“Mid-week, Mr Star, the bulk of the materials move on Saturday.”
Joseph nodded, glanced out of the rear doors at the stables block, saw only two of the boxes to have straw down; there was a single set of cart tracks in the mud.
“How many men do you employ, Mr Marks?”
“One lad, at the moment.”
Joseph raised an eyebrow to Clapperley – this shoe-string operation wasn’t worth ten bob – why was he talking of two thousands?
“Mr Marks suffered a misfortune recently, Mr Star; a dishonest carter – Irish, of course – who made off with a full dray load of dyed cloths, and the dray itself and two horses. The cloths had been sold already, contracts signed, and he had to pay his buyer’s consequential losses as well. The insurers are unwilling to pay in full, as always, and demand proofs and this and that, as ever, and the matter will drag on for another two or three years I expect. The effect was to destroy almost all of Mr Marks’ working capital at a blow.”
Joseph nodded, waited silently for more – the man who talked first was at a disadvantage in this sort of situation.
“Mr Marks knows the trade and the people and the prices; he can keep his spinners and weavers in employment and loyal to him – but he must have the wherewithal: another dray and pair, a closed van and a light horse, a part-load of cotton, two drivers and a warehouse hand. He would wish to advance wages to spinners and weavers so as to keep them beholden to him. The meanwhile, of course, he would make all of his knowledge available to you.”
“Two thousands? Expensive horses and wagons, they must be, Mr Clapperley.”
“Well, in fact, of course, Mr Marks has had to finance himself as well as he could the while, there are sundry debts…”
Joseph shook his head, cut him short.
“No. I do not believe I wish to be fairy godfather to Mr Marks. Too much money for too little return, I am afraid.”
Joseph nodded farewell to Marks and turned on his heel, walked quietly outside leaving Clapperley with no option other than to follow him.
“What happens to Marks now, Mr Clapperley?”
“He will be taken up for debt, warehouse and his goods sold out from under him, his own house as well, family out in the street. Actually he has a brother who will take the wife and children in, but he will not, cannot, pay his debts.”
“How much does he owe?”
“Five hundred or so. The warehouse will go for one fifty; stock, cart and pair of ponies, about another fifty. House and furniture, a hundred at most, and that will include his wife’s jewellery. He will be down a long hundred, possibly two.”
“You know his affairs in some detail, it would seem.”
Clapperley was silent a few seconds, reluctantly then admitted that he was Marks’ chief creditor.
Joseph waited in his turn, let the silence drag out long enough to make Clapperley thoroughly uncomfortable.
“Do nothing until he is locked up, Mr Clapperley, in the sponging house, but before there is a judgement against him. Then, before his family is turfed out of house and home, buy up the warehouse and pay off all of his debts – including those to yourself – and then offer him a pound a week to work for me, two parts in ten of the annual profits to be his as a bonus at the end of each year. You may wish to point out to him that I have bought up his debts and own his house.”
“So, sir, should he not wish to work for you, or be unsatisfactory in the performance of his duties, it will be back to clink for him until he has paid you off, which he will not be able to do from his prison cell! Of course, a couple of years and he should be able to pay you from his bonuses.”
“By then I shall not need him – I cannot imagine that I will take too long to learn the trade, Mr Clapperley.”
A few days later Clapperley brought Tom to the attention of Mr Roberts, sole proprietor of the Roberts Iron Works, an establishment conveniently on the Manchester side of the town. The works sprawled over the better part of twenty acres on a hillside overlooking the canal and the high road, was obviously long established, the cobbled yard at the base of the hill dating back at least a hundred years. There was a stream on the left-hand, western, edge of the property, running into a header pond and then away, presumably eventually to reach the River Mersey. The other side of the hill was deeply quarried, the source of the iron which had led to the establishment of the furnaces here. There was a turning pond and loading bay at the canal and a heap of coal out in the yard, a larger supply of coke, fifty or sixty tons in a ten feet high pile, in an open-sided warehouse with a wooden trackway running to the pair of furnaces. Next to the highway was an old forge and smithy, no longer in use, beside a large thatched house; running up a lane were a dozen or so of small cottages, presumably home to some at least of the workers. The modern works comprised a pair of long sheds on either side of the two furnaces, the right hand section fairly new, that on the left perhaps twenty years old and including a waterwheel that was slowly turning under the jet from the header pond.
