Guardian Angel

by Brian John

“Maybe, Aunt Susanna,” said George. “He is a great crony of the Lord Marcher, and also an inveterate gossip. He may well have heard things. But I imagine that the Lord Marcher would not be best pleased if he were to find that those of us in this room now know more than we should.”

  Shemi and Wilmot knew a very great deal more than the Rector, and it transpired that they had been waiting for my return before bringing their information to more general attention. Some weeks back, they said, they had thought of writing to me, but had then decided that they did not want to alarm me or disturb my Grand Tour with unwelcome news. They also speculated that because of his privileged position as a barrister in and out of Parliament almost every day, John had spotted an announcement of a Bill long before it was likely to be reported in the press. They assumed that there must be a plan to announce the project within the next few weeks.

  “So, Wilmot,” I said, “not for the first time, we will have to turn to you for enlightenment. May I first tell you everything I know?”

  “Please do, Susanna.”

  “First, I know that Jonas Harry hates you, Wilmot, with a frightening vehemence, and will do almost anything to defeat you and thwart whatever plans you may have. Second, he wants your estates, for reasons which become clearer by the day. He also wants the other estates around the mountain, and which have associated commoners’ rights. He has followed me everywhere, because of the information provided by that wretched serving girl at Plas Llanychaer. I take it that we all know about that?”

  We all nodded, and Wilmot became flushed, and started to apologize again. I put my hand on his arm and said: “No no, Wilmot. That betrayal could have afflicted any one of us. Anyway, in a strange sort of way, it might have helped our cause. And I am almost certain that Harry does not know my identity. I have met him, and we have a certain rapport.”

  Wilmot looked alarmed. I laughed, put my arms around his neck and gave him a kiss. “Don’t you worry, my dear Wilmot. I love you far too much to do anything that might harm you or yours. We all have a lot to lose here if anything goes wrong. Just you trust me. To resume. Harry is quite convinced that Wilmot has elaborate plans for the mountain and the common, and he also suspects that the owner of these two good little estates knows more about certain things than he does. Correct, Wilmot?”

  Wilmot looked weary. “Correct, Martha. That fellow must lead a miserable life, suspecting everybody and everything. I give you my word, all of you, that I have no plans for the mountain, or the port, or the common. Nor am I in any sort of business relationship with anybody who does. As you all know, I have always fought for the continuation of commoners’ rights, and have resisted enclosures. And I love the mountain, and will not see it harmed. But I will admit to you, between these four walls, that cash is tight, that copper prices have fallen, and that I have been finding it a struggle to maintain the estates. I have been talking to certain parties about loans and possible partnership arrangements, not with a view to financing some mad industrial project, but because I simply wish the estates to survive.”

  We all understood. There was a sympathetic silence, and then Ioan asked: “So Harry has found out about these approaches of yours, Wilmot, and has assumed that you are seeking capital in order to turn Newport into a sort of industrial heartland for West Wales?”

  “I suspect so, Ioan. He has more or less accused me of that, in talking to mutual acquaintances, and that has been reported back to me. I have actually written to the fellow to say that I have no further interests in industry, having left all that behind me in Swansea under the control of my son Samson, but he refuses to believe me.”

  The poor fellow looked utterly dejected. “What more can I do?” he pleaded, as Delilah took his hand and held it tight.

  Then George said: “And if copper prices are falling, presumably Harry’s industrial empire is also in trouble?”

  “Indeed it is,” said Wilmot. “He has always invested his profits and kept little in reserve. Some of his investments -- for example in that absurd palace of his on the Mumbles -- have been foolish in the extreme. So now his instinct is to invest his way out of trouble again, in competition with a non-existent project of mine! I fear that the man is probably mad........”

  “I think I concur in that, Wilmot,” I said. “But what is he doing in bed with Sir Mervyn Lloyd, the Lord Marcher? Unlikely bedfellows, as I think you might agree.........”

  “Remember, Susanna, that Sir Mervyn is a very large landowner with estates in Cardiganshire and Carmarthenshire as well as Pembrokeshire. He also has industrial interests. I suspect that he and Harry are both Freemasons, intent upon a little mutual back-scratching.”

