam’s bin moanin’ about a leak in corner, I’d berra ger it fixed afor she cuts me snap off.

[1] We are indebted to the excellent work by http://ludditebicentenary.blogspot.co.uk/ 

Pentrich April 1816

It’s a year since I started to scribble these notes and hide ‘em away. I only hope some bugger finds ‘em and reads ‘em before t’old King dies. I only did it to prove that we’re not all stupid, some on us can write.

Well, I sometimes wonder what’s up wi t’country, I were in t’pub t’other day talkin’ to a man who wer travellin’ and sellin’ bricks. He were tellin’ me about riots in Nottingham and Loughborough over t’price of food. I found a copy of local newspaper and there were bits and pieces about disturbances in Manchester and even some Luddites smashing machines. I thought that were all over when they made it a hangin’ matter. Mind you, I know that one or two around here are thinkin’ causing trouble and, to mek things worse, Tom Bacon spends a lota time winding em up.

To mek things more miserable, it’s bin one of coldest winters I can remember and its still wet and cold. Them as plant a few crops are wiks behind and can’t get on their land without getting’ stuck up wi mud.

I remember reading about Lord Byron makin’ a speech about machine breakin’, it were a paper Old Tom might have gen me when I were learnin’ to read. I’ve got it somewhere, and go and dig it out, you’d like it. I can’t remember if I told thee about it before.

Found it! It were in parliament when they were talkin’ about mekin’ machine breakin’ a hanging job, as I sed. Well, Lord Byron, who don’t live far away from here, made a speech. It were abit drawn out but Tom told me to read one bit at a time, I’ll copy it for thee.

“suppose one of these men, as I have seen them meagre with famine, sullen with despair, careless of a life which your lordships are perhaps about to value at something less than the price of a stocking-frame; suppose this man surrounded by those children for whom he is unable to procure bread at the hazard of his existence, about to be torn for ever from a family which he lately supported in peaceful industry, and which it is not his fault than he can no longer so support; suppose this man—and there are ten thousand such from whom you may select your victims,—dragged into court to be tried for this new offence, by this new law,—still there are two things wanting to convict and condemn him, and these are, in my opinion, twelve butchers for a jury, and a Jefferies for a judge!"

Tom said he were sayin’ that it’s wrong to sentence a man to death or transportin’ just cos he needs to feed his wife and kids. It’s bloody right as well. They just don’t understand. Tom told me that parliament still went on wi it and ignored Lord Byron.

Any road, why I remembered this was cos I saw it in t’paper that Lord Byron and left England a few weeks before and does not intend to come back. He’s lucky, I wish I could go with ‘im.

I got a bita work at Jessops foundry as they were putting new workshops up and all their brickys were busy. I were puttin’ up a wall behind the store to keep pieces of iron in a neat store. I tried to do a good job but it were hard work. I had to walk across t’fields from Pentrich down to Butterley and, as I said, it were muddy and heavy goin’ ‘specially carryin’ some of me tools. When I’d finished Mr Goodwin said it were a good job and he gave me a ten bob bonus – great.

While I were at Jessops I noticed that most of t’men were settled and seemed to be content. This were not t’same amongst frame knitters who were allus moanin’ about wages getting’ less and less. Some were earning more ten years back than they are to-day – that can’t be raight.

On t’way back I called in t’cloth shop at Swanwick and got me mam a length of nice material for her to mek hersen a new frock. She were pleased, I think it were t’first frock she’s had since me dad died, it’s a shame. It only cost me three bob so it were worth it.

Last Sunday, I walked out wi this young lass from Oakerthorpe, she’d bin to our church for some Easter service. I walked down to her cottage and her mam made a right fuss a’me. She invited me for tea next weekend. I got cold feet and told her it were me mam’s birthday and I’d come and see her another week. I know what’ll happen next, if I’m not careful. I’m twenty one and one or two have been tellin’ me about young lasses locally. Gerrin’ married is not what I want, especially if it means spendin’ all your life in Pentrich village wi its sludge and local pub wi rough ale and miserable customers. I have this plan to get away as soon as I can. But dunna tell me mam will yu – it might never happen.