Both of the furnaces were smoking and there was a general banging coming out of the sheds together with a very solid regular thumping that spoke of a machine rather than a human hand.
Just inside the gates was a small single-storey brick building, a pair of rooms that were obviously the offices. Roberts was there, accompanied by his daughter, sat at what appeared to be her own desk; she was still a girl, of about Tom’s age, dressed very plainly in a grey, high-necked gown without ornamentation; there was a smudge of ink on her sleeve. She was, or could have been, very pretty, Tom thought, soft brown hair, blue eyes, a high forehead, good, regular features, well formed; a pity she did not smile as she gave him good morning. He noticed a black mourning band on her arm.
“My daughter, Margaret, Mr Andrews,” Roberts brusquely stated, swaying just a little as he rose to make his greetings. He stank of gin and stale sweat, the latter forgivable if he had spent the early morning in the foundry.
“Mr Roberts is intending to retire in the near future, Mr Andrews,” Clapperley announced. “Hence his wish to take a partner now with the expectation of being bought out in a year or so.”
“I would prefer otherwise,” Margaret interrupted. “I think it would be better that Papa should remain as a sleeping partner, drawing an income annually – it would be a more secure provision for our future.”
Clapperley had talked of three thousand now and a further payment on nine or ten when the old man retired; the girl was obviously afraid that he would drink himself to death in short order, wasting the ready with a drunkard’s abandon and leaving her destitute. She was probably right.
“We could vary the initial proposal to that effect, of course, ma’am, though I have to say that I would prefer to be sole owner of the firm with the freedom to make any changes that I personally pleased.”
“It’s none of your damned business, girl!” Roberts’ speech was slightly slurred, not sufficiently for him to be aware of it, but clear to the alert ear. “Jonathan is dead, and business is no business of womenfolk, so there is no further family interest in the works. I shall sell and be damned to it!”
She subsided into silence, aware that she would gain nothing other than a slap round the face from argument; Tom watched her covertly over the next few minutes as Roberts gave a rambling exposition of the firm’s activities, could see hatred in her eyes – it was a good thing there was no pistol to hand, he thought.
“Thank you, Mr Roberts, for your explanation. Would it be possible for me to take a look at the premises?”
“Of course, you’d be a fool to buy in sight unseen!” He turned to his daughter. “Get Mason!”
She came back in five minutes accompanied by a middle-aged man dressed in working clothes – brown corduroy trousers, open-neck, collarless flannel shirt and thick-soled short boots – and wearing a long, heavy leather apron. His bare arms were covered in small scars and burns of varying redness, his cheeks the same; he wore a heavy cap pulled down over his eyes.
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br /> “Mason is foreman, in charge of both sheds, with gangers to the furnaces and hammer under him. He can show you all you need, he’s got a good three hours before the new furnace pours - plenty of time.”
Roberts seemed to be a stranger to common courtesy, to lack the most basic good manners; Tom mentally knocked a thousand off any price he might be inclined to offer for his firm – the man was a drunken pig. At least Blaine had behaved like a gentleman when he was in liquor – Roberts behaved like an animal all the time he suspected
“Good morning, Mr Mason. Would you lead the way, please?”
Mason showed surprise, not expecting decent treatment in this office, silently held the door for Tom and pointed him towards the canal. Ten yards from the door and he glanced across and gave an apologetic smile.
“Master don’t have no time for talk, like, sir. Do you know ‘owt of iron, sir, or do you want to see it all?”
Tom smiled waved a hand generally, inviting him to lead on.
“My name is Andrews, Tom Andrews, Mr Mason. I know nothing of iron yet, and I will need a man who does know if I am to buy these works. I know a little of the sea, and a little about fighting, and now I want to put the money that came to me to useful work, and myself, too. I would wish to do a man’s work, Mr Mason, but I will need advice and assistance from a skilled and experienced source. By the way, who was Jonathan?”
