The Silk Factory

by Judith Allnatt

  As she rounded the corner of the hen house, she came face-to-face with an olive-skinned boy, a little older and bigger than she, squatting down with his hand stretched beneath the wooden shed, in the act of reaching for an egg that had rolled underneath; he had two others cushioned in his upturned hat. His coat was tattered and so threadbare that it had a greasy look. His breeches barely reached down to his knees; he wore no stockings and his feet were bound in sacking.

  ‘Sorry, missus, to have frighted you,’ he said, glancing quickly around to see if she had anyone with her.

  ‘You’re one of the gypsies from up Castle Dykes,’ Beulah said. ‘You shouldn’t take anything from here. The master is a bad man.’

  Keeping his eyes on her face all the time, he curled his fingers around the egg and brought it out from under the shed. ‘We has to eat, see?’ Slowly, he placed it next to the others in his hat, not caring for the smudges of hen dirt and feathers.

  ‘Oh, please don’t! He’d beat you if he caught you! I’ve seen him bang a boy’s head against the wall until he didn’t know which way was up! He’d beat you and then fetch the constable as well.’

  ‘But he’ll not catch me. You’ll not tell on Hanzi, missus, will you? You’ll not turn Hanzi in?’

  Beulah looked at the thin figure before her, his skin goose-bumped and his footcloths a waterlogged mess. She shook her head. In an instant he sprang up and was running, bent low, using the hedge at the back of the orchard as cover until he reached a gap and squeezed through, disappearing as quickly as a rabbit down a hole.

  Beulah leant against the side of the hen house, her heart still hammering. She waited there for a while, to make sure that anyone watching from the windows of the factory who might have glimpsed the running figure shouldn’t connect her with it. At length, she emerged casually and began working her way around the laying places. She found no more eggs, which, she thought, was hardly surprising, as other fingers had clearly been there before hers and she wondered, crossly, whether Mrs Gundy would scold her for not finding sufficient. Nonetheless, she had been hungry herself often enough to recognise the boy’s starving look and to pity it.

  In the event, she didn’t have to worry, as when she returned with the eggs she was summoned upstairs to the first floor where the overseer told her that she was to take a basket of bindings for retrimming uniforms and deliver them to the military depot. She was to take them to the East Lodge, and say that the delivery was meant for the clothing stores, and she was to wait for a receipt.

  Beulah laboured up the hill towards the garrison. The basket was large, awkward and heavily laden with many stacked rolls of tapes, and the cart traffic had turned the snow to muddy, slippery slush. As she reached the bastion at the corner of the huge walled enclosure, she was conscious of a pair of eyes upon her and dared not glance up at the lookout slit, behind which a sentry must be posted. She drew in tighter against the great wall, as if she could scuttle along, unobserved in its shadow, like a little spider hugging a wainscot.

  The East Lodge was a rectangular gatehouse topped by a cupola and wind vane, and built of yellow brick, in contrast to the vast expanse of redbrick wall either side. It gained its intimidating stature not only because of its solid, foursquare shape, but by the fact that it was built over an arm of the canal and the semi-circular tunnel that gave the water entrance beneath the building was equipped with a heavy iron portcullis, which was raised to let barges in and out and lowered to secure the entrance, descending to touch the bottom of the Cut. Beulah didn’t like the building’s face. Its blind window openings, bricked in for security, were like blank eyes above the downturned mouth of the tunnel opening and the barred portcullis was like a prison gate.

  Today, however, as she approached the swing bridge that was used to cross the canal, the portcullis was slowly opening and a long black barge was waiting to gain entrance through the building. She stood aside to wait. Boy and horse passed in front of her, followed by the rounded shape of the boat’s load, hidden under a grey and greasy oilcloth, like the humped back of a leviathan. The boat was steered by a man dressed in a rough smock coat with a cloth tied around his head against the cold. He hawked and spat into the murky green water. As the portcullis creaked and groaned and the boat moved forward, another boat hove into view, whilst down the road ahead came six sweating horses drawing a huge limber on which sat a fat driver and a sturdy nine-pounder gun. Beulah, overcome by the noise and the scale of all around her, wished that she could turn tail. She stayed, poised uncertainly beside the canal, wondering how she was to make herself noticed amongst all the busyness.

