Chapter Text
“Not blind opposition to progress, but opposition to blind progress.”
- John Muir
For centuries, in cottages up and down the land, life and work have revolved around wool. Children card the wool, preparing it. Women spin the wool into threads and the men weave it into fabric. It has always been so. John remembers it well too. When he was a real young one he would go out with his grandfather to watch over the sheep. Then when he turned six, he started carding with his cousins, and at the ripe age of fourteen he started his apprenticeship to become a cropper. Cropping happened at the final stage of woollen manufacturing, where the cloth is cropped or shaved to make its surface smooth. No man in his family had been a cropper before, but he was determined to bring money and prestige to the Lennon name and household so he picked the best paying trade in the industry. Croppers were the aristocrats of Britain’s most important trade. Sure, it would take seven years to complete his apprenticeship, but it was worth it. They would eat meat everyday instead of the oatmeal gruel they were forced to eat nowadays. He’d buy his sisters new dresses and made sure they married fair, respected men. It was all set up for him, well and good. Until that one unpleasantly warm day in June, two years ago, when in the last year of his apprenticeship it all came crumbling down.
June 1810
George, an apprentice who was two years younger than John, and a good friend of his, rushed in through the wooden doors of their workshop, the old oak creaking in protest behind him.
“John you won’t believe what I heard down at the Inn.” George said panting as if he had ran all the way from the Inn with this news just for John’s ears. “The Horsfall Mill-“
“George, you moved the doorstop, put it back before we all succumb to this sweltering heat.” John complained, cutting into George’s sentence.
“Alright, alright hold on.” George quickly found said doorstop and adjusted it so it kept the workshop door wide open and the breeze blowing in. Once he fixed it, he straightened back up. “The Horsfall Mill ordered a cropping frame. Millie the barmaid saw it arrive on the carts this morning. After asking around she found out that the Horsfall’s had ordered one to see if it would be worth it to replace the croppers with the frame. If they would do the work as well as us.”
That night the graduating apprentices and their teachers talked about the dilemma at hand in the very same Inn that George had brought the news from. Will their many years of practice and mastery soon go to waste? Will their trade, the trade they haven’t even started yet, become obsolete in mere years? The masters seemed to be on the general consensus that a machine would never be able to show the precision they can, and because the way a fabric is cropped can make it much more valuable, they won’t replace the capable human hand. But still, that night John gulped his beer nervously, and the usually loud and capricious boy stayed quiet in thought. He prayed that they were right that night.
-
“Affirm then.” John spoke from under his burlap sack of a mask.
“I do declare and solemnly swear that I never will reveal the names of persons who comprise this secret committee.” Their newest recruit spoke. “'And I do further swear to use my best endeavours to punish by death any traitor or traitors should any rise up against us, so help me God and bless me to keep this, my oath, inviolate.”
John lifted the bible in front of the recruit, the only man in the basement with his face uncovered.
“Kiss the book.” The man did so. “Alright. You are now twisted in.” John confirmed.
“We shall now take off our masks and reveal our identity to you, brother.” Another masked member said.
Needless to say, the prayer John had made on that faithful night in June went unheard and unanswered. The cropping frame which did mechanically what a skilled cropper did by hand, proved to be a success in the Horsfall Mill. So, by the next year the owner had ordered more, effectively putting two hundred decent men out of work. Seeing the success, rumour spread that the McCartney Mill, where John himself worked, was planning to order that retched godforsaken frame as well. That is when John had decided that action needed to be taken, he wouldn’t just stand by while the rich destroyed the livelihoods of families. So, under a pseudonym Ludd instead of Lennon, he started a group of secret meetings, which turned into a secret society, the Luddites. Originally it was him and his fellow croppers from the McCartney Mill who feared for their trade, William Thorpe, Ben Walker and Henry Smith but they had since expanded to comprise nearly a hundred men in one year’s time. The newest recruit was John’s childhood friend, who had just graduated as a cropper, George Harrison. The poor boy was unable to find a job anywhere because no mill needed new croppers when they were planning to soon let them go anyway.
