“I suppose it’s all right for someone who’s not a weaver, to take up some of these shares, eh?”
“That would be perfectly in order,” replied the doctor, rising courteously to reply. “The shares will be open, of course, to the public.” He hesitated, then added: “May we hope that you yourself will join us, Mr. Boocock?”
“I don’t mind taking a hundred or so,” replied Eli complacently.
Immediately there was a rush to give in one’s name for shares—men sprang to their feet and quarrelled about the order in which they had done so, so eager were they to get their turn before the shares were exhausted. Just like Eli Boocock, that shrewd old scoundrel, to get in ahead of them! Trust him to be first on to a good thing! Eli, cousin to the late Michael, a square bald man with dewlaps like those of his own cattle, bushy black whiskers, a high colour and small twinkling black eyes, had a great reputation in Whindale for astute dealing, and many amusing anecdotes were told of the sharp practices which made him wealthy—he cheated so entertainingly and brazenly that even his victims could scarce forbear to smile. At one time, so rumour said, he had fancied Rosa, but she had preferred his cousin, so Eli was unmarried; but it was thought that he enjoyed the favours of the fair sex while he was away on his cattle-buying trips in Ireland. If Eli meant to invest his precious money in the Mutual, to invest in the Mutual was a shrewd thing to do.
By the end of the meeting the men of Whindale had covenanted for a thousand shares, and a Committee of management, with Dr. Archibald as chairman, had been nominated. Whindale had committed itself to the Mutual project without ever actually voting upon it.
4
Perhaps the next part of the story can be told most simply and concisely by quoting from an advertisement which appeared in the Annotsfield Recorder on Saturday, June 22nd, 1861. It runs as follows:
WHINDALE MUTUAL SPINNING COMPANY, LTD
Registered capital £30,000, divided into 6,000 shares of £5 each. 1,000 shares already issued. Only 1,000 more to issue at present.
It is acknowledged by all parties who have seen the mill site belonging to this Company, that it possesses many important advantages. There is a water-fall of 48 feet on the adjacent Whinburn river. The ground purchased by the Company possesses some of the finest quarries of white rock stone in the kingdom, and the Company have already purchased 26 acres of this valuable land. A first-rate road of easy gradient from Delph Lane to the works is under construction, and powers are being sought to widen the aforesaid Delph Lane, from the Delph Inn to where it joins the main Manchester-to-Annotsfield road.
The foundation-stone of the mill was laid on Saturday last by Thomas Thornton Archibald, M.D., of Whin Head, who is an extensive shareholder in the Company.
A Committee has been formed, which meets at ButterwortKs Temperance Hotel, Cloth Hall Street, Annotsfield, on Friday evenings, from half past Seven to Nine o’clock. Applications to be enrolled as shareholders should be addressed to this Committee.
So there it is, the project is in full progress. Dr. Archibald and Eli Boocock have paid up for their shares in full, the weavers have paid a pound per share. The land has been bought, the quarry set in action, plans drawn up, building contractors employed, a road begun, the foundation stone laid. One wonders why, when the mill was to be driven by water-power, a mill chimney, which presupposes steam power, should have been envisaged—some people believe that this was due to foresight on Dr. Tom’s part; he saw that though textile processes would always need water, which the Whinburn would abundantly provide, yet steam was the power of the future and provision should be made for future transference to it. But I think the chimney was more likely due to Dr. Tom’s ignorance, for after all he had been brought up in the south of England. All the new mills of that period were provided with high chimneys, and he, poor young man, knowing no better, not understanding that high chimneys were made to take away the smoke from the boiler fires which created steam, thought the Mutual mill ought to have a high chimney like the rest. The point has its interest as illustrating the doctor’s ignorance of the business sphere, which ignorance played its part in what followed. But at the moment nobody troubled about this. The mill lay almost exactly opposite Dr. Tom’s windows across the Whinburn; he could watch its progress as he sat at table. This must have been a happy spectacle for him.