  She was soon glad that she had waited as she observed the driver stop at an iron gate in the wall, at which he appeared to speak. Just like the story in the chapbook that Effie had read to her, the gate opened as if he had said ‘Open Sesame’ and the horses and limber passed through. Now she at least knew how to gain entry and once the traffic had dissipated and the bridge swung back into place, she hurried forwards. No sooner had she reached the gate than an iron grille slid back and a pockmarked face appeared and demanded she state her business. Beulah repeated what she’d been told to say and once more the gate swung open; she entered and the gatekeeper closed and barred it behind her with a sonorous clang.

  Beulah stared wide-eyed at the huge storehouses that towered on either side of the canal and at the boats drawn up against the wharves, where crowds of boatmen and soldiers unpacked barrel after wooden barrel in an unending stream. Each was covered in hides to prevent sparks struck from the wheels of the barrows from igniting the gunpowder. In the distance was a wide basin where further barges were turning, and beyond them row upon row of magazines. Near at hand were workshops from which hammering and hissing issued, and the whole was so busy with men, horses, carts and so forth that there was barely a path to be followed between them. The gatekeeper gave her a push towards the footbridge that was constructed against the gatehouse and spanned the canal. ‘Up there,’ he said abruptly. ‘Go in that door and someone from the Public Offices will attend to you.’ He turned back to his duties at the gate.

  Beulah climbed the steps and entered. She found herself in an empty hallway with three doors. She hesitated. There was no one to whom she could tell her errand so what should she do? Strange grinding noises came from behind the central door, which, she guessed, must house the winding mechanism and windlass for the portcullis. The door on the left was firmly closed but the one on the right was open and voices came from within. In the hall, opposite the open door, was a settle. The master had a similar bench outside his office where merchants, agents and deliverymen sat waiting to be called in to see him. She sat down on the settle, placed the basket beside her and waited, swinging her feet, for someone to notice that she was there.

  Through the open door, she saw a group of soldiers with their backs to her, sitting at a table, deep in conversation. Muskets hung in racks along one wall and a flag was pinned above the fireplace where a good coal fire glowed. The table was strewn with papers and account books and the remains of a meal had been pushed to one side: pewter tankards, earthenware bottles with marbles in their throats, plates with hunks of bread and pools of gravy. The smell of a rich stew hung in the air and Beulah felt her mouth filling with saliva at the thought of cramming it with bread doused in sauce … of licking the plate until it shone …

  She paid little attention to the men’s conversation at first. They talked of shipments of ammunition, of artillery bound for Lord Wellington’s forces in Portugal and mentioned places she had never heard of: Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz where things were ‘hotting up’ against the French. Beulah, used to the adults’ talk at the factory of ‘Old Boney’ as eternal enemy and bogeyman, paid little heed. ‘Our gallant lads’ had gone to the aid of the Spanish and Portuguese and were keeping the French occupied, and jolly good too, Beulah thought; there was less chance of the Monster invading and the Prince Regent coming to Weedon Royal and drawing danger after him. Everybody knew that the
grand pavilions, the officers’ buildings faced in stone and shining white on the hill, were meant for a retreat for His Royal Highness, should the need arise.

  The talk moved on to speculation about the build-up of arms at the arsenal, with much grumbling about the extra duties it entailed.

  ‘No sooner do we ship out powder than more is ordered in, tenfold,’ one said. ‘The men labour like Sisyphus with his boulder.’

  ‘And what need, I’d like to know, for two hundred stand of arms to be in readiness at all times?’ another asked. ‘Be there ever so many thousand passed on to London, always a thousand must be kept oiled and polished in reserve.’