-
Paul had now turned one and twenty, which meant he was starting to dip his toes in the family business. He’d already been his father’s shadow since he was a teenager, but now he was actually letting him have some say in the running of things. For example, at this very moment he was writing up the order for the cropping machine just as his old man had asked him to do. His father had discussed with his financial advisor the benefits of such a machine. It did the job of the croppers for much cheaper, one machine replaced ten croppers and all that was needed was an unskilled worker and a boy to pull the fabric at the other end. Their revenues would skyrocket.
One thing they had to fear were the luddites. A group of no-good bandits who destroyed the machines that the owners had invested good money in. Had they no idea how much these cost for them? The Horsfall’s whose mill was larger than the McCartney’s had already switched to cropping frames two years ago. Although in the beginning there was heavy vandalism, Joseph Horsfall told his father, in the end it was worth it. They were good friends, the Horsfalls and McCartneys even if they were technically competitors on the market. Joseph explained, that he employed a couple members of the garrison to be stationed in his mill and on alert during the nights and Sundays. Even with paying for this security, he said the profit margins were much higher than when he employed the croppers. But this was for a mill that was larger than theirs, and economies of scale and all that. So many of the other smaller mill owners in the area feared that they would have more loss than gain if they switched to the machines, because of the constant repairs and reorders due to vandalism from the luddites and paying the garrison. But his father was determined to one up those luddites. He had already cut out a nice deal with the militia and had the vitriol buckets on stand by for the first day their machine would be installed. See Mr. McCartney’s idea was simple. Let the luddites attack the mill, the militia won’t even have to fight back just throw the vitriol on the vandals and then patrol in the town the next morning to see who was burnt. They would get them for destroying property and illegal combination, most of them would be hanged or at the very least sent to the colonies.
Once Paul had finished writing, he read his letter over three times, just to make sure it was perfect, then signed it, trying to copy his father’s swoopy signature. Their names were the same after all. On his way out of the study, Paul caught the butler and told him to make haste on the post tomorrow so that his order be delivered as fast as possible.
Then he headed downstairs for tea with Jane, his fiancé. She was an awful lovely girl. A fair girl from a good family, better than Paul’s in fact. Ever since their engagement in the early spring she had been around a lot more, getting used to the household she would soon become a part of. But she had become a little bit of a thorn in his side. He had already had his routine well- established. It started with visiting the mill and talking with the foremen at the factory to oversee production and report back to his father, having his private lecture from his father’s financial advisor in the field of political economy, then attending meetings with his father and lastly there would be a couple hours left in the evening for some appearance in society. Whether that be a diner or a ball, that was the only place he saw Jane before their engagement and he admits he didn’t expect that to change much after the fact. But now they had these daily afternoon tea times. Paul did not have time for idle talk, and he also didn’t have a need for it.
His aunties told him it was so he got to know Jane better before they become one. But frankly he doesn’t understand that. He'd find marrying a girl he doesn't knows the same as marrying a girl he does. He doesn’t need to know her, just of her. Her father, his business and their family history.
Paul entered the drawing room and was pleased to see Jane had brought her brother Peter, their conversation was always more fluid and pleasant when he was around. Paul had a a difficult time making small talk with his fiancé, its not that she wasn’t interesting. It was just that he never cared too much to find out what her passions and hobbies were in life. She was somewhat of a grey splotch on his life, but a grey splotch that made his father say he was proud of him so he kept her around nevertheless. He wasn’t in love, no he was quite sure of that, but what is love when her father made four thousand a year. Paul would always choose stability over passion, always.
-
The Tavern’s early morning ambience was much preferable over the ruckus that came later in the day if you asked John. They were going for a simple drink but, their talk spilled over into the political, as it always seemed to happen with his friends after a couple pints.
“I mean, there are power looms over in Lancashire in the cotton mills now. If they bring them over here there's not going to be five thousand croppers out of work, there's going to be a quarter of a million weavers.” Ben exclaimed.
“That's an army! Did you hear that? Quarter of a million. It’s an army!” Henry joined in, waking from his drunk stupor.
“Now if we were to combine together with them lads, organize ourselves, we could go out and raze them mills to the ground!” Ben ranted on.
“Wait a minute, I talk about revolution, but I am not talking about revolution in the next half hour. We have got to organize more than we have now, we're a small group in a small area. There's masses of men over the country who would be prepared to join us.” John said, trying to be the voice of reason.
“I would like to do something positive too, but if frame breaking is what we have to do then, it's what we have to do. At least it's action and we need to bloody well act.” William said.