Indeed at this stage the mill became quite a noted meeting-place. Young people courted in its precincts, older people took their children there on Sunday afternoons. Shareholders described the Mutual scheme with gusto to uninformed strangers, slapping the rising walls—their own property—with happy pride. And it was not only in the daytime that the mill was visited. One of Eli Boocock’s young Irish drovers tripped over a stone in the dark and sprained his ankle—a fine strapping curly-haired lad he was, Daniel O’Prunty by name; it was rumoured he was making love to young Annie Callaghan under cover of the new warehouse; certainly she was there that night—and why not? Only natural after all, Dan being as Irish as Annie herself, and they both Ulster Protestants. After this incident of the ankle, large billboards were put up announcing: NO ADMITTANCE EXCEPT ON BUSINESS, but bless you, nobody took much notice of these Why, people walked from as far away as Annotsfield on Sundays to see the mill; what with the quarry men, the builders’ men, the road men and the sightseers, the Delph Inn did a roaring trade. One afternoon a shareholder’s child fell into the quarry! Fortunately he wasn’t much hurt—it is said that the people there waved and shouted across the valley at Dr. Tom’s windows, and he came running down through the trees and across the stream and soon had the child soothed and examined, and its little arm, which had suffered a greenstick fracture, comfortably set. This child, Nat Sykes, son of the shareholder Ben Sykes, is still living today, hale and hearty in his ninety-fifth year; it is he who has given me many of the personal details of this Mutual mill affair, his father having been an eyewitness of several of the incidents recorded.
“Aye, I went too near edge o’t’delph, as childer will, and next thing I knew I were at bottom. I’d tumbled in, you see.”
After that Dr. Tom had strong posts and wires put round the top of the quarry.
“Right thick posts,” says old Nat, shaking his head with a disapproving air.
One gets the impression, from the old man’s tone, that there now perhaps began to be just a little uneasiness about the scale and style of the Mutual Mill. Dr. Tom’s ideas were perhaps just a little grandiose, a little over-handsome. Too aristocratic. Too high-falutin’. In a word, too south-country. The quarry posts were unnecessarily strong, and even the Thorntons of High Roebuck did not have such magnificently dressed stones for the windows and doors of their mill as the Mutual boasted, though the Thorntons were rich enough for anything. A Whin Head weaver, staggering slightly drunk out of the Delph Inn one night as Dr. Archibald entered, shouted at him, waving his hands in the direction of the mill:
“Cover in! Cover in!”
“What did he mean?” enquired Dr. Tom politely of Rosa Boocock. “Some dialect expression, perhaps?”
“He meant the mill’s high enough for owt by now and you should stop and put the roof on,” said Eli Boocock, who was standing in the taproom. His rough hoarse voice carried over the hum of talk, and all present fell silent and listened.
Dr. Tom frowned a little. “No use spoiling the ship for a ha’porth of tar,” said he. “We want our enterprise to be solid and lasting.”
“More than a ha’porth is involved, I reckon,” said Eli Boocock, on a questioning note though jocular.
“Our funds are ample,” said Dr. Tom mildly. “We shall be in full work by next January.”
At this everyone in the taproom smiled happily and nudged each other.
“How many spindles do you reckon she’ll hold, doctor?” said Eli in a respectful tone.
“Thirty-eight thousand, my cousins tell me,” replied Dr. Tom.
The Whin Head folk gaped at him awestruck, and their gaze followed him as he went upstairs to
little Susan, in fond admiration.
Rosa said with feeling:
“It was a good day for Whin Head when you came here, Dr. Tom.”
5
So what went wrong? There isn’t a clue at all anywhere—or rather, because the major clue was lacking, the others made no sense for nearly a hundred years. All that the Whin Head Mutual Spinning Company knew in 1861 was that suddenly, for no reason given, Eli Boocock refused to allow the “first-rate road of easy gradient” to pass through his land. The Delph Inn, that is to say Rosa Boocock, owned some ground at the top of the hill above the quarry; but Eli Boocock owned that large green field sloping gently down to the Whinburn, on the right of the Mutual, which was really the only feasible route to the mill from Delph Lane, the land on the left being hopelessly craggy. Some fifty yards of level road along the bank of the river had already been constructed, from the great doorway of the mill to the wall enclosing Eli’s territory. Allowing for an elbow in the road, that is, if it crossed Eli’s field at an angle and bent back on itself, the promised easy gradient was quite possible—or at any rate, a gradient easier than the approach to many West Riding mills, the district being notoriously hilly.