  “Why should Sir Mervyn now come back to Newport and start repairing his castle, which has stood in ruins for centuries?” asked Ioan. “I have been pondering on that for some little time, and now it becomes clear. He is a vain fellow, as we are all aware. Not content with the bowing and scraping of deferential local people, I think he wants to gaze down from the battlements on his new port and his smoking factories, just like Crawshay in Cyfartha and Guest in Dowlais!”

  “No no, Ioan,” I insisted. “Vanity cannot drive a scheme as vast as this. There must be much more to it than that............. “

  Shemi, who had remained unusually quiet and thoughtful thus far, now intervened. “Let me assist, dear friends. I have been looking and listening, and have been collecting little dregs of information from here, there and everywhere. Some of the men who have come here from the Swansea district have been thugs and spies, well trained to remain tight-lipped even when their tongues have been lubricated in the Black Lion. They have not stood out from the crowd in any particular, since there are scores of passing sailors, merchants, craftsmen and itinerant labourers prowling around in Newport and on the Parrog at any one time -- particularly in the summer. The ones who caught my eye, round about Eastertime of last year, were the professional men, carrying maps and measuring things. Some of them came in their own carriages. They worked quite surreptitiously, sometimes in bad weather so as to avoid observation, but there was no doubt as to what they were up to............”

  “Did you know at the time,” I asked, “that these men were working for Jonas Harry?”

  “I suspected it, but I was not certain. To continue. I would have given a fortune for one of their maps, but they were incredibly careful with them. Then, more than a year ago, just before you went off on your Grand Tour, Susanna, you presented me with a set of their maps, kindly obtained by a mutual acquaintance of ours from one of Harry’s spies. I examined them carefully, but still could not work out their full importance. Then I heard from my friend that he had obtained from the same fellow a compass, and suddenly everything became clear! In the summer and autumn, those same fellows were back again, and I surmised that they were repeating the same work, following the loss of the first set of maps. I imagine that their noble leader was not a happy fellow, and that his scheme was set back by at least six months. ”

  “It may be clear to you, my dear Shemi, what the nature of this great scheme may be, but I am perfectly mystified!” said Delilah, who liked a good mystery. “Is this not wonderfully thrilling?” She glowed and wobbled with excitement, and the rest of us scowled.

  “Several of the maps have got pencil lines on them,” said Shemi, “and numbers scribbled here and there. Some of the lines on the maps are compass bearings, my friends, and some of the numbers are compass readings. Other lines are intended to indicate the routes of new roadways and mineral lines, and possibly overhead cables or Blondins intended for the transport of bulky materials. And then the final set of numbers relates to the distances covered by these various routes, as an aid to estimating construction costs. So there we have it -- the veins and arteries of the Carningli Stone Company.”

  Everybody in the room was stunned. Then Betsi said: “But this seems to be a giant project, Shemi, if you are right. We know something of it already, of course, from that cutting sent by Daisy’s son John, wit
h mentions of a new port with a crushing plant, grading machinery and storage hoppers on the Parrog. But where will those things go, and what will happen to the houses, warehouses and fishermen’s cottages?”

  “It can be taken as read that the existing buildings will all have to go,” said Shemi, “to make room for these new structures. It is obvious from the maps that the shoreline from the Parrog towards the mouth of the estuary is the place where the new quay will be built, and where stone will be exported. There will also have to be adequate storage space for the storage of limestone and coal which will be imported.”

  “Coal and limestone? But what for, Shemi?” asks Daisy.

  “For the iron smelters, Daisy, which I have suspected to be a part of the plan and which have now been confirmed as a result of a loose tongue.”