“Mr Jonathan, only son to Mr Roberts, thirty or thereabouts. Master was married twice, both dead now, young Miss Margaret daughter to the second, her mother barely surviving her birth by a week. Mr Jonathan was found in the canal here, two months since, with a big bruise across his forehead, like as if he’s fallen and hit his head as he went in… maybe.”
“Or…”
“Like you says, sir, it might have been t’other way round. Never married, Mr Jonathan didn’t. Very friendly with any number of the young lads hereabouts, often you’d see ‘im with two or three of them, boys of sixteen or seventeen or so, some of them sons to the local farmers and gentry. The word was that some of their dads was none too happy; two of them got gamekeepers, used to dealing with poachers and such…”
“Enough said.”
“So I reckons, sir. Now then, sir, canal side, loading bay, coals and coke in, piece-goods out, you’ll see a narrow boat here most days. Thirty ton of coal at a time, less of coke, of course, it being lighter. Six men with shovels working here, sir.”
“No crane?”
“No, sir, though I reckons it would be better if we did ‘ave. Maybe a steam engine, even, especial if we gets busier.”
“Not very busy at the moment?”
“Short of contracts, sir, two of those we’ve got close to an end. Mr Roberts has hardly been out at all since Mr Jonathan died – nobody drumming up business for the firm.”
Mason led the way to the first, newer shed, opened a side door to give an overview of all that was happening inside; it was noisy, gloomy and very hot.
“Windows get smutted over as fast as you clean them, Mr Andrews – no way you can get any daylight in. We poured yesterday, about half going straight to Number Two to charge with scrap and stir and burn off to make wrought. The stuff that went to the sand-moulds is mostly cast guttering and cooking pots and pans. It’s cooled off now and they’re breaking it out and cleaning off the flash in this half of the shed, finishing off the moulds for the next pour on the other side – big job, trusses for the roof of a mill, each one to exact size and shape to fit in its proper place, good money, there’s only a few concerns in this area can do that sort of job.”
Tom asked the obvious questions, made the obvious comment about the heat.
“Wait till we pours, sir – if it’s hot now, it’s boiling then!”
“Twenty-four men and five boys”
“Are they apprentices?”
“Not as such, sir. Learners, improvers, you might say, but not working towards a trade.”
“Do you need more hands?”
“No, not in here, sir. Needs be a better organisation of what we’ve got, sir, that’s all. Make some changes next door, and a lot in the quarry, but not to so great an amount in ‘ere, sir.”
They went to the other side, round the two big furnaces, stepping over the trackway.
“Wooden rails, Mr Mason, do they break often?”
“All the time, sir, we ought to make ‘em out of wrought, but the master says it would cost too much. Ought to be laid out as far as the quarry, too, but ‘e won’t ‘ave it – never was that way, no need for it ever to be so. Steam engine in the middle ‘ere, with a big windlass and a long rope, pulling the trucks up from canal and quarry both, make a sight more sense, sir. Good iron in that quarry yet, sir, but it’s getting deeper and needs more labour to get it out – an engine makes sense, sir.”
“So it seems. What would it cost, do you know?”
“I got all the figures, sir, I kept my copy even when master threw ‘is in the bin as a waste of ‘is bloody time.”
“Good, keep it all to hand, if you please.”
“This is the wrought iron shop, sir, mostly beating out shares for ploughs – big call for them, sir, but a bit of plate as well, for boilers. Not the best quality, our wrought, sir, but good enough for what we do.”
“Why is it not the best, Mr Mason? You do not strike me as a man for the second-best, if I might say so.”
“I ain’t, sir. That’s why I come up north ‘ere, because the trade down in Kent were dying for lack of quality iron. Thing is, sir, coke just ain’t the right stuff for wrought iron, it don’t burn quite ‘ot enough, you got to ‘ave charcoal melted iron for the best wrought. You can stir it in the furnace and burn it careful, but it ain’t never quite so good. However, master wants to make it, so we do.”
