Nowhere But North

by Nicole Clarkston

  Together, they moved to the relative cool and peace of the warehouse. Kramer wished to see a little more of how this fellow would conduct himself. He fairly abandoned the young man in the midst of the workers who hauled about cotton bales on their shoulders and on hand trucks. An honest heart and a clever mind were of little use if Thornton lacked common sense or the will to work.

  His patience was soon rewarded, because as he looked on, the lad moved with unassuming grace about the warehouse, keeping out of the constantly changing path of the men with their burdens. At one point, he even had cause to jump into action, assisting with a broken cotton bale that threatened to block the flow of traffic. Kramer had seen enough.

  “Come to my office, Thornton.”

  Once they had returned, he convinced his guest to take a seat, as he had not done before. “How much do you make, Thornton?” he asked kindly.

  The young man’s body was trembling with the excitement of all he had beheld. “Fifteen per week, sir,” he confessed.

  “I will pay you double that, lad. I’ve need of an able overseer who will not swindle me, and who can keep the hands in line.”

  Young Thornton’s eyes widened. “Are you certain, Mr Kramer?”

  “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. Tell me, how did you manage to save enough to begin paying back all those debts? I do not pretend to know the actual figure, but I know it must have been hefty.”

  His new employee pressed his lips. “Three shillings per week, we set aside, my mother and I. I could not have done without her, Mr Kramer. She has taught me self-denial, and I thank her for her diligent training.”

  Kramer grew still. He remembered Hannah Thornton as a veritable force—a stalwart lass she had been in former days. Hearing her son—a grown man in his own right—credit her with the dignity and restraint she had bestowed, raised this young man even further in his estimation. An honest chap, and a generous one.

  “Thornton,” he sighed, “I think I have changed my mind about hiring you as my overseer.”

  The blue eyes darkened, the firm young jaw set in regret. “I am sorry to hear that, Mr Kramer.” He began to rise. “Forgive me for having taken so much of your time.”

  “You misunderstand me, Thornton. I prefer,” Kramer put out his hand, “to have you as a partner. Welcome to Marlborough Mills.”

  “Welcome, John and my dear sister!” Fanny Watson’s fair features warmed with dramatic flair. She spread her arms and embraced Margaret’s neck before she could even enter the house, as if they had been old friends. “I have so longed for you to come to my house, and now here you are!”

  John’s elbow tightened in sympathy as Margaret pulled her hand from his arm. “Fanny—” she greeted her hostess with a tepid smile. “Thank you so much for having us.” James Watson next took her attention as he paid his respects, while Fanny showered her brother with her felicitations.

  Hannah Thornton enjoyed her momentary invisibility as she observed her children and their spouses. It did not surprise her that John and his wife conducted themselves with decorum, Fanny gushed exuberantly, and Watson—though gracious—puffed his chest and strutted like the penguin he was. Whether Fanny realised it or not, there were elements of her husband that were eerily reminiscent of her departed father.

  Watson offered John a drink, but Fanny was bustling with eagerness to display her home. “There!” she led Margaret almost by force through a series of rooms, gesturing at each turn to her new décor. “Is it not simply splendid?”

  Margaret nodded and smiled dutifully, flicking her eyes to her mother-in-law, who followed in silence. She looked to be holding her breath.

  “I saw some like this in Bath when we took our wedding tour, and I admired them so excessively that I simply had to finish my own house in the same manner. It really is a pity that you and John could not take a wedding tour, Margaret, but surely once you are out of mourning, John can afford to take you somewhere, even if it is not a fine place such as Bath. Only do not let him take you to Manchester!” Fanny wrinkled her nose.

  “I am not at all discontented.”

  “Oh, you poor thing, you must be so weary of black! Mother, you ought to take Margaret to Gentry’s and have her fitted for something new, for she simply must have suitable gowns for when she comes out of mourning.”

  “I am sure that would be premature,” Margaret interjected, “for I did intend to observe the full year for my father.”

