I have to rise early to make a site visit with Mr Hughes so I will say goodnight, Betty. I only wanted to reassure you that there is nothing Mr Hughes has not thought of when it comes to your comfort and safety.
Good night, God bless, and keep you until we are together again, which given my work in Russia, Greenwich, and my added duty of recruiting workers for Mr Hughes’s new enterprise, is not likely to be before Christmas. Prepare to leave Merthyr for Russia early next spring. I have written to Peter and Sarah and asked them to do the same. If possible, I will travel to Merthyr to fetch you so we can travel to our new lives together.
Your husband,
Glyn
Letters – words on paper.
They can communicate thoughts, feelings, even emotions, but to return there, to relive the birth of Hughesovka, all I have to do is close my eyes …
Chapter Two
The Donbas region of the Ukraine
April 1869
A chill dry breeze gusted across the plain that stretched flat, vast, and endless beyond the tight-knit group of people. It whipped at the hems of their coats and teased the ends of the mufflers wound around their mouths.
One man, of a square, heavy build with white hair and beard, dressed in a sable hat and coat, dominated the group. He wasn’t the tallest or even the most prepossessing but all eyes looked to him as he thrust his walking stick into the ground.
‘Here,’ John Hughes shouted against the wind. ‘The largest ironworks in Russia will stand on this spot and not just an ironworks.’ He glanced at Glyn who, as usual, was busy with his camera and tripod. ‘There’s coal here?’
‘More than the Cossacks are digging out.’ Glyn looked north. In a scene reminiscent of a woodcut of England’s Middle Ages, miniature men and beasts swarmed around skeletal wooden frames clustered on a scar hewn in the steppe.
‘That’s because their methods haven’t changed since that old one-eyed warrior Cossack, Krivoi Rog, settled here in the 1600s and gave his name to the area,’ Nicholas Beletsky commented.
‘The geologist guaranteed there are thicker, richer seams of quality anthracite beneath this steppe than there are in the Welsh Valleys, sir,’ Glyn interposed. ‘They haven’t been exploited because no Russian has the vision of a Crawshay – or John Hughes. There’s more here than even you or I can remove.’
‘More than the Cossacks can dig out, certainly. Possibly even more than you can hew, Glyn,’ John agreed, ‘but I wouldn’t go taking any bets on my prowess if I were you.’
The men around them laughed – Count Nicholas Beletsky longest and loudest.
John didn’t join in. He turned his back to the Cossacks and looked intently at the barren steppe as if he could already see his ironworks.
‘As well as the works there’ll be pitheads and brickworks and not just to service the furnaces,’ John mused. ‘We’ll need houses for the workers, a hospital, schools – Russian and English – shops, churches, theatres, inns, hotels, bath houses, roads and once we’ve produced the tracks a railway station, goods yards, warehouses, workshops, sidings …’ He faltered when he realized he’d become carried away, talking too fast for his interpreter to translate, as if words alone could fashion his dream. A sheepish smile creased his broad, round face. ‘We won’t just be creating an ironworks, gentlemen, but a town, the first and most prosperous industrial town in Russia. Three years from now, the Tsar will have his railway tracks, rolling stock, turntables, armour plating, and munitions and you, I and our fellow investors, will be making money. More than the Crawshays made in Wales. More, even than we dreamed of.’
‘My dreams are enormous, Mr Hughes,’ Glyn pressed the button on his equipment and took another photograph.
John’s Russian interpreter, Turchin, translated Glyn’s comment into French for the benefit of the non-English-speaking Russians.
That time John joined in the laughter. He walked over to Glyn and slapped him on the back. ‘Ten years from now we’ll be aristocrats, boy. Princes of the Russian Industrial Age.’ He turned to the Russian delegation and beckoned to Turchin. ‘Please inform Prince Serge Kochubei: it’s a deal. I’ll buy the concession to build the works and rail-producing factory on this land. But tell him I’ll also need more than twice as much adjoining land on both sides of the river, including all the mineral rights.’
‘Yes, sir.’
John and Glyn waited while the interpreter translated John’s request into French.
The Prince smiled at John and nodded. John extended his hand and the two men shook on the deal.
