There was a silence while they digested that.
Then Mayor Fishwick said: ‘That concludes our business for today, gentlemen and lady, and I wish you all a hearty Sunday dinner.’
As they made ready to leave, Hornbeam threw a parting shot. ‘You’ve surrendered to this union. But it’s only temporary. Trade unions will shortly be made completely illegal.’
There was an astonished silence.
‘Good day to you all,’ he said, and he left the room.
22
MOST OF THE CLOTHIERSthought Hornbeam was talking rubbish for the sake of bravado. Spade disagreed. Hornbeam would not tell a lie that could easily be found out, for that would make him look foolish. There had to be something in what he was saying. Any threat from Hornbeam was worrying. So Spade went to see Charles Midwinter.
The pastor thought that Methodists ought to be well informed about their country’s affairs, even if they could not afford to buy newspapers and journals, so he subscribed to several publications and kept them for a year in the reading room of the Methodist Hall. Spade went there to look through back numbers. He told Midwinter what Hornbeam had said, and Midwinter helped him search for some mention of a law against trade unions. They sat on opposite sides of a cheap table, in a small room with a big window, and paged through newspapers, starting with the most recent.
The search did not take long.
They learned that on 17 June – the previous Monday – Prime Minister William Pitt had announced the Workmen’s Combination Bill, which would make it a crime for workmen to get together – ‘combine’ – to ask for higher wages or otherwise interfere with the masters’ freedom to do as they pleased. The bill was said to be a response to the current plague of strikes. Spade thought that ‘plague’ was an exaggeration, but it was true there had been much unrest in industries blighted by wartime taxes and trade restrictions.
The reports were brief and details were few, which was probably why Spade had failed to spot the danger in his daily reading, but a careful perusal showed clearly that trade unions would be illegal.
And that would change everything. The hands would be an army with no guns.
The bill had been presented to Parliament on the following day and had its ‘second reading’ in the House of Commons – meaning it had met with approval – a day later.
‘My word, that’s quick,’ said Midwinter.
‘The bastards are rushing it through,’ Spade said.
In accordance with parliamentary procedure, the bill had then been sent to a committee charged with examining it in detail and reporting back.
‘Do you know how long that takes?’ Spade asked.
Midwinter was not sure. ‘I think it varies.’
‘This is important. We may not have much time. Let’s ask our member of Parliament.’
‘I’m not a voter,’ said Midwinter, who was not a property owner, and therefore failed the test of the Forty-Shilling Franchise.
‘But I am,’ said Spade. ‘And you can come with me.’
They left the hall. The June sun was warm on their faces as they walked briskly to the market square and turned into Willard House.
Viscount Northwood was just finishing his midday dinner, and he offered them a glass of port. There were nuts and cheese on the table. Midwinter declined the port but Spade accepted. It was very good, smooth and sweet with a stimulating bite of brandy in the satisfying finish.
Spade told him about Hornbeam’s jibe and what they had subsequently discovered from last week’s papers. Northwood was surprised to learn about the Combination Bill, but then he had never been conscientious about his parliamentary duties.
‘I don’t like the sound of this,’ he said. ‘I can see why you’reconcerned. Of course, disruption of business must be avoided, we all know that, but to completely prohibit the hands from getting together amounts to bullying. I hate bullies.’
Spade said: ‘And here in Kingsbridge the union has actually helped bring the strike to an end.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ Northwood said.
‘It’s only just happened. But believe me, without a union there will be more industrial strife, not less.’
‘Well, I must find out more about this Combination Bill.’
It was bad manners to ask a nobleman to hurry, but all the same Spade said: ‘How long might that take, my lord?’