  Fanny verily gaped. “Impossible! Mother, you must talk some sense into her. Why, you are a married woman now, Margaret, and mistress at the mill. Surely you will have far too many social obligations to carry on with mourning any longer than necessary.”

  Margaret’s spine stiffened, and she draped her hands over her skirts as she so often did when she had set herself inflexibly upon a course. “Nevertheless, I shall make do. John is not troubled by it, and I think it only proper.”

  The other caught her implicit rebuke and replied defensively, “Well, I am sure I meant no offence. I suppose it is not likely that you would be hosting a dinner party anyway this year, with things the way they are at the mill. If only John would listen to my Watson!”

  The fine curves of Margaret’s nostrils flared as she visibly bristled. In ordinary conversation with reasonable people, she was sensible enough to separate the mill’s struggles for capital from any incompetence on John’s part—or even if there had been some professional failure of his, it was the private man she knew and loved, and could never again denigrate. Fanny, however, was not a terribly reasonable person, and in her economy, any slight against the enterprise naturally must attach itself personally to the man.

  It was fortunate that Margaret was spared from making any provoking answer by her mother-in-law. “Mr Horsfall, as you remember, Fanny, does not come to Milton this year. With Mrs Hamper ill and Mr Slickson often travelling to his other mill in Leeds just now, the usual dinner party is of little import.”

  Hannah slid her dark blue eyes in Margaret’s direction with the faintest twitch of her cheek. Margaret drew a calming breath, recognising the gift for what it was—a chance for her to regather her wits and serenity. She would have need of both. Hannah Thornton really was a rather convenient ally when she chose to exert herself on another’s behalf.

  July 1843

  Hannah Thornton glanced uneasily up and down the street. There was a curious absence of bodies milling about in the Princeton district; a silent, brooding restraint, as though some great beast was holding its breath. From a window, a child cried out as she passed, but another girl quickly silenced it. Solemn, hungry eyes looked to Hannah through the window, then the older child turned her back and disappeared.

  John would be at work. Though all the hands had turned out, John was dutifully at the mill each day, waiting with the master, should any dare to break the lines. None had, for three long weeks, but today… today was different.

  The mother’s heart rose in her throat as a sense of foreboding made her shiver. This deadly calm, this violent silence in the streets, could only mean that somewhere else in the city, voices were raised in anger and fists were shaken against the masters and their men—against her son.

  It was not Marlborough Mills which had incited the greater part of the wrath during this most recent labour strike. That would not preserve it from becoming a target, but Mr Hamper was more likely to be the mob’s object of choice. It was his lowered wages and pressure on the other masters that had enraged the workers to begin with. It was he who had, after a fortnight of empty promises, declared that he would not raise pay again for at least a year. Further, he had announced the day before that his mill would operate on shortened hours when it did reopen.

  John had been livid over the affair. He was ever respectful of his place and Mr Kramer’s authority, but in the privacy of their own home, he had brooded and fumed over Hamper’s deceitful practices. That he had once been in the man’s employ only enraged him further—he had witnessed the c
alculated manipulation of workers’ sentiments years ago, while still a powerless young clerk. Now a man, he was wise and mature enough to speak out against Hamper’s schemes, but he had not yet the place to do so.

  Hannah paused, listening carefully for any sound to discern its direction. The errand which had called her out that day lost all importance. John was her sole concern, and his safety dearer to her heart than her own life. Surely, he must be aware of the danger—he was no fool, though others might be. He could not be ignorant of the danger posed by the roiling crowd kept behind doors. She traced her steps back towards the mill, thinking perhaps that her son could do with at least some intelligence of matters on the street, so he might alert the master to take precautions.

  As she passed Francis Street, a harsh voice called out to her. “Lady! Yo’ best ge’ yo’rself inside. My ‘usband says there’s to be trouble.”

  Hannah paused. The woman before her held a young girl in her arms—perhaps three years old, but thin and small for her age, and crying lustily. Another child, this one likely old enough to work, clung to her skirts, her figure gaunt from poor food. She turned her face from Hannah, whimpering and stifling a cough.