John’s gaze was drawn to the distant workers filling bullock carts with coal. ‘Ask the Prince if our agreement will create problems with the Cossacks?’
Turchin spoke. The Prince shook his head before replying.
‘The Prince assures you there won’t be any trouble, sir,’ Turchin explained, ‘because you will be bringing paid work to the steppe. As you see, the Cossacks labour as their forefathers have done for centuries. They’ve no idea of efficiency or mechanization.’
‘Would you agree with the Prince’s opinion, Count Beletsky?’ John questioned Nicholas.
‘If you pay the Cossacks more in wages than they make from selling the coal they dig out, they’ll welcome you,’ Nicholas asserted.
Turchin translated the count’s comment.
The Prince replied in in Russian. ‘The Cossacks will welcome John Hughes, as will everyone else who comes here.’
‘“Everyone else who comes here,”’ John repeated in Russian.
‘You are learning our language and learning it well,’ the Prince complimented.
‘Once word of your town gets out, John Hughes, people will flock here,’ Turchin continued to interpret for the Prince who’d switched back to French. ‘People are ambitious. They want to better their lives for their children, if not themselves.’
‘Seems to me working people want the same the world over, Mr Hughes,’ Glyn gathered his photographic equipment as the group broke up and headed for the count’s carriages.
‘Enough money to secure a future for their children,’ John climbed the steps of the carriage that Count Beletsky’s driver had rolled down. ‘Turchin, we passed a village and a hamlet on the way here.’
‘The Cossack village of Alexandrovka and a Jewish shtetl,’ Turchin concurred.
‘Tell the driver I’d like to stop at both and introduce myself.’
‘I wouldn’t advise stopping at either,’ Nicholas took the seat alongside John, leaving the backward facing seats for his son Alexei and Glyn. ‘If you want to see the Cossack Hetman, that’s what the Cossacks call their head man, I’ll send for him. As for the shtetl, no Christian would set foot among the dwellings of Christ killers. Not in Russia.’
‘You’re thinking of the etiquette of precedence.’ John raised his eyebrows. ‘Higher caste never visits lower and lower caste always comes running when higher demands.’
‘Exactly,’ Nicholas concurred.
‘Seems to me this country is as hidebound as Britain.’ John settled back in his seat.
‘More so.’
‘You think so, Nicholas?’ John took a cigar case from his pocket and offered it to the count.
The count helped himself to one of John’s Havanas. ‘When I travelled in your country, I noticed a class who were not as wealthy or cultured as your aristocrats but more intelligent than your peasants. Some of the men had even received a smattering of education. We have no such social strata in Russia to raise the ambitions or challenge the primitive beliefs of our peasants, which is why Russia’s Mujiks live, work, and breed as ignorant as they did before Christ walked this earth.’
‘Not for much longer, Nicholas,’ John challenged. ‘Change is coming even to Russia. My town will need engineers, chemists, metallurgists, architects, doctors, lawyers, managers, the collieries …’
‘You’ll attract them, John. They’ll come from England, Germany, France …’
‘Moscow, and St Petersburg once
investment has been made in your education system and universities,’ John interrupted.
‘Only if both cities attract foreign students. The Mujik is too stupid, superstitious, and dull-witted to study or see beyond his own bestial needs and the aristocrats have neither the need nor inclination to dirty their hands. They’ll leave industry to the foreigners.’
‘Industry is the future, Father,’ Alexei interrupted. ‘Without it, Russia will remain locked in a medieval enclave while the rest of the world forges ahead.’
‘Let the rest of the world forge its way to the devil,’ Nicholas snapped, ‘while the sons of Mother Russia remember and worship the God that made her.’
Alexei struck a noiseless match, leaned forward, and lit John’s and his father’s cigars. ‘God wouldn’t allow men like Mr Hughes to be successful if industry was the work of the devil, father.’
‘Russia will remain Russia and Godly while the rest of the world hurtles to its own damnation.’ Nicholas frowned. ‘I’ve told you, industry is an occupation for lower orders, not gentlemen.’
‘Father …’
‘I’ve spoken, Alexei.’ The rebuke had the desired effect. Alexei retreated into silence. It wasn’t the first time John and Glyn had heard Alexei attempt to discuss the modernisation of Russia with his father.