Well, what else has happemed since I last sent you a note. One or two more soldiers have returned back from French war. Albert, son of a tenant farmer in t’village, didn’t get through it, nobody seems to know what happened to ‘im. Blacksmith’s lad has flitted to Cromford to work at t’mill, he’s gorra a job repairing machines – his dad musta taught ‘im metalwork. They told me he’s gorra a room with a family from Matlock in a company cottage at Cromford, seems good!

We had a laugh t’other day when a drover took a short cut through Pentrich cos there were another flood down Buckland Hollow. Anyroad, he had four old horses and two carts full of wood. They’d managed to drag up t’hill but as soon as they got on t’level there were up to axils in sludge and muck. His horses were snorting and stamping about until they got too tired pull anymore and sat down – it were funny. One or two tried to gi ‘im a push but it were no use. He’d no option but to put his oss’s in George’s field and leave t’cart were it were until it stopped rainin’.

Mind you, it’s were a good night in t’White Horse cos he had to buy a beer for them as gev him a push. I think Nancy put ‘im up for a night and some o’ men from village got ‘im out next day. I dunna think he will come to Pentrich again.

Pentrich March 1816

I were tekin’ a drink at t’Peacock when I found a newspaper some traveller had left. A piece by Reverend Thomas Robbins caught me eye. It said that, ‘as he had done since 1796, Robbins recorded in his diary the weather and, if not the weather, his activities that revealed the weather. In the first days of March 1816, Robbins planted peas. A week later he noted that the day was “quite warm.” Three days later, on March 12, he noted that it was “cold and wet.” It snowed, and two days later the ground was “considerably frozen.” He would not attempt to replant peas until the end of April.’

I know it sounds a bit posh but I had been thinking a’plantin’ tators and peas in me mam’s bita garden but it where freezing. When it weren’t freezing it were raining.

Another bit in t’paper said that there’d bin the greatest flood ever remembered in Northumberland and Durham in February, that’s somewhere up north I think.

I must be getting’ abit serious, I found another piece inside about income tax – although it’s norra thing that bothers the likes a’me. It said, “The government were defeated by a huge majority in February 1816, Income Tax was repealed, keeping Prime Minister’s Pitt's promise. This was unfair because the burden shifted to indirect taxation which fell proportionately more heavily on the poor. These taxes were used to pay off the interest on the national debt, effectively going into pockets of the rich who had loaned money to government, and who were not hit now by income tax either. Repeal also caused problems for the government in terms of revenue, as Lord Castlereagh told the Prince Regent in a letter.”

I couldna mek head nor tail so I asked Owd Tom Bacon what it all meant when he come in t’pub a bit later.

He sat down wi his pint and filled his pipe, “Well lad,” he began, “what it means to me and thee is that we’re all goin’ to pay more for bread and likes. It means that the taxes paid by t’well-to-do paid for beatin’ Napoleon are going to paid by us and every bugger in Pentrich and South Wingfield. Them wi money are goin’ to be better off.” Tom sat back in his chair, “And, it’s not raight not raight at all. Tek my word for it lad, summats going to be done and done soon.”

I could tell that he said enough about politics. One or two strangers were in t’pub so I got the message; I’m not as dumb as yo might think!”

Over th’last few weeks we’ve seen a few more soldiers coming back from t’war. I know it ended in June last year but it musta took time to drag em all back. One or two used to enjoy tellin’ their tales but most kept their counsel. What were clear was that it were a close run thing – it coulda gone either way. One soldier told me that if it hadna bin for Prussian soldiers popping up over t’hill a t’last minute, Napoleon mighta took the day and we mighta all bin French by now!

I walked home wi Owd Tom along back lane and down t’turnpike back to Pentrich. For once it had stopped rainin. “Ha yo heard about loss a’wok for frameworkers?”

“Well no, I’ve seen that some are hanging about t’village looking for bits a work. They even ask me if I need a labourer. I took Samuel on for a day or two passing bricks and digging footings. But, to be honest, woking’ a frame dunna give a man the strength I need in buildin’.”

“Folks dunna want the fancy Derbyshire rib and some are making cut-ups now and its undercutting those doing a good job.”

“What’s a cut-up, Tom?”