They walked the whole site, spent the better part of two hours, Tom fascinated by his first sight of anything bigger than a blacksmith’s forge, drawing Mason out and gaining the impression of a self-educated intelligent man with ideas of his own, one who could be of great use to him, not just in the early days but as a long-term manager and assistant, a first lieutenant, as it were.
When they returned to the office, Roberts was waiting but his daughter had been sent away.
“Well?”
No greeting, no courtesy, and this was the Age of Manners!
“A very interesting and thorough tour, sir. Your Mr Mason has been very good.”
“So ‘e bloody should be – that’s ‘is bloody job!”
Clapperley winced, uneasy in the presence of bad temper and aggression, fearful of an argument, fisticuffs even, doubtful that young Mr Andrews would tolerate such cavalier treatment.
“Have you formed an opinion of Mr Roberts’ business, Mr Andrews?”
“I have, Mr Clapperley, am fairly impressed by it. A pity that trade seems slow at the moment, but, no doubt, you have new contracts ready to come in, Mr Roberts?”
Roberts failed to meet his eye, shook his head after a moment.
“That would be an early need, then. It seems to me best that you should take your retirement at an early stage, Mr Roberts, if you agree to sell, sir. I am prepared to offer you twelve thousand pounds, cash, for the equity – lock, stock and barrel - works, quarry, land, cottages and house. I presume you live in the house, sir?”
“I do.”
“Tenancy rent-free for your lifetime, sir, on condition that you do not enter any other part of the premises.”
Tom waited for Roberts to demand the tenancy for his daughter’s lifetime, a reasonable request that he would instantly accept, but he sat mute for a while, fiddling with a pencil at his desk, finally looking up to half-shout a refusal.
“Paltry! Twelve thousand? I could get twenty anywhere!”
Tom was not prepared to negotiate – Clapperley had told him there were two other iron works for sale in the area, though both were smaller and less well-known than Roberts.
“Then clearly you must find another buyer, Mr Roberts. Thank you
for your time, sir. Good day to you.”
Mason was waiting outside the offices, papers in hand.
“Thank you for your help, Mr Mason. It seems that I shall not be purchasing here, but now that I have seen a manufactury I shall elsewhere. When I do, may I call upon you, sir?”
“I shall hear of it if you do buy one of the others, Mr Andrews – ours is still a small community – and I might well come knocking at your door, sir.”
“You may be very sure of a welcome if you do, Mr Mason.”
He made a point of shaking Mason’s hand before he turned away.
“Good man, that one, Mr Clapperley. What would he earn?”
“I don’t know, Mr Andrews, but probably not much more than hundred a year – Mr Roberts has no name for generosity as an employer.”
“Mr Roberts is a drunken little shit, sir.” Clapperley winced again, looked round anxiously in case they had been overheard. “How would I go about getting new contracts, if I was to take the works?”
“First, a newspaper announcement that the firm has a new proprietor and that Mr Roberts has no further connection with the works. A few pounds in the editor’s pocket and there will be an article about the ‘new man of enterprise who has come to town and is revitalising one of our oldest firms in the iron trade, intending to make it one of the biggest and most modern in the whole of Lancashire’. I can see to that, sir. You have no objection to your name being published, sir?”
“None at all, Mr Clapperley – it is a sufficiently common name, I believe.”
“That should steer some contracts back to the works, sir – local firms who have taken work elsewhere and would be glad to bring it back close to home, now that the cause of the initial friction is gone. There are still only a very few big trip-hammers, sir. Some new contracts might come your way, too, as a result of the news, but very few. You should employ a traveller, sir, a man who will go from firm to firm, town to town, knocking on doors and soliciting trade; he must have a knowledge of the business and be able to talk prices and delivery times, and he must be able to speak well, to hold his own in polite company. Mr Jonathan Roberts was used to perform the role, I believe, and did it quite well for a time, until he became, shall we say, persona non grata in this area.”
The Privateersman (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 1) Page 11