Nicholas broke the silence that had fallen over the carriage. ‘When will you begin constructing your ironworks, John?’
‘As soon as the brick factory has produced enough bricks and I have shipped all the materials needed out of Britain through the port of Taganrog.’
‘Winter sets in early here, even in the ports around the Sea of Azov,’ Nicholas warned.
Undeterred, John persisted. ‘I’m confident the works will be completed two years from now and producing the finest quality iron in three.’
‘Your families? They’ll accompany you?’ Nicholas asked.
‘Mrs Hughes will remain in Greenwich with my younger children for the present, my older sons are in university.’
‘You intend to build a house for them here?’
‘The furnaces, plant, factory, and collieries will take precedence,’ John replied.
‘My wife will return with me.’ Glyn tried to picture his petite, dark-haired and -eyed Welsh wife, Betty, on the steppe.
‘Has Betty any idea what it’s like here?’ John questioned.
‘I’ve told her what to expect in my letters. She’s looking forward to making the move.’
‘Have you emphasised the primitive conditions? Stressed it will take time to build the works and they’ll take priority over workers’ housing.’
‘I have, but you know women.’ Glyn shrugged.
‘I do. Which is why I insist Elizabeth’s place is with our younger children in Greenwich.’ John looked ahead and saw a group of pretty adolescent girls dressed in red, blue, and white embroidered dresses and headdresses standing outside the Cossack village of Alexandrovka. They were holding platters covered by linen cloths, and clay jugs and bowls. ‘Looks like the Cossacks don’t pay much heed to precedence, Nicholas. It appears they’ve sent a delegation to meet us. Ask the driver to stop, Turchin.’
The girls walked forward when they saw the driver reining in the horses. Two of them uncovered the wooden plates of bread and salt and all twelve burst into song.
‘They are welcoming you, Mr Hughes.’ Alexei leapt from the carriage before it stopped. Glyn reached for his camera, tripod, and fresh photographic plates.
John ignored the count’s disapproval. ‘Bring the girls over here please, Alexei?’
‘Stand them close to the carriage but looking at me please, Alexei.’ Glyn climbed down and set up his equipment.
The boy ushered the group forward. The girls curtsied and the two with plates offered them to John and Glyn.
John addressed them in the first phrases of Russian he’d learned. ‘Thank you for bread and salt, and thank you for the traditional Russian greeting.’ He tore a piece from the bread, dipped it into the salt, and proceeded to eat it while the girls offered the plate to the count, Turchin, Glyn, and the driver.
John finished one piece of bread, started another, and drank beer directly from the jug the girls handed him. ‘Tell them their bread is excellent, Alexei, say I appreciate their welcome and I’m looking forward to being their neighbour.’
When Alexei finished translating he wrapped his arm around a stunning redhead and kissed her cheek, an embrace Glyn captured.
‘Too familiar, boy,’ Nicholas growled in English, which his son spoke fluently. ‘Get back in the carriage.’
‘I can’t ignore my foster sister, Father.’
‘Carriage! Now!’
Alexei’s meekness bordered on sarcasm. ‘Yes, Father.’ He stole another kiss, released the girl, waved to the others, and helped Glyn load his camera and plates back into the carriage.
‘Charming custom,’ John finished his bread and dusted the salt from his hands.
‘You think so?’ Nicholas questioned when they left the cluster of rough-built wood and stone houses behind them.
Sensing the tension between John and Nicholas, Glyn intervened. ‘There’s one thing you haven’t thought of, sir.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A name for this Russian industrial town of yours.’
John placed the tips of his leather-gloved fingers together. ‘Crawshay named Williamstown, Thomastown, and Georgetown for his sons. But they were only suburbs of Merthyr. This will be no suburb but a town that will grow into a city. What do you think of Hughestown? Every member of my family, old, young, and those not yet born will relate to that.’
‘As it’s in Russia shouldn’t it be Hughesovka, sir?’ Glyn suggested.
‘What do you think?’ John asked Nicholas.
The count addressed the driver and interpreter in Russian. ‘Vlad, Turchin, what do you think of Hughesovka?’