  “That would, I fear, make perfect sense,” said Wilmot, to an audience of petrified listeners. “For iron smelting you need iron ore, coal and limestone. And very substantial buildings. Those buildings could not, I think, be built entirely of slate slabs from the sea quarries along the cliffs, but they could easily be built of stone from the mountain. Some of the sea quarries could provide the roofing materials. Coal and limestone already come into Newport, in small quantities, to feed the lime kilns. There would be a need for bigger ships and preferably for deepwater berths accessible at all states of the tide. That means the river would have to be diverted, and that there would have to be a huge dredging project along the western side of the estuary and probably a breakwater at least half a mile long out in the bay. As for the iron works, I can well understand why it needs to be across the river. Iron works are filthy, disgusting things, and if one is to be built in Newport it needs to be downwind or east of the town, in a position where the Lord Marcher can see it but not smell it.”

  “And how large would this iron works be, Wilmot?’” asked Ioan.

  “I am not an expert in iron smelting, but I should have thought that there would have to be an output of at least 4,000 tons of pig iron every year for the project to make sense. That would be a small plant in comparison to those of Merthyr Tydfil and other great centres of the iron industry, but quite large enough to change this little town of ours for ever and to kill all the greenery for miles around.”

  “But why have these mad entrepreneurs called their company the Carningli Stone Company?”

  “Well, if I was a mad entrepreneur, the first thing I would go for would be the stone from the mountain. I would anticipate at least one large quarry on the Newport side of the mountain, and possibly others as well on the south and east sides. They would carry stone down to the port by mineral railway and on overhead cable transporters. Very easy -- all downhill. The best bluestone -- which is wonderfully hard and magnificently coloured when fresh -- would be sold as a prime building stone, and the rest would be crushed. Remember that they have planned for a crushing plant and for storage bins and hoppers. At a guess, I would say that the crushed stone will probably go into Ireland for use in the road building programme instigated by the government.”

  Perhaps I should not have been so surprised. I was in a deep state of shock as I listened to all of this. And there was one thing which I still did not not understand. “My dear friends who know about such things,” I said, “you have mentioned the importation of coal and limestone -- presumably from Milford Haven or South Pembrokeshire. But you have not mentioned iron ore or ironstone. That will have to be imported as well, meaning that all three of the essential ingredients for pig iron production will have to be brought in by ship. Surely that is not sensible? I know, from my time in Merthyr Tydfil, that all great iron and steel enterprises are located where at least one of the three essential ingredients is plentiful. At Dowlais and Cyfartha they had all three in the neighbourhood, just waiting to be dug out of the ground...........”

  “You are very perceptive, Susanna,” said Wilmot. “That is a sound rule, and it is hardly ever broken. I am mystified myself. All I can assume is that these men with grand designs are attracted by the location of Newport, on the far west coast of Wales. That gives this place a great advantage over the ironworks at Merthyr Tydfil and Ebbw Vale, which are a long way inland and have high transport costs. Land leases, canal and rail charges are going up all the time. Perhaps they see a future market for iron in Ireland, and see that they can sell into it from Newport in Pembrokeshire at an advantageous price.”

  “Let me enlighten you,” said Shemi, having strung us along for long enough. “Nobody this evening has wondered why the fellows working for Harry and the Lord Marcher have been playing about with compasses. The answer is that they have been measuring compass deviations, and recording these on their maps. On the mountain there are certain places where the needle does not point north, but points somewhere else instead -- and in one spot it spins about and does not know where it should come to rest. I have observed this phenomenon myself, and so have many others. Some say that these anomalies indicate that the mountain is sacred, but for a scientist they indicate that the mountain is full of iron.........”

  We all stared at him with our mouths open, incapable of words.

  He continued. “Iron is the only mineral that affects compasses in this way. Sadly, my friends, the conclusion has to be that the Carningli Stone Company intends to take out the surface stone to start with, and to then remove the heart of the mountain to feed its blast furnaces. The mountain is after all not very big, not much more than a thousand feet high and maybe half a mile from one side to the other. The only conclusion I can come to is that Carningli will be removed in its entirety.”

  I felt that my heart had been turned to ice, and I suspect that all of us in the room were similarly afflicted.