“Action? Act? I'm talking about time to act, and now is not the time.” John said.
“I am talking about time too, it takes too bloody long.” Ben went on.
“Give us time to amalgamate better, to combine with other groups. And while we are doing it, we can use the time to do something quite useful and that is the part that you are not going to like, which is to go and see the mill owners.” John said.
“John, if that's the suggestion you’re going to make you might as well keep it to yourself.” Ben replied.
“Ben, John's right.”
“From a political point of view, it will put us in a good light with the local people so I think it's a good idea.” John explained.
“But how long will it take?” Henry asked.
“We've got to make them aware of what's happening here. They've got power and influence over our lives. We're going to give them proposals, which at least will give us the moral upper hand. If they choose not to listen to us after that then that be on their account and that's what we're going to do.” John said.
“And you think you can go to the likes of McCartney and Horsfall and ask them to give money out of their own pocket, they're going to listen to you? Are you really telling me that? Because you might as well bang your head against that fireplace if that's what you think!” Ben yelled across the wooden table.
“At least we've confronted them with our grievances, and if they choose to deny us, then we go for them and they can’t say they haven’t been warned.”
“Well have it your own way, John. But when they laugh in your face and throw you out onto the street, don't say I didn't tell you.” Ben added with an air of finality.
That is how it was decided that the next time the younger McCartney would show his face at the mill, John would approach him to hopefully set up some sort of meeting. And it was just John’s luck that the next morning as he was finishing up on a roll of wool, the good-looking young man was walking through the manufactory, with two foremen in his tow. John had seen the man around quite a lot recently, in the last year he had been down to the mill nearly every day, no doubt reporting back to his old man. It always rubbed John the wrong way that the man walked around with an air of superiority, but then again most owners had that grating quality about them. Always looking down upon the very workers whole lined their pockets with riches, as if they were less just because they actually made their wages from working with their hands. Instead of sitting around smoking Spanish cigars and talking about profit margins and what not. The girls who worked on the spinning machines always giggled when the young man walked past shouting a how do you do Mr. McCartney his way. Which he replied to with a very well, thank you and a you just keep at the spinning girls, you all are doing a great job the engagement was enough to have the girls whispering about him for the next half hour. The same godforsaken routine had irked John to the point where one day last December, when the young man was watching the croppers work, John had purposefully stuck his boot-clad foot out and tripped the snooty son-of-a-bitch. He had tripped and John rushed to his side feigning innocence and asking if the Master needed any assistance. John suspected McCartney wasn’t too pleased about the derisive way he used the word master, but he just dusted off his pants and told John to get back to work. John worked the next hour with a stupid grin on his face. Although he remembered this incident like it had happened yesterday, because there is only so many times a worker can get one over on their employer, it came as a surprise when McCartney told him this once he noticed John approaching him.
“Come to trip me up again young man?” He asked John. John wanted to laugh at the fact that he was called a young man by one who was without a doubt younger than him.
“No, sir. I’ve come on a slightly more serious matter.”
“You want to talk with the foremen? Well, I promise I won’t keep them for much longer, I’m leaving shortly.” Paul said.
“No, sir, I’ve actually come to speak to you.” John replied.
“To me?” He seemed apprehensive.
“Yes, sir.”
“On what business?”
“Some of the other croppers and I would like to set up a meeting with your father and yourself, to talk about our grievances concerning the new cropping frames.”
“Well, I applaud your bravery to ask.” Paul began. “But, I’m not so sure my father would take your concerns seriously. Perhaps you ought to write the grievances down on paper and I can pass that to him.”
John was not about to remind this man that he could not read or write. “We would prefer to speak with him in person, the message comes through clearer like that.”
“Oh, you’d prefer? Well, if you’d prefer it than I’ll try my best to make that happen.” Paul said, with what John thought was an unnecessary amount of sarcasm.
“Yes, sir, we’d prefer it because we can answer any questions he might have.” John replied seriously, deciding not to stoop down to his level.
“I can’t promise but I’ll try, Mr…” Paul replied, trailing off at the end.
“Lennon, John Lennon.”