“It’s bin happenin’ for some time and it even caused some frame-breaking until they made it a hanging matter. It’s still goin’ on and cos some folks are covering up socks with trousers an’ that they dunna want the fancy ribs and what. It means they lose a lot a’money. Small frames can only produce small amounts of quality goods at a time as the new bigger frames could produce wider lengths of material. The use of ‘cut ups’ is a big problem for the knitters. It’s a threat to their skills and a fall in standards. We seeing traditional crafts goin’ t’wall.”

“It’s a big thing then Tom, I thought it were just until folks bought the goods agin.”

“No, it’s more than that, lad. Men or earning less now than they were 20 year ago. An’ its not just around here. I know that lads in Nottingham and Manchester is feelin’ same. Trouble is nobodies listening, they don’t want to know.”

“What’s goin’ to happen then Tom?”

“I know yo’re a sharp lad, so watch who yo talk to. We’ll get nowhere wi talkin’ and there’s plenty a’that goin’ on. I went to a secret meetin’ last wek at Nottingham. There were lads from all round and all ay’in’ rough tales to tell. There were a chap called Gravenor Henson, a Notting ham lad, a good un at that. He said what’re we goin’ to do? Then there were silence all round.”

“You’ve gotta realise that the place is full o’spies and sometimes they’re people you know yersen and don’t suspect. It’s all about money. Yo should know yo almost get caught up last year.”

I knew what Tom were on about so I just kept walking and said nowt.

On another thing. Me mam were badly last month, she kept being sick and collapsing, she couldna keep any snap down – I thought she were goin’ to die, I really did.

In th’end we had to summon old Ma Hardwick from Swanwick, she’s a healer. Mind yo, some folks say she’s a witch. When she come in her husband’s cart she brought a wooden box full of bottle and potions. She gev me mam some peppermint water which she said were to deal with her being sick and a little bottle to drink from every few hours.

She wanted 2 shillings for her treatment. Me mam said she’d only got a shilling and, if she got better, she’d pay another shilling when she could. Ma Hardwick took the shilling and told her to rest. She told her not to drink any beer and be careful what she had to eat.

When she’d gone I took a look at t’label on the bottle, it were Tincture of Fine Turkey Rhubarb. I know wot turkey is and I know wot rhubarb is but I’ve never had em at t’same time.

Any road, she picked up after a day or two. Whether it were t’physic or just gerrin’ better I don’t know. I’m pleased she’s ok.

Pentrich February 1816

There’s one or two things I think worthy of mekin’ a note of to tell thee abowt and, especially, there’s sommat that meks me feel a lot better for sortin’ it’s sen out.

I must mention t’weather; its freezing and more snow than I can remember. It’s a nightmare gerrin’ about and everybodies togged up as best they can in coats, mufflers, hats and gloves. I’ve no good buildin’ wok to do – it’s too bad to be outside all day. I’ve put Ma Turner a new door frame and built a retaining wall behind one a’ Nancy Weightman’s barrel stores. A few of us from t’village helped clear a walking path for t’women to get to shop.

If you read any o’me paper notes you might remember how I told thee abowt Colonel Halton’s clerk who wanted me to spy on t’locals in White Horse, I imagine he were expectin’ em to cause trouble. I think it were September but it might a’bin October last year. Any road, I’ve found out that t’clerk’s flitted out of t’county. Somebody sed he’s gone to London, one said he’s bin sacked – I dunna give a bugger. I’ve bin fretting abowt tellin’ Tom Bacon and now I dunna ha to. That’s one less thing I have to worry about – I’m not abowt to mek that mistake agin. Tom told me never to trust anybody I don’t know, he said it’s safer to say nowt. I decided a long time ago to mek sure nobody would ever find me paper notes.

Last Sunday, me and a couple a’mates took a few bags down t’bell mine t’other side a’Swanwick and we managed to scrounge a few cobbles a’coal whilst there were nobody abowt. We took them to old folks to bon and keep warm – all t’wood stocks were under snow and soaked through.

Mind you I moan abowt living a Derbyshire but we aint gorra sea and that’s a blessin’. I were reading in Derby Mercury[1] that a ship named ‘The Richmond’ was sailing from Cork to Bristol foundered in Bridgwater Bay and every soul on board perished – there were 100 passengers. It gus on to sey that all that were left was some cabin furniture and a dog belonging to t’vessel. I dunna know t’dog’s name, mebbe it were Nelson.