  Then, one word made Beulah sit up straight and listen, and that word was ‘weavers’. The small, stocky sergeant, whom the others called Clay, was speaking. He lolled with one arm over the back of his chair and had listened to the others with a disdainful smile. ‘’Tis for the weavers and stocking knitters, of course,’ he said. ‘For the containment of unrest.’ He looked at them as though they were dullards. ‘They used to work in their own homes and set their own prices. Now they have to either hire frames at exorbitant prices or work for a master on the new wide frames for a pittance. They strain against their yoke and go beyond the law. Did you not hear how, in Arnold, the knaves broke into the workshops and cut the jackwires from the frames? It cannot be allowed.’ He leant forward and tapped the side of his nose to say keep this to yourselves. ‘Some say that foreign agency is behind it as the support and mover of the whole: French arms and men ready and waiting in Ireland, spies fomenting trouble between men and their masters as the spark for a general uprising. And we are at the heart of it, within reach of Nottingham, Leicestershire, the ribbon weavers in Coventry, any pocket of disturbance where dragoons and arms are needed.’

  The third man snorted. ‘Let them riot, I say! It would be a diversion. I’m for a chance to use all that cavalry drill – better than sitting here ticking off tally sheets like a set of draper’s clerks! Not exactly what we trained for, eh? Eh?’

  While the three men laughed, Beulah heard the sound of boots trotting sprightly up the steps outside; and the tall figure of a young lieutenant entered the hall. He closed the door behind him, returning the hall to dimness and lending the scene through the open door the brightness of a tableau. Faced with the picture of some of his men so clearly taking their ease, Jack paused, cursing under his breath.

  The sergeant was holding forth again. ‘’Tis not merely the stockingers and weavers,’ he said. ‘There is some solidarity among the masses, who all want bread. Despite rewards offered, not one blackguard in Arnold has been turned in. Not one arrest has been made!’ He glowered at them.

  Jack’s eyes grew used to the dimness and he discerned a very large basket on the settle next to a small girl leaning forward, her eyes and mouth wide open.

  The sergeant brought his fist down on the table, making the plates rattle. ‘We must teach them a lesson they’ll not forget,’ he said. ‘We’re equipped to do it; we’re well placed to do it and ’tis our duty to the King and the rule of law to do it!’

  Jack put out his hand to Beulah to instruct her to remain where she was and strode into the room. The two lower ranks scrambled to their feet and saluted. The sergeant removed his arm from its resting place on the back of the chair and got up slowly, with studied insolence.

  ‘Wilmore! Aiken!’ Jack rapped out. ‘I believe you are to relieve the sentries on the west wall.’

  The two men muttered, ‘Yessir,’ and gathered up their hats and gloves. Clay made a move to do the same. ‘You will do me the courtesy of remaining, sergeant,’ Jack said. ‘I would like a word.’

  The two men filed past with sideways looks at their sergeant. Clay’s colour rose at their obvious awareness that he was about to be chastised. Jack closed the door behind them and they trooped past Beulah without even noticing her. Beyond the closed door Beulah heard the young man raising his voice. She picked out a word here and there: disgraceful, breach of security, not to be repeated. At length Clay emerged. He shut the door softly behind him but, as he turned, Beulah saw that his face was red with fury. Once outside, he ran smartly down the steps, escaping from the scene of his humiliation.

  A minute passed in which Beulah became more and more anxious about what she had overheard. For two pins she would slip away herself but the thought of her reception if she were to return to the manufactory without making her delivery was enough to keep her glued to her seat. The door opened and the lieutenant called her in.

  The papers on the table had been set in neat piles and the plates stacked on a wooden tray. The lieutenant stood before the fire with his hands behind his back. He asked her quietly what business had brought her to the garrison and she explained and passed over the paper she’d been given. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘And were you kept waiting long?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Beulah said quickly, ‘not long at all.’ She looked down at her basket, practising all the skills she’d learnt in the workshop to keep out of trouble and make herself seem insignificant and slow-witted.