-
John walked up the steps of the McCartney manor with his hands in his pockets and nerves igniting in his stomach. No doubt the usual guests that the McCartneys received arrive by horse and carriage, whereas he had just walked here, took him around an hour too. It turns out that the old McCartney wasn’t too keen on meeting with the croppers, just as the younger one had predicted and told John. But Paul said he had managed to convince him to meet with atleast John. John knew he probably thought it would be easier to scare him into submission if it was just him alone, but if that’s what the old man thinks than he’s got another bloody thing coming. Because John Lennon is no push-over and certainly nobody’s servant. He knocked the pristine wrought iron knocker on the front door and waited to be let in. After a couple seconds a butler opened the door and taking one look at John told him the servant’s entrance was in the back. But just as the man was about to close the door John stuck his foot in to force it open, the butler’s eyes widened.
“I’ve actually come to meet with Mr. McCartney and his son.”
“Have you got an appointment?”
“Yes.”
“For what time?”
“Three o’clock in the afternoon.” John replied.
“You’re early.” Butler told John unpleasantly.
“Well, it’s difficult to tell the time when you haven’t got a pocket watch. I was basing it off the church bells.” John couldn’t afford the luxury of a pocket watch.
“Well, I’ll tell Mr. McCartney you’re here, can I take a name?”
“John Lennon.”
“Alright, stay here Mr. Lennon.”
“Can I not come inside, to wait?” John asked.
“No, you’d better just wait here.” The butler reprimanded him.
“Alright.” John replied and the butler shut the door in his face.
John had not been called mister in all his life as much as he had this last week, though they no doubt used it mockingly. Who was he to deserve the title?
After a couple more minutes the door opened back up and the butler cast a suspicious glance at John, he still looked like he had a stick up his arse if you asked John.
“You may enter lad.” He said and then stood over to the side.
“Oh, no more Mr. Lennon? What a shame.” John pointed out.
John followed the butler who led him up a flight of carpeted stairs and then turned to enter a room which had a large window facing the green fields of the manor. The elder and younger McCartney men were sat by a table packing away some notebooks and loose sheets of paper.
“Thank you, Frederick.” Paul said to the butler and then turned towards John and smiled at him. “You may sit down.”
Once seated, the older man looked towards John and spoke.
“Well, go on, tell us what you came here to say, we haven’t got all day.”
John sat down and got to explaining what they had discussed with the other luddites. That the owners of the manufactories might not notice how much of an impact the machines have on their livelihoods. They study their whole youth to master a trade and now these machines are replacing them and there is no way to feed themselves and their families without their jobs.
“Look lad, to stay in the trade, I must produce cloth as cheaply and efficiently as possible. I can't take care of those whose skills are no longer required. That way I'd go out of business, and there would be no work for any of my people. I know that to stay in business I must move with the times. You croppers seem determined to obstruct progress.” The elder McCartney replied to him.
“Work that was once done in the home, and the workshop is now being done far more efficiently in the factory. This, together with the introduction of the machines that can do in a day, with a man used to be able to perform in a week, means that output can increase dramatically.” Paul joined in, quoting from his recent studies of Ricardo. “England could very easily be caught up in a spiral of increasing wealth, and this wealth will spread to the workers as well, it just takes time.”
The older man nodded in agreement while his son explained then replied, “Yes Ricardo did say that in, was it the wealth of nations? I forget. Are you an avid reader yourself lad?”
“No, I can’t say I am. I never learnt.” John said, no reason to beat around the bush anymore.
Paul seemed caught off guard by this information.
“You can’t read?” He asked curiously, while he heard his father laugh beside him, which he found incredibly distasteful and sent his father a look to tell him so.
“Look boy, the machines reduce the price of cropping by eighty percent, all that is needed to run it is an unskilled labourer and a boy. Even you can understand how much cheaper that is for me. All you are doing is standing between Britain and progress. Not very patriotic of you, is it?”
“It’s not very patriotic of you to let your hardworking countrymen starve in the name of profit.” John replied.
“Well, this one’s got a mouth on him, doesn’t he Paul?” The old man looked towards his son, but his son didn’t meet his gaze for once.
“Let’s hear your proposals Mr. Lennon.” Paul hurried on.
“Alright, first of all we would like the introduction of the machines gradually, so we can at least have some time to adjust and prepare. Additionally, we would appreciate it if new jobs would be found for the men who will lose their old ones. And lastly the addition of a tax on machine produced cloth.”