‘Yuzovka?’ A smile creased Vlad’s broad Asiatic face. ‘A good name, sir. A very good name for a town. Yuzovka.’ He indicated a procession walking down the dirt road towards them. ‘Yuzovka will look better on a tombstone than Alexandrovka.’
‘That’s not a cheerful thought.’ John tossed his cigar stub out of the carriage.
‘You understood, Vlad?’ Nicholas asked.
‘Yes, and I accept that the Russianization of my name, if there is such a word, is inevitable.’ John studied the column of heavily muscled, coal-blackened Cossack miners and shorter slighter women as they drew alongside. To his dismay he realised they were carrying an injured man on a stretcher lashed from pit props and coats.
‘Another mining accident! Little wonder given their primitive mining methods,’ Nicholas scorned.
‘Accidents happen, no matter how much care and investment is expended on safety,’ John said soberly.
‘Babushka Razin, who’s hurt?’ Alexei shouted to one of the women. They were dressed in blackened smocks and headscarves. Given the state of their hands and faces it was obvious they’d been labouring alongside the men.
‘My Pavlo, Alexei,’ she whispered without breaking step as the procession drew alongside.
‘Excuse me, Mr Hughes, Mr Edwards, Father.’ Without a care to his safety, Alexei jumped from the carriage a second time.
‘Alexei. Damn you!’ Nicholas shouted. ‘The boy’s incorrigible. He’s developed a taste for low life. The more degraded the better.’ He glared at his son, but oblivious to his father’s annoyance and the Cossacks’ filthy clothes Alexei embraced the middle-aged woman he’d spoken to.
Vlad slowed the horses.
‘Drive on, we don’t want to be out on the steppe all night,’ Nicholas ordered.
‘Sir,’ Vlad cracked his whip alongside the leading horse but didn’t touch its back.
‘Be careful, John,’ Nicholas pointed his kid-gloved finger back at the procession. ‘Cossacks are lazy brutes and drunks. Incidents like this, they look for someone to blame for their own shortcomings. If they take it int
o their heads that your British workers are stealing their work and wages they’ll have no compunction about murdering them.’
‘I admit I’ve anticipated trouble, which is why I discussed policing with the Tsar’s representatives. They’ve agreed to station two regiments to act as peacekeepers and law enforcers alongside my works.’
‘Lifeguards?’ Nicholas asked.
‘No.’
‘Dragoons? Hussars?’
‘No,’ John permitted himself a small smile. ‘Cossacks.’
The Donbas region of the Ukraine
April 1869
Nathan Kharber paused at the gate of the shtetl cemetery and watched the progress of the long line of carriages, every one drawn by thoroughbreds. Behind them, silhouetted against the sun, was the settlement he called home, although since his return he felt more outsider than native.
When he’d returned from Paris three months before, the wooden houses were smaller than he remembered; older, more weathered, their walls greyer. The largest building in the shtetl, the synagogue, had shrunk from the imposing edifice he recalled from his days in the Cheder, the religious school the rabbi tutored. But that had been before he’d seen the cathedral of Notre Dame and towering medieval stained glass windows of San Chappelle.
He opened the gate to the graveyard. The elders had built a stone wall around it while he’d been away, a wise precaution given that wolves congregated around the memorials during the worst of the winter weather. He walked along the aisles of headstones towards the marker he’d paid for and he and his uncle had erected two months after his father’s death.
He read the chiselled names, recognised most and conjured images of people he’d known, dressed in shrouds standing behind the monuments; in some cases two and three to correspond with an extended family sharing a single stone.
So many deaths in ten years. Ruth and his uncle had written about the epidemics that had ravaged the community during his absence but their letters had seemed abstract, relating details of remote tragedies he hadn’t equated with the lives of his friends and former neighbours.
He arrived at the section that had been erected the year his mother had died. He’d replaced the simple marker his father had bought from the stone mason with a grander stone that had taken most of his inheritance. He’d given his Uncle Asher most of what remained, including the family home which his uncle had sold. In return his uncle and Aunt Leah had agreed to care for his younger sister Ruth. Grossly underestimating his expenses he’d kept back only eighty roubles to pay for his journey to Pari, never suspecting that it would take him fourteen months to work his way to the city.
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