Page 8 of The Armor of Light

They ate and drank in reflective silence for a while, then Roger pushed his plate away and said thoughtfully: ‘The militia has two duties: to defend the country from invasion, and to suppress riots. We may go to war with France – I wouldn’t be surprised – but even if we do it would take the French months to prepare an invasion, giving us plenty of time to call out the militia. So I don’t think that’s the reason. Which means the government must be expecting riots. I wonder why?’

‘You know why,’ said Will. ‘It’s barely a decade since the Americans overthrew the king to create a republic, and three years since the Paris mob stormed the Bastille. And that French fiend Brissot said: “We cannot be calm until all Europe is in flames.” Revolution is spreading like the pox.’

‘I don’t think panic is necessary,’ Roger said. ‘What have the revolutionaries actually done? Given equality to Protestants, for example. George, you as a Protestant clergyman must surely allow them credit for that?’

George was the rector of Badford. ‘We’ll see how long it lasts,’ he said sullenly.

Roger went on: ‘They’ve abolished feudalism, they’ve done away with the king’s right to throw people into the Bastille without trial, and they’ve instituted a constitutional monarchy – which is what Britain has.’

Everything Roger said was true, but all the same, Amos thought he had got it wrong. As Amos understood it, there was no real liberty in revolutionary France: no free speech, no freedom of religion. In truth, England was more open.

Will spoke angrily, making a prodding gesture with his forefinger.‘What about the September massacres in France? Revolutionaries killed thousands of people. No evidence, no jury, no trial. “I think you’re a counter-revolutionary. So are you.” Bang, bang, both dead. Some of the victims were children!’

‘A tragedy, I grant you,’ said Roger, ‘and a stain on the reputation of France. But do we really think the same will happen here? Our revolutionaries don’t storm prisons, they write pamphlets, and letters to the newspapers.’

‘That’s how it starts!’ Will took a draught of wine.

George said: ‘I blame the Methodists.’

Roger laughed. ‘Where do they hide their guillotine?’

George ignored that. ‘Their Sunday schools teach poor children to read, then they grow up and read Thomas Paine’s book and become indignant, so they join some club for malcontents. Riot is the logical next step.’

The squire turned to Amos. ‘You’re quiet this evening. You normally speak up for new ideas.’

‘I don’t know about new ideas,’ Amos said. ‘I’ve found it pays to listen to people, even those who are uneducated and narrow-minded. You get better work out of the hands if they know that you care what they think. So if Englishmen believe that Parliament ought to be changed, I think we should hear what they have to say.’

‘Very well put,’ said Roger.

‘But I have work to do.’ Amos stood up. ‘Once again, Squire, I thank you for your kind hospitality. I must now get on with my calls, but if you permit I’ll return this evening.’

‘Of course, of course,’ said the squire.

Amos went out.

He spent the rest of the day visiting his cottage craftspeople, collecting their finished work, paying them, and giving them fresh materials to process. Then, as the sun went down, he returned to the Clitheroe home.

He heard the music from a distance, forty or fifty people singing at the tops of their voices. The Clitheroes were Methodists, as was Amos, and Methodists did not use musical instruments in their services; so to compensate they worked harder to keep time, and often sang in four-part harmony. The hymn was ‘Love Divine, All Loves Excelling’, a popular composition by Charles Wesley, brother of the founder of Methodism. Amos quickened his pace. He loved the sound of unaccompanied singing, and he was eager to join in.

Badford had an active Methodist group, as did Kingsbridge. As yet Methodism was a reform movement within the Church of England, led mainly by Anglican clergy. There was talk of a breakaway, but most Methodists still took communion in the Anglican Church.

As he drew nearer he saw a crowd of people around Sal and Harry’s cottage. Several were holding blazing torches for light, and the flames sent flickering shadows dancing around like malign spirits. The Methodists’ unofficial leader was Brian Pikestaff, an independent farmer with thirty acres. Because he owned his land, the squire could not prevent him holding Methodist meetings in his barn. If he had been a tenant he would probably have been evicted.

The hymn came to an end and Pikestaff spoke of the love between Harry and Sal and Kit. He said it was true love, as near as mere humans could get to the divine love the group had been singing about. People began to cry.

When Brian had finished, Jimmy Mann took off his three-cornered hat and began to pray extempore, holding the hat in his hand. This was the normal way in Methodism. People prayed, or suggested a hymn, whenever the spirit moved them. In theory they were all equal under God, though in practice it was rare for a woman to speak.

Jimmy asked the Lord to make Harry well so that he could continue to look after his family. But the prayer was rudely interrupted. George Riddick appeared, with a lantern in his handand a cross on his chest. He wore full clerical garb: cassock, gown with balloon sleeves, and a Canterbury cap, square with sharp corners. ‘This is outrageous!’ he shouted.

Jimmy paused, opened his eyes, closed them again, and continued: ‘O God our father, hear our prayer this evening, we ask—’

‘Enough of that!’ George bellowed, and Jimmy was forced to stop.

Brian Pikestaff spoke in a friendly tone. ‘Good evening, Rector Riddick. Will you join us in prayer? We’re asking God to heal our brother Harry Clitheroe.’

George said angrily: ‘The clergy summon the congregation to prayer – not the other way around!’

Brian said: ‘You didn’t, though, did you, Rector?’