“To put a tax on our own products? Why that’s ridiculous! Even you can’t think that we would seriously do such a thing.” Paul’s father replied.
“Well we just thought-“ John began to explain, but was cut off.
“I’m hearing a lot of we, there’s no illegal combination behind you lad, or is there? You know that is punishable by death or at the very least deportation to Australia.”
John swallowed and replied, “No, of course not, sir.”
However, Australia didn’t sound too bad to John at that moment, no smug rich bloodsuckers looking at him like he was something the cat dragged in, and hell maybe they still needed croppers down there. John really debated whether he should sock one to the old man, no doubt he could get deported for that.
Paul found himself oddly mesmerized by this scruffy young mill worker. He couldn’t read or write, yet here he was meeting everything he and his father managed to throw at him. He could definitely give as good as he got, this John Lennon. It almost made Paul sympathetic to their situation. It was probably expensive and time consuming to retrain yourself and join another trade. Not to mention the uncertainty, you wouldn’t know which trade would suddenly be replaced by a new machine. The only sure way would be to learn how to read and write, but how would someone like John even manage that at his age. Now that Paul looked at John, who seemed more peeved off than anything, he felt his heart softening. A trait his father always said he got from his mother, a trait he was always working on raising out of his son. Its all fine and dandy for a woman to have a soft heart, but it is just pathetic for a man. Easy for his father to say, he had that stiff British upper lip which made him a good businessman, or at least he thought it did, if you ask Paul it just made him a rude bastard. Paul’s eyes wondered over John’s arms, sticking to where his shirt sleeves were rolled up on his forearms. They were wiry but obviously strong with a light dusting of auburn hair that seemed almost fully ginger when the sunlight streaming in from the window hit it just right. His well-developed arms were no doubt thanks to lifting those cropping shears all day. And Paul has seen those tools, they must weigh well over fifty pounds, to be lifting those all day must be exhausting. His gaze travelled down to the man’s hands, traditional workers hands they were. Wide and stout with the skin on his palms and around his knuckles calloused from work. Those hands were made for wielding a scythe on the wheat fields or perhaps an axe in the coal mines. While his, his were made for wielding a pen and no more. He was sometimes called out for his dainty hands when he was still a lad, away at boarding school, which made him a tad too conscious of them, knowing they weren’t exactly masculine. He moved to cross his arms and cover them instead. He wondered what it would be like to touch John’s hand. Would that part between the thumb and index finger be stiff with muscle, like it looked, or soft and supple like on his own hand?
It took his father repeating his name three times before Paul looked up from John’s hands only to have his eyes fall upon the man’s face and he was met with a small smirk, as if John had noticed he’d been staring. Surely not. But the fact was that as soon as he registered that that smirk was for him, Paul blushed red all over his cheeks. He was starting to think maybe he had tied his cravat too tight this morning, or that the early June sun felt hotter on his back now than it did before John had stepped into their drawing room. The more flustered he felt, and presumably looked, the more noticeable that smirk was on John’s face, it was like the worst game of back and forth. John smirked, he blushed, John saw him blush and got cockier about it, which made Paul feel even hotter under his tailcoat. What was happening to him? He must be running a fever.
John sat back in his chair, crossing his arms in imitation of Paul. Except that this pose, which made those very arms which he had just been considering, bulge in a most inappropriate way, combined with the almost lascivious spread of his legs was too much for Paul.
“Mr. McCartney, I believe your father is talking to you.” John said
“I- I,” Paul looked at John and then at his father. “I am suddenly not feeling too well.” He quickly moved to sit up from his chair, and after mumbling an excuse, hurried out of the room, redder than he had quite possibly ever been.
-
Paul ran straight to his bed chambers, only slowing on the way to tell his valet, not to follow him to his room. He rushed inside, closed the door, and went to pull the curtains in so that there was no more of that bloody sunshine streaming in. Once he was in his dark room, he tore his stupid cravat off and stripped off his tailcoat and waist coat. He groaned in anger as he fell back first onto his bed. What would his father think of today, of the fool he made of himself by practically running out of their drawing room for no particular reason. He was just building up his favour with him again and this was bound to set him back a bit. His carefully constructed character of a gentlemen and businessman ready to take over the family’s finances from his father, had slipped. He was trying so hard, so hard to make his father proud. Hoping that his mother would also be proud of how he turned out. His father had threatened so many times to wait until Mike reaches one and twenty and get him to take over because he showed far greater aptitude than Paul.
