I recently added William Pilkington’s ‘Then & Now’ collection of Preston local history articles to the Preston History Library. It contains a detailed account of the plug-drawing riot in Preston in 1842 in which four were killed and many more injured. The action involved pulling the plugs from the boilers at mills that were introducing machinery that threatened the men’s jobs.
It is not a first-hand account, as William writes: ‘No, I was not there, but father was, and I have heard him tell the tale again and again.’ He tells the tale very well himself. It’s worth noting that William was no radical but a staunch Conservative.
The mayor, Samuel Horrocks, read the Riot Act when the soldiers who had accompanied him to Lune Street were met by a barrage of stones. The soldiers fired into the crowd:
‘The effect was instantly visible, the people suddenly falling in the street. Five were killed and several wounded. The people became panic-stricken, and there was a wild rush for shelter. A man who had climed a lamp-post, situated at one side of the Corn Exchange, so that he might have a better view of the doings of the mob, was shot through the bowels, and whilst on the ground was shot a second time. The wounded were taken to the House of Recovery.’
The shooting is commemorated by the Chartist Memorial in Lune Street. However, I think the driving force was economic rather than political: the men were more concerned with the impact on their livelihoods, rather than with the more political concerns of the Chartist movement.
Since I came on the scene of action tragic periods have happened in the history of Preston. There are still many people who remember the dark days when a two-pound loaf of bread cost eightpence, but these people are now old and infirm, and each day there are fewer to tell the story of starving wives and bairns. One day in the year 1842 the serenity of the town was disturbed to an unheard of extent. It came like a bolt from the blue, and took the shape of a riot. The population of Preston witnessed a scene of slaughter, which occurred when the Queen’s troops came into conflict with the people. The trouble arose because the people felt that by the introduction of machinery, which practically did away with hand-loom weaving, together with the repeated reductions in the wages of the factory workers throughout the county, that their living would soon be gone. Though they were working from six o’clock in the morning until half-past seven in the evening, the family wage was so small many could not pay the rent, and were living in constant fear of being turned out of their houses. In those days, it should be remembered, there were no cheap newspapers, the people had few to plead their cause, and they were helpless to resist the reductions, which were coming fast and thick upon them. The workers were reckoned as nonentities, too ignorant to proclaim their own grievances and wrongs. The masses of the people could neither read nor write their own names.
Just about that time a poem was published entitled “The Bad Squire”:—
“We quarrel’d like brutes, and who wonders What self-respect could we keep? Worse housed than your hacks and your hunters, Worse fed than your hoggs and your sheep.”
Labour was at the mercy of capital, and working men could not endure it any longer; hunger and fear of future consequences made them reckless. Many operatives came from other towns, and paraded the streets in a defiant attitude; they went from mill to mill, demanding the stoppage of the machinery and the workers to be set at liberty. The mob evidently thought that the machinery was a curse to humanity, and their purpose was to break up the power-looms. They forced their way into many factories, plugs were drawn from boilers, letting off steam and water. Some of the mill-gates were barricaded on the inside, and stormed from the outside by the mob. Brickbats, stones and pieces of iron were thrown over the gates amongst the mob.
POLICE STONED.
At one factory the infuriated mob in one mass charged the gates in the very midst of a shower of missiles of all sorts, and “crash” went the gates. The watch-house was wrecked, and everything inside—roller, leather, flannel, and strapping—were thrown into the lodge. Then they proceeded to another mill, off Great George’s-street. Here they called on the firm to stop the machinery. Their reply was a volley of black rollers, roller beam weights, and lumps of iron. At this mill the mob were not successful in entering, and they moved on through the Orchard to Lune-street. Here they were confronted by a number of the constabulary. The police were stoned, the mob being supplied with ammunition by women, who carried stones from near the canal warehouses.
In the midst of this conflict down came the military into Lune-street. The mob received them with a volley of stones. That was answered by the Mayor, Mr. Samuel Horrocks, reading the Riot Act. The great crowd was warned that if they remained there any longer they did so at their own peril. They stood their ground, and the soldiers raised their long rifles and fired over their heads. A great shout went up, “They are only firing blank cartridge,” and then there was another shower of stones upon the soldiers, who were then ordered to fire into the crowd. The effect was instantly visible, the people suddenly falling in the street. Five were killed and several wounded. The people became panic-stricken, and there was a wild rush for shelter. A man who had climed a lamp-post, situated at one side of the Corn Exchange, so that he might have a better view of the doings of the mob, was shot through the bowels, and whilst on the ground was shot a second time. The wounded were taken to the House of Recovery.
“WITH DRAWN SWORDS.”
Lune-street was soon cleared of rioters. During the remainder of the day the police paraded the streets armed with swords. Mr. Sam Horrocks never seemed the same man after this affair; it filled him with sorrow. The soldiers, too, became unpopular, and were soon removed. Mr. Horrocks had to be guarded by soldiers as he walked in the Guild procession of the same year—1842. So ended the plug-drawing riots of Preston. No, I was not there, but father was, and I have heard him tell the tale again and again.