I found another bit I told me mates abowt, it made ‘em laff. It were abowt Honey Moon. It seys it were t’custom of the higher orders of Teutones (whatever that means), the ancient people who inhabited the northern parts of Germany, to drink mead, a beverage made from honey, for thirty days after every wedding. From this we get the word Honey Moon. Anyway Attila, King of Hungary, drank so freely of this liquor on his wedding day, that he was later found suffocated. Well, if yo believe that yo’ll believe owt. I reckon he might abin being too lively in bed.

I went across t’White Horse t’other naight to find Tom Bacon holding forth to his mates. It might abin a Hampton Club meeting. I knew he wouldna mind me if I sat at t’back and said nowt, so I did.

Old Tom were tellin’ em abowt some riots in Nottingham and that he’d met a fella from Manchester who told him there’d bin some disturbances there as well.

“I’ve bin talking to a delegate who knows what’s what. You gotta realise that them in London don’t give a toss about us, not a toss! This fella told me there’d bin a report of a Secret Committee of Parliament that he’d got hold of.”

Tom pulled a tattered piece of paper out of his waistcoat. “The government reckon that ‘the rioters were to a great extent tools in the hands of those whose turbulence and disloyalty derived no provocation from poverty[2]’ what do yo think a’that”, said Tom looking around.

Young Turner piped up the corner, “I dunna understand a word you’re on abowt, Tom.”

“Well,” said Tom with a sigh and after tekin’ a good draft of ale, “It’s like this. They were talkin’ about Luddite disturbances, one or two of you here might know a bit abowt them, but nuff said. They say that the trouble were nowt to do wi being hungry and out a work, being cheated by bag-masters and every bugger else. It were about us, I mean them, being used by some gentlemen who were intent on trouble.”

“That’s not true,” said a voice from side a’fire.

“No, John, it weren’t. We were never under anybody’s control and we never will be. But you can all see how they view us. We don’t bloody well count as owt and that’s it. Mark my words, they’ll know t’truth one day.”

Tom sat down and it went quiet. As I looked round the room some were nodding, some muttering and some, and I’ve got to be raight wi thee ere, looked as though they d’aint hav’a cue what were being talked abowt. All I could hear for a few minutes were sticks crackling in t’fire and Nancy collected ale pots.

Eventually, one o’Weightman’s stood up and said, “I think enoughs bin said, tha never know who’s listening. Let’s drink.”

I sat thinking about what I’d heard and what might happen. Maybe nowt, after all said and done there’re nowt but empty pots themsens.

A few days later I sat at home scribbling me paper notes. I wanted to write what had happened last month, what I might want to read to me kids, if I ever had any. It weren’t all trouble, argument and moanin’ but, to be honest, whenever I got to t’White Horse it were like that. At least until they had a pot a two to loosen up.

Pentrich had grown over last few years, more folks had moved in and a few more cottages had bin built – in fact I’d built a couple messen. Mind you, one or two families had left and gon to Derby, Belper or Cromford to t’mills. But it weren’t happy village, nobody sempt to be well off, everybody were scrambling abowt to mek ends meet. I suppose winter-time is when you’ve less wok and more idle time to think abowt things. But when you’ve thought about things were does it set you, wot change can yo mek?

That’s enough, I feel messen gerrin’ miserable. I’ll cheer up next time.

[1] Derby Mercury of Thursday 11th January 1816

[2] Quoted in C.D. Yonge “Life and Administration of Robert Banks Jenkinson, Second Earl of Liverpool” (1868), vol. 11, p.140

Pentrich January 1816

It had bin fost Christmas I can remember wi’out me dad. Although he wor a miserable bugger he wor allus there and he sometimes made a few dry remarks that made us laugh. Mam said a prayer for ‘im.

I managed to get a good size chicken for patchin’ up one o’our neighbour’s roof so we had a good feast. Some kids went about carol singing and it wor allus an excuse for drinking by t’men in village. There wer a football match between some from t’Dog Inn and White Horse. It were so sludgy that I dunna think anyone kicked a goal – it were another excuse for a few beers.

Nanny Weightman had brewed a special Christmas Ale and it were as strong as you like. I dunna think many o’wives were very pleased it didna half cause a few thick heads in t’morning.

Some youngsters got excited when Christmas wos coming and rest of us wonder where t’extra money is coming from. Then it all passes away as fast as it arrived.

