“It doesn’t matter. Not now. Can’t you see? You don’t have to wait.”
To his dismay, his father nodded, not wanting to fight her any longer. David wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. He couldn’t just let her go.
“But you have to be careful,” his mother went on, more slowly now, laboring with the effort. “They can’t suspect you’re leaving, or they’ll make you pay off all the debts.”
“Please, Mother,” David begged. “We’re going to wait for you.”
She completely ignored him. “Will you do it, John? Wait maybe a week or two. When things settle down, then go.”
“Yes, Annie.”
A sob was torn from deep within her. “And you’ll take care of my Davee? Take him to America? Promise me, John.”
“Ya ’ave me wurd on it, Annie, me luv.”
David’s head came up. The bells of the All Saints Church of Cawthorne had just finished chiming out the eleventh hour. He had not been asleep, but his eyes were heavy. Something had changed. He tensed, peering down at his mother in the candlelight, and saw the gentle rise and fall of her chest. He released his breath. She was still with them.
He half turned to see if his father was still asleep in his chair. He was not. He too was intently watching his wife. He stood and came over to stand beside David, putting a hand on his shoulder. For a long time they didn’t move, just looked down at her.
Finally, his father reached down and laid his hand on her forehead, as if checking for a fever. Taking it away, he just shook his head. “Try ta sleep a little, Davee. Ah’ll sit with ’er noow.”
He shook his head. “I’m all right, Dahd.”
There was no fight left in his father. He nodded, face bleak, and returned to his seat.
It was about ten minutes later that David’s head came up a second time. For a moment, David wondered if it had been only his imagination, but his father had heard it too. He was up in an instant and standing by David’s side. Then it came again. Her breathing had been shallow and slightly raspy for the last hour, but now, she inhaled deeply. She held it for three or four seconds, then exhaled in a long, drawn-out sigh of relief. Several more seconds passed before she inhaled again. Again she held it. Again the deep sigh, as if something down deep inside her was being released. David found himself holding his own breath, willing her to take another.
Then, even as they watched, her body almost imperceptibly relaxed. It settled more deeply into the straw mattress. There was one more breath. One last, long sigh, and she was gone.
“No, Mum,” he whispered, grasping her hand, tears streaming down his face.
His father gave a stifled sob and fell to his knees beside the bed. His head dropped to rest on her shoulder, and he wept openly. “At last ya be free, Annie,” he whispered. “God speed, luv.”
Chapter 10
Monday, May 17, 1869
A messenger was waiting for John and David Dickinson when they entered the shaft house and approached the cage on Monday morning. It was Bart Wiggins. Wiggins was what was known by the miners as a “candyman.” Candymen were little more than thugs and hooligans, down-and-outs brought in by the mine owners to deal with “employee concerns” through raw intimidation. They settled grievances with fists or clubs, evicted families from their homes if they were troublemakers, and helped striking miners gain a “broader perspective” of the issues. The name suggested that they were willing to sell their souls for a little “candy” from the mine owners. The label was an indication of the absolute contempt the miners had for them.1
Bart was one of the worst. Huge, ugly, and totally loyal to Jonathan Rhodes, he struck fear into the hearts of even the hardiest miner. At the sight of him, David felt his stomach turn and his step falter. But his father didn’t flinch. “Mornin’, Bart,” he said evenly.
Then David saw something that warmed his soul. Standing around the cage, half in the shadows, there were at least a dozen other miners. Their shift didn’t start for half an hour yet, but he immediately understood. They had come to stand alongside their mate.
“Beggin’ yur pardon, John,” Bart said, sweeping off his hat, polite as a vicar welcoming his parishioners to church, “but Mr. Rhodes wud lek ta see ya an’ yur son in ’is office.”
There was an angry murmur as several of the miners took a step forward.
Bart whirled on them. “Back off! Ain’t nuthin’ gonna ’appen. He joost wants ta talk ta ’em.”
His father raised a hand to the others. “It be awl reet. We be fine.”
But the men fell in behind them anyway, thrusting their way past Bart, not intimidated at all.
“At least ’e waited ’til the funeral was over,” John muttered.
The hatred was like bile in David’s throat. “Only b’cuz yesterday was Sunday.” Rhodes had not shown up at the church—his mother’s first time there, as far as David knew—or for the burial.
His father stopped and looked at him. “’E dinna cum b’cuz ’e was afraid.”
David snorted. “Ah don’t blame ’im, Dahd. You were like a madman in the infirmary.”
John ignored that, lowering his voice. Bart was about ten steps behind them, and the men behind him. “Listen ta me, David, an’ listen well.” His voice may have dropped in volume, but it had noticeably increased in hardness. “Rhodes stayed away, not b’cuz ’e be afraid of me. ’E be afraid of the miners. Thare be a lot of anger aboot what ’appened wit yur mum. Ya dunna know awl that is goin’ on noow, so ya keep yur trap shut in thare, d’ya ’ear me?”
David looked up, stung by the sharpness of his words.