  “Trouble? Where is it to be?” Hannah demanded of the woman.

  “Ach, as if I cou’ tell what th’ mob’ll do! Get yo’rself home. Fine lady like yo’, yo’r safe enough off th’ streets.”

  “They are not concerned with Marlborough Mills, are they?”

  The woman stared at her as if she were stupid. “I’ve warned yo’, lady, and tha’s no’ for my conscience. Me and mine’ll face th’ streets, and yo’ can choose our lot if yo’ will.”

  The elder girl beside her coughed, and the woman pulled her closer. “Aye, there’s my poor Bess! Is it fair, tha’ yo’r girl ‘as a fine house, but my lass ‘as taken ill from workin’ in Hamper’s? T’is she or myself who’ll pay dear for our bread, an’ who’s to feed my own Mary? Curse Hamper and all the masters!” This last utterance was as vile spittle, the final oaths of a failing woman as she railed against the inevitable.

  Hannah glanced at the girl, who now dared to gaze back at her. Like her own Fanny, she was a fair blonde with liquid blue eyes and a visibly frail constitution.

  “Go, lady!” The woman bundled her children close to her breast and turned into the door of the tenement they must have called home. Not another word would she utter to the woman she had already disdained as a fine lady—neither capable of sympathy nor worthy of appeal.

  Hannah Thornton would never confess to any other how this exchange shook her and made her heart faint. How very nearly this woman’s circumstances could have been her own! But for John. Yes, but for her fine, strong son, who had learned to sacrifice and work and save to lift them from such poverty. But for John, who had risen above his circumstances!

  Oh, yes, she knew hunger. She knew fear for her child’s life, worry for a wayward husband, and she knew what it was to have no control over any of it. There was, however, that introspective part of her which sought to justify the differences between herself and this other woman. She could not put herself in such a way again, and would never be forced to, because of her noble son’s fierce courage.

  He had raised himself from the very depths, proving that the deed was not impossible, and that despair need not prevail—and what he had achieved, she determined, could have been done by any other who proved himself worthy. This woman had chosen her man poorly, and he had used his life’s strength ill. Thus, she settled in her mind that if the family in question did not precisely deserve poverty, they had done too little to prevent it.

  Setting her teeth into a grim line, she made her stately way towards Marlborough Street, where that very salvation of hers stood faithfully at his duties. She would tell him what she had seen, assure herself of his safety, and salve her guilt in her own life’s comforts by looking on his stalwart young figure and counting the cost of his success.

  Such had been her intention, at least. Only a few streets onward, she heard a distant rushing, a furious onslaught. The mob had at last been unleashed, and it sounded as if she lay in their path. No fear had she for herself. Despite the other woman’s dire warnings, she was a lady, robed in the protection of feminine dignity. None would dare to molest her!

  As they swept by her in a tide of anguish, her confidence proved well-founded. One or two spoke rough words in her direction but were quickly cuffed by their fellows. “Save it for Hamper,” one of them cautioned his mate. “Don’t hurt th’ cause by roughin’ up a lady!”

  They rushed onwards, none touching and only a few more even looking at her. She proceeded in her stately way, her steps untroubled and her head held high. She listened to the shouts and discerned an amassment growing before her. The procession had stopped, some dispute having arisen among the ranks. Several voices were raised to a fever pitch, shrieking bloody revenge on the man, while others argued in favour of simple property vandalism. Whatever the damage espoused by the multiple factions, the cry on every lip was Hamper’s name.

  Hannah stopped. Fool though he was, it would be unjust to leave Hamper unprotected at the maddened hands of the mob. Doubtless he knew something was afoot, as all the masters had for days. But could he know that his blood was being cried for in the streets? Could he know the extent of the mob’s ire? It would be impossible, unless he were present as she to hear them. Someone must warn him!

