Death of a Radical Read Online Free Page A

the colonel’s nose.
    â€œIf I could relate to you all that I have been privy to, Mr. Jarrett,” Ison exclaimed irritably. “Only last Friday I was speaking with Yorkshire members in Westminster—manufacturing districts to the south of us have suffered more than the odd broken frame. There is coordination sir and the canker is spreading—how else may a stocking knitter in Nottingham find common cause with a WestYorkshire cropper? They both sing songs of General Ludd! We face a great conspiracy, sir: one that threatens not only property but perhaps the very security of the state!”
    Jarrett stared into the wide-opened eyes in the empurpled face. The man seemed genuinely moved. He wondered if the colonel had some particular reason for his concern.
    â€œIs one of our manufacturers bringing in new machines?” he ventured.
    â€œMen of property must be allowed to carry on their business.” The colonel looked away and cleared his throat. His attention fixed on a painted box lying askew on a side table. He straightened it.
    â€œThe matter under discussion, Mr. Jarrett, is the preservation of the public peace. I have called you here as a courtesy. Please inform his Grace that I am calling on my fellow magistrates to enact the Act. I have already requested assistance. I am expecting a troop under the command of Lieutenant Roberts.”
    â€œYou’ve called in the regulars?” exclaimed Jarrett, startled. The country had been through two bad winters; people were tired of the war and the price of bread was high. But as far as he could tell from his rides up and down, the local populace in this isolated dale were as they had always been—not entirely law-abiding as far as the strict letter but loyal subjects of their king. The only reason he could see to use the Act to call in a troop of regulars to this out-of-the-way district would be to strengthen the magistrate’s hand—but to what purpose?
    â€œThe Easter Fairs draw thousands to Woolbridge, who knows what villains concealed among them,” the colonel was saying.
    â€œSurely our militia is sufficient to contain any—”
    â€œThey are not sufficient to this!” the colonel cut him off.
    Jarrett had experience of what a bored troop of battle-hardened regulars could do to a town. He had a profound distaste of martial law.
    â€œBut you know how the regulars are disliked,” he persisted.
    â€œWe are at war,” the colonel stated fatuously.
    Jarrett felt a powerful urge to take a swing at the man. For a glorious moment he imagined the startled look on the MP’s face at finding himself on his ass in the hearth. Instead he turned away and leaned on the mantel. A log had rolled out. He kicked it back into place with rather more energy than the task required. In selling out he had thought to regain his independence. And yet, here he was again forced to watch the follies of his self-styled superiors unfold. He wanted to leave that room. Ride away and never come back. His eye was drawn to the mirror above the fireplace. The reflection of the self-important little man behind him dominated the scene. The neighborhood had two powerful magistrates, the one vain and ambitious, the other ambitious and corrupt. Fortunately the pair despised one another. Had it been the latter—Jarrett’s old opponent Raistrick—who was seeking to acquire an armed troop, the duke’sinterest and every other interest in Woolbridge would be at risk. Ison was a blowhard but he cared what other men of standing thought of him. That should keep the colonel within bounds, Jarrett told himself; this was none of his business.
    Some way off deep in the bowels of the inn, he heard a woman’s voice. It had a cheerful, domestic tone. A vision of Mrs. Bedlington and her mild, helpful husband sprang into his mind. His horse, Walcheren, was below in the stables, only a few yards away from where they stood. That made him think