“Ah mean it, Son. Ah shamed Rhodes in front of people, an’ noow the ’ole village knows it. He cahrn’t let that go, or ’e be finished as supervisor. Ah know ’ow ya feel aboot yur muther, an’ ya know Ah I feel the same. But ya dunna be lettin’ yur temper git away frum ya.’Ear me?”
“Yes, Dahd.” But he wasn’t quite ready to shut up just yet. “Just don’t apologize to him.”
His father’s look was like the edge of his pick. David vowed not to open his mouth again. But ten steps later, he couldn’t help it. “Will he fire us?”
John shook his head quickly. “Dunna think so, but cahrn’t be sure. ’E know thare be big trouble if ’e cumes doon too ’ard on us, but ’e cahrn’t let it joost pass.”
The ache for his mother was more terrible than David had dreamed possible, and his anger at what had happened with Rhodes in the infirmary—which David was absolutely positive had hastened her death—was like a fire in his belly. He wanted to strike out, hit back, make this terrible man rue the day he had chosen to treat Anne Dickinson with such contempt.
And then David remembered something else. A mine was a fertile place for rumors. Accidents were common in the mine—some of them fatal—and on more than one occasion they had “conveniently” happened to those deemed by the management to be troublemakers.
He let out his breath. “I’ll not say a word, Dahd.”
“Gud.”
Rhodes was in his chair, his back to them, and did not turn when Bart shut the door behind them and posted himself outside to stand watch. Through the window, David saw the miners clustered in small groups, glancing from time to time at the office and the candyman.
John swept off his cap and motioned for David to do the same. David hesitated. Last night, after his father had gone to sleep, he had gotten a bucket of water and carefully washed out the dried, matted blood in his hair. The last thing they needed right now was to have Rhodes see it and start asking questions. He removed his hat but kept his head high.
When Rhodes turned around, his eyes were dark, smoldering. His mouth was pinched into a tight line. He was clearly fighting for control. When he found it, he leaned forward. “Ah be reet sorry aboot yur wife, John. Ah dinna know it be as serious as that.”
David stirred, but his father’s hand brushed against him, warning him off. “Tank ya.”
“Ya ’eard what the doc said. ’E
tole me she be fine.”
“Well, ’e was wrong.”
Rhodes replied with a curt nod. “Anyway, Ah be sorry fur what ’appened.” He stood up and began to pace. “Ah’ll git reet to it, John. Naw waste yur time or mine.”
John just waited.
“Yur boy ’ere left ’is shift wit’out permission. That be agin the rules.”
“Ah be the fire boss,” his father said without expression. “If’n Ah say a man go up top, ’e go up top.”
David had to force himself to keep his eyes forward. Had his father just lied for him? No. They had not seen each other on Friday until they met in the infirmary, but his father hadn’t said he specifically told David to leave, only that, as fire boss, he had the right to.
The look in Rhodes’s eye told them both that he knew better, but he let it pass. “Ya got a bit of a benny onl in the infirm’ry, John. Ya said sum real ugly things.”
“Ah did,” John agreed.
“Ah cahrn’t joost let it go, John. Ya un’nerstand that, dun’t ya?”
“Ah do.”
The supervisor faced John, feet planted now. “Thot aboot firin’ ya. Ah cud, ya know.”
“Ya cud.”
“Or, Ah cud pull ya off frum bein’ fire boss.”
“Ya cud.”
Rhodes was watching him closely now, trying to read what was behind those inscrutable eyes. “Ah be a fair-minded man, John. An’ thare be a lot of strain, what wit yur Annie an’ all.”
“Don’t call her Annie!” David blurted before he even realized what he had done.
He might as well have not been there. In one sense, he was irrelevant in all this.
“So Ah be givin’ it a lot of thot, John. If’n Ah joost overlook what ’appened, the men will be thinkin’ ole Rhodes be goin’ soft on ’em. Cahrn’t have that, eh? But knowin’ yur grief an’ awl, Ah dunna wanna mek things wurse fur ya.”
He stopped. Still David’s father just waited, watching and weighing what was being said.
“So, Ah think Ah ’ave a way that we can sidestep the problem. Keep things under control.” A long pause. “If’n ya be agreeable.”
David risked a glance up at his father. His face was still expressionless, but his eyes were dark with suspicion. “Ah be listenin’.”
“A rider cum in frum Tilburn Castle late yes’day. Lady Tilburn, she sez they be low on coal fur the kitchens an’ water ’eaters. Got a bunch of uppity-uppities cumin’ north frum London fur the summer. Cahrn’t wait fur next week’s normal deliv’ry.”
His mouth twisted in what David assumed was meant to be a smile, but was actually a horrible grimace. “Cahrn’t be ’avin’ the lords an’ ladies inconvenienced noow, can we?” Still no answer from John. “Way Ah figur, if’n Ah were ta send ya an’ yur boy with a wagonload of coal doon thare—no pay fur either of ya, of course—maybe that be penalty e’nuff, consid’rin’.”
“What else?”
Rhodes nodded, glad that they were at last communicating. “Ah leave ya in as fire boss, but fur a week ya drop back ta regular miner’s wages.”