I went forra couple o’hours at t’White Horse just after New Year’s Day looking for some peace as me mam wor looking after some kids – it were bedlam at home.

There wor only a few in but I found a copy o’Derby Mercury from Thursday 28th December 1815 – somebody musta left it there. I made a few notes on a scrap a’paper.

I noticed they were going to hold an auction for some bugger to sit and take tolls on the turnpike at Four Lane Ends near Oakerthorpe. I dunnow how much it cost to buy but it seems a good job, but I suppose you’d need to be there all day or pay some other to do it for thee.

There were a notice by a ‘Derbyshire Farmer’ moanin’ that “immense quantities of barley from Norfolk were bein’ sold in Derbyshire when barley grown in Derbyshire could scarcely find purchasers”. I bet the greedy buggers were askin’ too much.

It didna tek me long to read through most of it, it were no interest to me. Apart from things for sale, cattle markets, New Year Balls and land for sale that wor it. Yet somebody had paid seven pence for it.

Anyhow, I got talkin’ to Will Hardwick, he’s a young miner from Pentrich. He wa tellin’ me that a bloke called Humphry Davy[i] had invented a new lamp that could be used in gas underground. He’d not seen one yet but they all hoped there be some locally soon. I never wanted to go underground – it’d tek more than a new-fangled lamp.

After a couple o’glasses we agreed it had bin a strange year. T’weather had bin wet and cold. A few men had come back from t’war against Napoleon and one or two of ‘em ended up begging. Jobs for men were few and far between. It were not much use flittin’ to town as most o’jobs in factories were for women and kids. If you moved outta your own parish and fell on hard times you were stuffed – no relief.

We couldn’t remember much that happened in 1815 other than givin’ Boney a thrashing at Waterloo. Kids used to run around playing at being Wellington. I’d spotted a lot more whisperin’ in corners between t’men and a lot of ‘em sempt to be angry. Mind you it were better in one way that there’d bin no more frame breaking – not as I got to know about anyhow.

I noticed it were starting to snow outside so I decided it were time to get ‘ome before it settled.

I had no wok on and it were too cold to go seeking it so I sat by t’fire thinkin’ about the year just gone by. Me mam come back from tekkin’ the kids back to their cottages and sat in front o’fire.

“Well lad, it’s time to think wot you’ll be doin’ wi thesen now its 1816. Yo don’t want to die in Pentrich like your dad, there’s nowt here for a young man like thee.”

Mam had never talked like that to me – I felt she were talkin’ like an equal, it seemed strange. Maybe it were t’new year that got her a bit thoughtful.

“I dunna know, mam, I’ve got you to think about. I’d hate to see thee in t’wokhouse.”

“Now, thee listen to me.  I’m not too old to look after folk’s kids, mek clothes and get a few bob from here and there. There’s not a woman as can patch-up a pair o’breeches like I can and they’d pay for that. Anyhow, I’m still young enough to get married agin.”

I looked at her in shock at that but I didna say owt.

“Don’t find a lass around here, get theself away somewhere and mek a life for theesen.”

She stood up and began to stir the pot sittin’ on t’fire. I knew this was t’end of this conversation. But I didn’t forget wot she said.

It were lyin’ in bed that night that I decided to get away this year and find a better life – I had no idea where or wot. In fact, I weren’t to know that it would be another year and more before I made a move and a lot were to happen between now and then. At the end of a restless night I decided to talk t’Owd Thomas Bacon about it, he’d know!

[i] Humphry Davy (1769-1830) experimented with lamps for use in coal mines. There had been many mining explosions caused by firedamp or methane often ignited by open flames of the lamps then used by miners. In November 1815, Davy conceived of using an iron gauze to enclose a lamp's flame, and so prevent the methane burning inside the lamp from passing out to the general atmosphere. Davy's use of wire gauze to prevent the spread of flame was used by many other inventors in their later designs. Unfortunately, although the new design of gauze lamp initially did seem to offer protection, it gave much less light, and quickly deteriorated in the wet conditions of most pits. Rusting of the gauze quickly made the lamp unsafe, and the number of deaths from firedamp explosions rose yet further. Davy refused to patent the lamp, and its invention led to his being awarded the Rumford medal in 1816.