  Two streets more brought her to the gates of Slickson’s mill. Marlborough Street was another half mile, but help was before her, and Hannah marched in without hesitation. Slickson was, as John and Kramer likely were, standing at the gate with his overseer. He waved her within the building at once. “Come in where you will be safe, madam!”

  “I am not concerned for myself,” she replied crisply. “I have heard the intentions of the crowds, and they mean harm to Mr Hamper. You must send someone to warn him.”

  Slickson gave a short huff. “I’ve got troubles enough without bothering with him who started this business. Let Hamper look to his own, I say. Go to the house, madam. You will be safe enough with my wife until this is all over.”

  “Do you mean you will do nothing? You will cower within your own mill, perfectly safe, and leave one of your own exposed to violence?”

  “Hamper is hardly ‘one of my own.’ It was his foolishness that made all the hands turn out. Do you expect me to walk among the mob, gentle as you please, and knock on his gates to tell him that I had brought two hundred guests to tea? Forgive me for speaking bluntly, madam, but you do not know of what you speak. I would just as quickly fall beneath their boots. Now please, do go into my house with the other women. You will be safe enough there.”

  “I will do no such thing. If you have not the courage to go, then I shall. Perhaps you are correct, after all. They would do you or your men harm. Who else can walk untouched among the masses but a woman?”

  With steady grace, she ignored his protestations, turned her back, and paraded boldly once more through the throng in the streets. They seemed hesitant to act, paralysed by indecision and terrified by the force of their own wrath. Such pause offered only a few minutes more of reprieve, for even now, the press of humanity was beginning to take direction again. Her decision unalterable, she turned towards Hamper’s mill instead of John’s.

  She discovered his residence to be curiously quiet. None of the usual servants milled about, and certainly no precautions had been taken for his safety. When at last a maid showed her into the drawing-room, she found him sitting quietly with his wife and reading his morning paper. He looked up at her entry and seemed puzzled as to her identity. The maid was obliged to speak her name again, when it appeared obvious that he had not recognised the initial introduction.

  “Mrs Thornton?” His brow furrowed. “Oh, yes! Mother of… er, yes, let me see, George Thornton’s boy. What was his name? Oh! I remember. John Thornton. A good lad, that. Old Kramer took him on, if I’m not mistaken. How has he weathered his first strike? Ready to
pack up and leave Milton?”

  “Mr Hamper—” Hannah bristled—“I came to make you aware of certain events in the street.”

  “The street? Oh, yes. They will stage their rallies and cry out their demands. Fear not, Mrs Thornton, they will settle soon enough. You will see—when they are hungry enough to return to work and all the fight has sapped from them, they will be back at my gates with hats in hand. It is always the way.”

  “Mr Hamper, they are indeed at your gates, however it is stones in their hands rather than hats. I am a Milton woman from birth and I know the city as well as you. This is no ordinary rally. They intend to do violence, and they intend it towards you.”

  “Towards me? Now Mrs Thornton, I understand that since your son is now an overseer, you are more cautious than usual. My wife suffered the same sort of anxiety for a time. You must not fear, for strikes such as this are quite normal.”

  “Mr Hamper!” she interrupted him. “The words I heard spoke of murder; of making your wife a widow and your children orphans so they would know hunger. Is that the usual sort of threat you are accustomed to?”

  This appeared to shake him. “They spoke of killing me?”

  “Some did. Others were more restrained, but the last words I heard on the street mentioned throwing you down from the steps of your house to see if the change that fell from your pockets would feed their children. You would do well, sir, to make some preparations for your family’s protection.”

  He was rubbing his lip with his forefinger and beginning to pace. “Yes, I would do very well,” he mused distractedly. “Mrs Thornton, if this is indeed accurate, I think I must thank you. You have endangered yourself for my sake! You have my eternal gratitude, and my wife’s, I am sure, for facing violence as you have done to come to us.”

  “I have done no such thing, for the mob would never touch me. I was placing myself in no danger by ensuring that their madness could do no harm. If you must thank me, let it be for soiling my walking skirts, but not for risking my safety.”