I said there was no reason given for Eli’s sudden refusal. I meant no genuine reason, no reason which rang true. He alleged as reason that he needed his field to pasture the cattle he brought over from Ireland. Certainly the field was good pasture. But would a road through the middle of it have prevented his beef cattle from feeding on the rest of the grass? Of course it was intended that the actual square yards of land occupied by the road would be bought from him by the Mutual Company. Eli had invested money in the Mutual enterprise; why did he go about now to ruin it?
For he ruined it. There is no documentary evidence as to what actually happened at this time. One must imagine for oneself the shock of horror when Eli’s decision was communicated to the Committee; the expostulations, the arguments, the attempted negotiations, the raised purchase price offered for the strip of land necessary for the road, the proposal to buy the whole field, the quarrels, the final fury. Tradition has it that Eli sat with his arms folded, smiling secretly, his black eyes a-twinkle, throughout the whole of one angry session of the Committee. Attacked from all sides, accused by Dr. Tom with irrefutable logic of a purposeless destruction of his own interests, shouted at by the rest of the members, EH said only:
“Aye—well—it’s a pity there was a mistake, like. But field’s not for sale.”
Nothing would move him. The Committee in despair invited tenders for making a road up through their own land, beside the quarry, but alas! the gradient was so severe, the ground so rough, that the contractors who came to view the site shook dubious heads, declined the job altogether or demanded enormous prices.
“Let’s doff coats and mak t’road wersens, then!” exclaimed one of the weavers with spirit.
Another suggested that a hoist might be put in up the crag, and the Whin Head vicar, who was said to have seen such things elsewhere, made the suggestion of some kind of light railway with two cable cars, which should draw each other up and down by water-power. But the cost, the cost! The Committee hesitated. Meanwhile the stone masonry of the mill, a really superb structure, was completed, and the carpenters were ready to begin the floors, doors and window frames. (The glazing of the windows was not yet contracted for.) They did indeed floor the top storey, but the difficulty of getting the timber down the hillside daunted them, especially after one waggon tilted at the turn of the path and fell on one side, breaking some of the wood and pulling over the shaft-horse, which broke a leg and had to be shot. The thought of spinning machinery coming down that steep rough slope was really alarming. Even if it were once safely housed, supplies of wool must be brought in regularly, the finished yarn must travel out.
All these difficulties might perhaps have been overcome if they had remained locked in the bosoms of the Committee members, but unfortunately the Whin Head men, inexperienced and angry, talked loudly far and wide. Soon all Whin Head knew, all Whindale knew, all Annotsfield knew, of the Mutual’s difficulties. Rumours flew about; it was said at various times that the Committee had quarrelled, the Thorntons had forbidden the project, Dr. Archibald had spent more than he should, Eli Boocock had found something wrong in the accounts, the site was a death trap; and although the Mutual was to have been a worsted spinning-mill, the American Civil War, which was now threatening to deprive Lancashire of cotton, was alleged to be the cause of the delay in finishing the building. Alarmed by these damaging reports, the building contractors, who hitherto had been perfectly satisfied to take their money in instalments and to wait for the final instalment till the mill was working and earning, demanded full pay for the completed masonry immediately now that the opening of the place seemed indefinitely postponed, while the timber merchants refused further supplies and the spindle manufacturers, enraged by the probable disappearance of the Mutual’s large order, became very restless and seemed uncertain whether to press for an advance payment or to sue for breach of contract. Subjected thus to sudden and severe financial pressure from every quarter, the Mutual Committee applied to the Annotsfield bank for an overdraft. It was refused.