Maybe his father was right, afterall here he was running away from the situation at hand, to his bed chambers just like when he was still nothing but a lad. But if he’s honest he wasn’t too keen on going back either, he’d rather stay here and ride out the storm than come face to face with his father, or worse, with Lennon. The bloody gall of that man.
Paul crawled up the bed, turned onto his stomach and pushed his face into his pillow. But how and more importantly why had he gotten so worked up so quickly? He needed to dissect this situation, retrace his steps. His father had just finished threatening John with reporting him to the magistrate for illegal combination, which made John look bloody vexed. His face looked so serious with that expression; Paul found it such a curious look on the man. Almost like a Lieutenant looking out on an unfolding battle, noticing the enemy outnumber him and he’ll have to rethink their strategies, quickly. Yet he was only some lowly textile mill worker. Then why did his face have this air of aristocratic elegance to it, his actions certainly not, those were crude and ungentlemanly. But his face, that he could imagine a painted portrait of hanging in the halls of Woolwich. Those masterful hands holding a pistol or a bayonet rather than cropping shears. Riding into battle on a beast of a stallion. He hadn’t gotten a proper view of Lennon’s legs but he imagined them powerfully mounting the horse, like he had seen on a recreation of that painting of Bonaparte crossing the Alps. Before he noticed what he was doing, Paul found himself rutting against his bed in small jerking motions. He was almost horrified to discover this, what was going on with him? And why did he not in the least want to stop? He hid his face in his pillow in shame as he rode out the rest of this high, keeping that aquiline nose of either Lennon or Bonaparte, he honestly couldn’t separate them in his hazy mind at the moment, in the forefront of his mind.
Needless to say, breakfast the next morning was awkward. He told his father he had had a sudden bout of nausea which was why he had left the room, and they proceeded eating as if either of them believed that. Paul knew his father probably thought he had just lost his nerve and his so-called soft heart felt sympathetic to the workers’ cause, and that is why he left. Which apparently James McCartney thought to be quite the embarrassing event which should be swept under the rug and never mentioned again. If he were to learn the true reason, he would likely suffer an apoplexy.
Paul couldn’t quite place his finger on the reason either, but it definitely felt like something he should be ashamed about. Especially the episode which had passed in his bed chamber afterwards. Now that was something he was ashamed about. He had done that, a couple times when he was younger but he was sure that he had grown out of it. The ones that happened when he was asleep, he did not count because, well, he couldn’t control those. Last time he had had a confession with their parish priest, the man had even said that Paul should be proud of himself, that he could wait with Jane, instead of rushing into marriage, purely for the carnal pleasures. The man had even said that his self-restraint was reminiscent of a member of the clergy. Paul was beaming when he left the confessional booth that day.
His mother had been the more religious one of his parents, and after her death, Paul, in his young mind, decided that the way to make her proud in the afterlife was to throw himself headfirst into church affairs. He was probably the only boy who took his Confirmation and catechism classes seriously.
-
John wasn’t too surprised when McCartney didn’t do his usual daily walk through of the manufactory the next morning. He probably had to save face after his little episode the other day. But when he went on to miss the rest of the week John started to wonder if maybe the man had actually developed an illness. He hoped that wasn’t the case, not because he cared about the health of McCartney, but because that would mean what he thought had passed between them that afternoon wasn’t more than a figment of John’s incredibly active imagination. John hated to admit it, but he wasn’t much different than the spinner girls who always giggled when McCartney walked past them, he wasn’t immune to the man’s soft, delicate features. That tender skin that had never seen a day’s labour in the field. Not to start on those eyes, the most captivating feature about the young man, which were adorned with a thick array of lashes. But John was stunned to discover that possibly the man was similarly inclined as him. This could be useful in helping their predicament. If he got the younger man on his side, he could possibly convince his father too. But if Paul had been sick, then maybe it had been John who had read the room incorrectly.
There was nothing to do except interact with the man again and carefully asses his reaction. But a man of his standing rarely interacted with one of McCartney’s. He had to wait until he was back in the factory and then find some excuse to corner him, somehow without the foremen hanging around.