He, too, was imposing and impressive. He was sixty-seven, but the years had made him more distinguished. His hair and beard were pure white now, but just as thick as ever. The young girls saw him as a father figure, but middle-aged women often blushed and simpered when he spoke to them in his velvet voice.
‘I’m very pleased to tell you that one of our number here is putting his name forward as a candidate,’ he said. He paused for dramatic effect, then said: ‘Amos Barrowfield.’
People did not clap in church, even in Methodist halls, but theyexpressed their approval by saying ‘Amen’ or ‘Praise the Lord.’ Several caught Amos’s eye and made encouraging signs.
That was good.
Midwinter said: ‘It’s about time our movement made more impact on the way our country is governed. I have agreed to nominate Amos, and I trust this will meet with your approval.’
There were more amens.
‘Those who would like to help with Amos’s election campaign are invited to stay behind for a planning meeting.’
Amos wondered how many would stay.
When the service ended, it always took a while for the congregation to disperse. They greeted one another and chatted, exchanging news. After about thirty minutes half of them had left, and the rest began to sit down again, looking expectant.
Midwinter called them to order and asked Amos to speak.
He had never made a speech before.
Elsie had told him to talk just as he did to a class in Sunday school. ‘Be natural, be friendly, and just say clearly what you want to say. You’ll find it easy.’ She had always had faith in him.
He stood up and looked around. They were mostly men. ‘Thank you all,’ he said, rather stiffly; then he decided to be honest, and added: ‘I wasn’t sure anyone would stay.’
They laughed at his modesty, and the ice was broken.
‘I will stand as a Whig,’ he went on. The Whigs were the party of religious tolerance. ‘But I don’t plan to campaign on religious issues. If elected I must work in the interest of all Kingsbridge folk, Methodist and Anglican, rich and poor, voters and non-voters.’
That was too general, he realized. He said ruefully: ‘I suppose they all say that,’ and once again his honesty was rewarded with an appreciative laugh.
‘Let me be more specific,’ he went on. ‘I believe this country needstwo simple things: bread and peace.’ He took a sip from a glass of water. Some in the audience were nodding agreement.
‘It’s shameful that we have legislation to keep the price of grain high. That protects the incomes of the richest men in the land, and the ordinary people pay the cost in the increased price of bread. Those laws must be repealed, and people must have bread, which the Bible calls the staff of life.’
There was a chorus of amens. He had touched a nerve. The country’s landed nobility shamelessly used their power – especially their votes in the House of Lords – to guarantee agricultural profits and therefore high rents for their thousands of acres of farmland. Methodists, who were mostly middle-class craftsmen and small businessmen, were outraged. The poor just went hungry.
‘And we need peace almost as much as the poor need bread. The war has done terrible damage to businessmen and working people, yet our prime ministers – William Pitt, the duke of Portland, Spencer Perceval, and now the earl of Liverpool – have not even tried to make peace. That must change.’ He hesitated. ‘I could say more, but I see by your faces that you don’t need convincing.’
They laughed at that, too.
‘So let’s talk about what we need to do to change things.’ He sat down and gestured to the pastor.
Midwinter stood up again. ‘There are about one hundred and fifty men entitled to vote in Kingsbridge,’ he said. ‘We need to find out who they are, how they have voted in the past, and how they’re inclined this time. Then we can begin the work of changing people’s minds.’
Amos thought it sounded like a formidable task.
Midwinter said: ‘The mayor is obliged to publish a list of eligible voters, so we should see that list on town noticeboards in the next few days, and it will also appear in theKingsbridge Gazette. We need to find out how they voted in the last general election, five yearsago: this is public information and there will be a record at the Guild Hall, and also in the newspaper files.’ There was no privacy in voting: men had to call out their choice in front of a room full of people, and every individual vote was reported in theGazette. ‘And then, once we’re informed, we’ll begin talking to them.’ He paused.
‘Forgive me if I now say something to you that will seem unnecessary: there will be no bribery, nor any hint of bribery, in our campaign.’
In fact Kingsbridge elections had always been fairly free of corruption. In recent years the voters had cheerfully chosen Viscount Northwood. But Midwinter felt that the stance of the Methodists needed to be underlined, and Amos agreed. ‘We will not buy drinks for voters in public houses,’ Midwinter went on. ‘No favours will be offered or promised in return for support. We will ask people to vote for the best candidate, and say we hope they choose ours.’
A voice spoke up from the back, and Amos saw that it was Spade. ‘I think women play an important part in elections,’ he said. His wife, Arabella, was with him: she had become a Methodist when they married. Between them sat Abe, Spade’s thirteen-year-old stepson – or son, if you believed Belinda Goodnight’s gossip. Spade went on: ‘They may not be keen on arguing about the grain laws or Bonaparte, but just about every woman in this congregation can put her hand on her heart and say that she has known Amos Barrowfield for years and he is an honest and hard-working man. A remark like that can do more good than talking about Austria and Russia.’
‘Very good,’ said Midwinter. ‘Now, I suggest we meet again after the Wednesday prayer meeting – by then we should have the list of voters. But before we break up this evening, we need to sign the nomination papers. I will propose. Spade, will you second? It would be good to have an alderman on the list.’
‘Delighted,’ said Spade.
