The most radical men in the taverns spoke approvingly of the French revolution. Sal had talked about France with Kit’s partner, Roger Riddick, who had lived there. Roger had nothing but contempt for Englishmen who approved of the revolution. It had replaced one tyranny with another, he said; and Englishmen enjoyed much greater liberty than their neighbours. Sal believed him, but said it was not enough just to argue that England was not as bad as other places. There was still enormous injustice and cruelty. Roger did not disagree.
Hornbeam said: ‘Our king and our Church are under threat.’ Sal respected the Church, or some parts of it at least, but she had notime for the king. She guessed that most mill hands felt the same.
Someone near to Jarge yelled: ‘The king never did nothing for me!’ That got cheers from the crowd.
Hornbeam talked about Bonaparte, who was now emperor of the French. Here Hornbeam was on firmer ground. Many Kingsbridge hands had sons in the army and saw Bonaparte as right-hand man to Satan. Hornbeam got a few cheers for denigrating him.
He spoke about the French revolution, implying that Whigs had supported it. Sal wondered how many people would fall for this. Some in the crowd might, perhaps, but most of those entitled to vote were better informed.
Hornbeam’s greatest mistake was his manner. He spoke as if giving instructions to his mill managers. He was firm and authoritative, but distant and unfriendly. If speeches changed anything, this was losing him votes.
At the end he returned to the topic of king and Church, and spoke about the need of respect for both. This was quite the wrong line to take with mill hands, and the booing and hooting got louder. Sal eased her way through the crowd to stand near Jarge. When she saw Jack Camp bend down and pick up a stone, she grabbed his throwing arm and said: ‘Now, Jack, think twice before you try to murder an alderman.’ It was enough to discourage him.
Hornbeam finished to tepid applause and loud jeers. So far, so good, thought Sal.
Amos was quite different. He came up on the stage and took off his hat, as if to indicate respect for his audience. He spoke without notes. ‘When I ask Kingsbridge folk what worries them today, most of them say two things: the war, and the price of bread.’ That drew an immediate burst of applause.
He went on: ‘Alderman Hornbeam spoke about the king and the Church. None of you mentioned those things to me. I think you want peace and a sevenpenny loaf.’ A cheer began, and he had toraise his voice to finish the thought. ‘Am I right?’ The cheer became a roar.
Hostility to the war was not confined to the workers. Among the class of men who could vote, there were plenty who were fed up after twenty years of it. Too many young men had died. Many people wanted to return to normal life, when the European continent was somewhere to visit, to buy clothes in Paris and look at ruins in Rome – not a place where your sons went to be killed. But most MPs were focused on victory, not peace. Some voters might think Parliament needed more men like Amos.
He was a natural speaker, Sal thought, one of those who could win over a crowd without appearing to try. Part of his charm was that he did not know he was charming.
There was little booing, and nobody threw stones.
When it was over she congratulated Amos. ‘They loved you,’ she said. ‘They liked you much better than Hornbeam.’
‘I believe they did,’ he said. ‘But they’re more scared of Hornbeam.’
*
The voting took place next morning. Kingsbridge’s 157 voters crammed into the Guild Hall. Luke McCullough and an assistant sat behind a table in the middle of the room, each holding an alphabetical list. The voters crowded around the table, trying to attract McCullough’s attention. When he caught someone’s eye, or heard their name, he would check his list, to make sure the man was registered, then repeat the name loudly. At that point the voter would shout who he was voting for, and McCullough would write either ‘H’ or ‘B’ next to the voter’s name.
Hornbeam got a pleasant feeling of self-esteem every time someone voted for him; each vote for Amos Barrowfield made him wince. The voting was slow and he soon lost count of the exact scores. All the people Hornbeam did business with voted for him –he had made sure of that by his personal visits. But would that be enough? The only thing he felt certain of was that neither candidate was very far ahead.
It took almost two hours, but at last McCullough called out: ‘Are there any more votes to be cast?’ and no one answered.
Then he and his assistant counted. When both had finished, the assistant whispered in McCullough’s ear, and McCullough nodded agreement. But then they counted again, just to be sure. It seemed the result was the same, for McCullough stood up.
‘The member of Parliament for Kingsbridge has been chosen by a free and fair election,’ he said; and the room went very quiet. ‘I hereby declare the winner to be Joseph Hornbeam.’
His supporters cheered.
As the applause died down, one of Barrowfield’s supporters said loudly: ‘Next time, Amos.’
Alan Drummond, the wine merchant, shook Hornbeam’s hand and congratulated him. His son and Hornbeam’s grandson were friends. They had played a football match yesterday afternoon, and Joe had asked permission to stay over at the Drummond home last night. Now Hornbeam said: ‘I imagine our two lads had a good time. They probably stayed up all night talking about girls.’
‘No doubt,’ said Drummond, ‘but I was surprised not to see them at church this morning. Perhaps you should have rousted them out of bed.’
Hornbeam was puzzled. ‘I should have got them up? But they were at your house.’
‘No, at yours, begging your pardon.’
Hornbeam was quite sure the two boys had not spent the night at his house. ‘But Joe told me he was staying with Sandy.’
The two men stared at one another, perplexed.
Drummond added: ‘And I looked into Sandy’s room this morning – his bed had not been slept in.’