  Jack looked at the child before him: her slight build, the heavy basket she’d been sent with, her thin clothes and pale, chilled face. He nodded as if satisfied she told the truth. Indicating a three-legged stool beside the hearth, he said, ‘Sit here and set down your basket. I’ll write a receipt for you to take back to your employer.’

  Beulah sat down and surreptitiously stretched out her feet towards the coals, feeling the heat at first sting her toes as sharply as chilblains and then the spread of the glorious warmth over her damp boots, stockings and sodden petticoat hem.

  Jack sat at the table and carefully wrote out a receipt and a note for the quartermaster at the clothing stores. He would take up the matter of the reception of civilians with his captain but without mentioning specifics. He trusted that Clay had taken note of what he’d said. It had clearly discomfited him to be caught out in front of the lower ranks he seemed so desirous to impress. Jack would leave it at that; he was not vindictive.

  He gave the receipt to the child, who kept her eyes downcast as she mumbled her thanks. Remembering her expression of alert attention when Clay was speaking, Jack was not convinced of her naivety. He gave her a farthing for her trouble, saying casually as he dismissed her, ‘Too much ale makes men full of strange fancies. My apologies to your employer for keeping you.’

  After the child had gone, Jack settled himself at the table to check through the requisitions and stores reports that Sergeant Clay and his assistants had compiled. Despite his best intentions, he found his mind wandering, taking off across the countryside to find its way to Effie, like a homing pigeon flying through the snow. How he wished he could be with her instead of being cooped up by his duties and this damnable weather!

  He had been in a state of agitation ever since he had reached a momentous decision. Effie was in his thoughts every waking hour. When he was soon to see her, his spirits rose to a pitch of excitement and as he rode out he felt as though he could take on the world on her behalf. When he was away from her his anxiety mounted that the hardships under which she lived would prove too much for her and make her ill. He couldn’t bear to think of her labouring on the farm in this bitter cold. Nor could he stand to see her with dark rings under her eyes from rising early to haul pails of water to and fro for other people’s washing, in an effort to make ends meet. She was proud; it was no good offering money. She would be offended and wouldn’t take it. He brought food on the pretext of bringing a luncheon they could share, each time ensuring that there were provisions left over that he insisted she keep. He brought gifts to see her smile. It was not enough. He wanted to take care of her, smooth away the worry lines, and see her blossom. The night before, he had dreamt that she was in his arms, warm and safe, but as their lips met she had melted away like sand beneath his touch and he had woken, cold in his narrow bed, with the moonlight lacing the frosty window beside him. He had known then what he must do. He could not do
without her and must make her his wife.

  Laying the requisitions aside, he sat, absentmindedly rolling the pen under his forefinger on the table. He must think calmly and logically about how this was to be achieved. He wanted to go to her with a plan, to impress her with his seriousness. He was afraid she would think it too soon, too bold, but he could not wait! There were obstacles, but if he had devised ways to overcome them, surely she would say yes? She must say yes!

  He would have to see Captain Harris to apprise him of his plan and ask about the waiting list for married quarters in Ordnance Row, although he feared that he might be refused point-blank because of Effie having dependants. He would also need to request permission to take leave so that he and Effie could visit his parents, and to write to his father to let him know he would be visiting with an important matter to discuss. Jack knew that Effie wouldn’t be considered an ideal match for him by society at large: a carpenter’s daughter with an unsupported family in tow, but he trusted that his father’s calling would make him charitable and that Effie’s sweet, open nature would win him over so he would give his blessing. To be realistic, Jack thought, we might need more than his blessing. If there was no hope of married quarters within the barracks, he would have to look for a cottage to rent in the village that was big enough for all and he feared his pay wouldn’t stretch to it, given that his board and lodging at the barracks were part of his remuneration. If he could gain his father’s approval, perhaps he would settle a little money upon them as a wedding gift, as he had for his brothers.