  Before any of us could say anything more, Myfanwy knocked and came in. “Mistress,” she said, “My brother Gerallt has just come back from town with certain news. A notice has gone up on the church door saying that next week, at seven of the clock on Thursday evening, there will be a public meeting in the Church Chapel at which the Lord Marcher, accompanied by certain scientists and experts in the matter of industry, will inform the people about exciting developments designed to alleviate poverty and bring great wealth to the town. I thought that you might like to know.”

  All of us in the room were white-faced and in a state of shock. I did not tell the others, but I knew now what my destiny was, and why I had been spared from the grave. I also knew why I had been guided to China, and encouraged to wade through human excrement, and forced to watch men die in agony from the effects of molten iron, and allowed to see what industry and greed do to people who cannot defend themselves.

  I stood up and faced everybody, shaking with passion, and said: “My friends, if your conclusions are sound, and if these evil men truly plan to desecrate this sacred mountain and to destroy this beloved place in the name of progress, I swear before you and before God that I will stop them with my bare hands. If I fail in my enterprise, and if this diabolical scheme does go ahead, it will, quite literally, be over my dead body.”

  rrr

  Atonement

  The meeting went on far into the night. It was four in the morning when I got to sleep, and the eastern sky was already lightening. I slept fitfully, and in my dreams I was assaulted by beggars, orphans, maimed iron-workers, convicts and lunatics. I saw half faces and limbless bodies, eyes blinded by white heat and torsoes eaten away by splashes of iron. Street urchins laughed at me, screamed at me, abused me, and tore at my clothes. Others threw their pathetic scraps of food into my face. A treadmill spun before my eyes, and I was inside it, trapped, trapped....... Drop-hammers clattered out a mad rhythm and furnaces went into blast. Dowlais tokens clattered down out of the sky onto the roof of Cardiff Prison, smashing the slates into slivers, and the prison turned into a hovel, and the hovel turned into a Workhouse, and that turned into a filthy bar in Penydarren, which turned into a brothel in one of the back alleys of Dowlais. The ground shook and thundered now, as a thousand furnaces wen
t into blast, filling the sky with sparks and pouring streams of molten iron down into China, consuming hovels and alleyways and turning screaming children into vapour. Then I saw the brothel again, and Lady Charlotte Guest walked out of it, face painted like a whore, with her breasts bared, and grinning at me, and waving her red ruby ring before me on a chain. More whores joined her. They had fat legs and big hips and quivering breasts, and they turned into honeyed hams which were placed before a row of slavering ironmasters lined up along the big dining table in Dowlais House. The captains of industry leered at me and danced a mad Irish jig around me, going faster and faster, and at last whirling with such abandon that their fine clothes flew off them and they turned into skeletons, which then crumbled into small pieces, which in turn blew about like dust in the wind, and fell to the ground, and turned into cinders, stinking of sulphur and glowing red and orange in the blackness of Hell. I ran to escape from the flames, and slipped in a stream of human excrement, and found that I could not rise to my feet again. I started to sink in this foul slimy morass, up to my thighs, and then my waist, and then my neck, and as I sank out of sight it entered my throat, and I could not breathe..........

  I woke with a start, covered in perspiration, with my sheets scattered around me, to find that Myfanwy was calmly drawing my curtains to reveal the brightness of another lovely June day. “Bad dream, Mistress?” she asked in a level voice.

  “You could say that,” I replied, still gasping for breath. “Myfanwy, is there still a real world outside that window?”

  “Yes indeed. The mountain is looking as pretty as ever, I am pleased to say. The mist is just clearing.”

  I ate breakfast with Merlin and Myfanwy, and was pleased to see that the two of them were developing a fine relationship like that of a little brother and a big sister. The boy was growing tall and strong, and he was beginning to recover his spirit after the tragedy which had recently befallen him. That cheered me up, and banished my nightmare to the rubbish pile where it belonged. This poor child must be given a future, I thought, like all the other children of this district -- and that future should not -- would not -- be one dominated by sulphurous fumes, a blackened countryside, and the exploitation and humiliation of honest working people. By mid-morning I was possessed of a rock-solid resolve, and I had made plans for my atonement.