This appalling news spread through Whin Head like wildfire. It was heard with a sickening drop of the heart, for it revealed without any shadow of doubt that the Thorntons of High Roebuck were not backing their young relative. At once the credit of the Whin Head Mutual Spinning Company sank to zero. Was it likely, after all, that people like the Thorntons would put money into a mill owned by weavers? Why had Whin Head ever entertained such a preposterous notion? Dr. Archibald—a silly, south-country, la-di-da sort of name; they ought to have known better than to trust a man with a name like that—had misled them. The whole idea was daft, when you came to think of it. A mill that size out in the wilds of Whin Head! What a good thing none of them had paid up more than a pound on their worthless shares! They chuckled a little, wryly, over their astuteness in this.
Next day the company went bankrupt, and each shareholder received a notice that he must pay any moneys outstanding on the price of his shares.
Bewildered, terrified, and mostly insufficiently literate to be sure they had understood the notices aright, the Whin Head men gathered that night at the Delph Inn, where it was rumoured Eli Boocock would explain it all to them. Sure enough he was there, square and red-faced and smoking a cigar as usual. His little black eyes twinkled sardonically as he told them with brutal frankness the meaning of the communications they had received.
“Each on you’ll have to pay four pound on every share you own,” he said.
A groan of horror rose from the assembled men. Four pounds a share! It was a fortune, which most of them were quite unable to provide. They began to argue the matter with the vehemence of fear.
“What if we ’aven’t got four pound?” shouted one.
“Then you’ll ha’ to go to gaol,” said Eli brutally.
Angry shouts followed this callous announcement.
“Why should we? We done nothing wrong! We still got the mill! Why is everything changed? It’s you forbidding the road, that’s what it is, Eli. Aye, it’s you got us into this pickle, Eli Boocock!”
“Nay!” said Eli strongly. “Only a fool throws good money after bad. You can be thankful to me you’re not worse in debt.”
“How do you make that out?” asked Nat Sykes’ father. Eli hesitated, and several took up the cry. “Aye, tell us that!” they shouted in threatening tones.
“I reckon man you have to blame for this lives t’other side of the valley,” said Eli, pointing dramatically through the window towards Whin Grove.
As it chanced, at that very moment lights appeared in the Whin Grove windows. Dr. Archibald, who had been out all day on a confinement, had just returned, and lamps were being lighted by his housekeeper. Somehow the sight of the yellow beams infuriated the men—perhaps by reminidng them of the comfort and style of the doctor’s house, so superior
to their own. At any rate without a moment’s pause they all (except Eli) suddenly streamed out from the inn, down the hillside, across the plank bridge and up the steep path through Dr. Tom’s copse towards Whin Grove, shouting and gesticulating. In the moonlit dusk they would be clearly visible from the windows of the house and the noise they made no doubt called the doctor’s attention to them, for when they reached the side door it was open and Dr. Tom stood there with a lamp in his hand.
“Pray come in, gentlemen,” he said.
His quiet tone brought those in front up short for a moment, then they moved on again but only in a sheepish half-hearted way.
“Nay—there’s too many on us,” they objected.
Perhaps this was their real objection, but more likely they felt they would be at a disadvantage inside the doctor’s house. The others had now come up, and they all gathered round the door in a threatening crowd which grew larger, for the men in the nearest houses, hearing the shouting through the quiet Whindale air, came running to see what was going on. Dr. Tom put the lamp down on a table by the door; in the light of its rays his handsome face looked pale and worn. He stood still and erect, with his long fine hands hanging in despairing lassitude by his side.
“You have come about this unhappy business of the mill,” he said.
“It’s more nor unhappy—it’s ruination for all of us,” they cried.
“I too am ruined,” said Dr. Tom simply. They hushed a little at that.
“It doesn’t help us that you are ruined,” said one roughly. “Would that it could!” said Dr. Tom in a tone of heartfelt longing.
“You’ve still got your fine house, I reckon,” grumbled another.
Love and Money Page 13