“What aboot David, ’ere?”
The piggish eyes narrowed. “Ah’ll leave ’im as spragger, but ’e loses Freeday’s wages.”
“’E be only gone fur ’alf a day.”
Rhodes chewed on his lip for a moment. “Awl reet. ’Alf a day’s pay. It goes wit’oot sayin’, thare be naw pay fur Sat’day fur either of ya, since ya stayed ’ome ta mek arrangements.”
His father nodded. That was a given. “What aboot ’im being a mule driver?”
There was a flash of genuine anger, but it was pushed back. “When be ya thurteen, boy?”
“In a month,” David said.
“Ah’ll consider it then,” he said, looking back to his father. “Naw b’fur.”
“An’ that be it?” his father asked.
Rhodes hesitated, then finally nodded. “Then it be square b’tween us.”
His father nodded too. “Agreed.”
David was soaring. His father had stood nose to nose with Jonathan A. Rhodes, terror of the Cawthorne Mine, and come away with no more than his fingers rapped. If only his mother had been here to see this day.
The supervisor returned to his chair, scribbled a note, and handed it to David’s father. “Tek this ta the loadin’ yard. Ya bin ta Tilburn House b’fur?”
“Naw.”
“Be aboot sixteen, maybe seventeen mile sooth of ’ere.” Which meant not only a day’s work without pay, but a very long day at that. “The loadin’ boss give ya directions.”
His father took the note and took David by the arm, and they left without another word.
It was a glorious early summer day. The sky was a brilliant blue, and puffy clouds lazily scudded across it from west to east, shadows gliding along at two or three times the pace the heavily loaded wagon was making. They went west to Penistone, which was on the eastern edge of what was called the Peak District. As they turned south and passed through Stocksbridge they were skirting its eastern boundaries. Here the sprawl of city and industry thinned and then gave way altogether as the land began to rise to meet the Pennines, known as the “backbone of England.” Vast moors and highlands stretched away as far as the eye could see. It was so totally different from anything David had ever seen before, he couldn’t take his eyes away from it.
They passed through little farm villages with delightful names like Springvale, Oxspring, and Wigtwizzle.2 For a boy who had spent his life in the grey and dreary confines of a mining village, these were a wonder indeed, and he could only gawk as they drove through them. No mountains of culm, or coal waste. No belching black smoke from the boilers driving the steam engines. No thick layers of coal dust covering everything.
The countryside was even more wondrous. The narrow roads were defined by hedgerows thick enough to stop a runaway coal car. The grass along the verge was as high as the mules’ bellies. Wildflowers splashed across the hillsides. From time to time they passed fields of rape seed,3 so brilliantly yellow in the sunshine as to make David lift his hand and shade his eyes.
But all of this wonder and amazement was mixed with a piercing grief. It was his mother who should be here beside his father. This was what she had longed for. How she loved the sunshine. How she treasured fresh air and wildflowers. Knowing it was her death that had brought about this trip only made his grief all the more keen, all the more unbearable.
“’Ow’s yur ’ead t’day?”
David turned in surprise. They had barely spoken in the last two hours, each lost in their own thoughts, their own sorrows. “My head?”
There was a soft chuckle. “Didya think Ah wud naw notice it in the infirm’ry when Ah stood over ya?”
“Oh.”
“Ridin’ the cars?”
That took him even more aback. Finally, he nodded. “Who told you?”
“Just a guess.” He reached up and pulled down his collar to reveal a two-inch white scar on the side of his neck. David had noticed this before and had asked him one day what it was, but his father had brushed his question away.
“From riding the cars?” he exclaimed.
“Yep. Mine was a steel spike driven inta one of the supportin’ pillars. Jumped off the car an’ thot I’d missed it. Lucky Ah didn’t tear me throat open.”
“Did your Pa ever know?”
An even deeper chuckle. “Yep. Then ’e showed me a scar on ’is leg.”
David sat back, warmed by this moment even more than he was by the sun. Then, catching him completely by surprise, his eyes were suddenly burning again. “I miss her so much, Dahd.”
“Aye,” John sighed. “Ah miss ’er lek Ah dinna think was possible.”
About four hours later, as they came up and over a stone bridge that spanned Tilburn River, David’s jaw dropped. Tilburn Castle4 was situated at the base of a forested hillside about a quarter of a mile from where they were. Ahead was a gently rolling dale through which ran the river, a stream about eight f
eet wide and a foot or two deep. The ground dropped away slightly from where they were, so they had a clear view of the house.
It was huge, bigger than any building David had ever seen in his life. Bigger than the breaker building in the pit yard. Bigger than the Holyrood Church in Barnsley. The house was three stories high, with a central block fronted by massive pillars. Matching wings were attached to both sides, balancing the heavier block in a delicate blend of lines.
“Blimey!” David said, completely awestruck. “I never knew there were a house so big.”
“An’ this joost be one of their summer ’omes,” his father muttered.
David gaped at him. Had he heard that right? But his father wasn’t looking at him anymore. He lifted the reins. “Gee on wit ya, mules,” he clucked.
As they approached a small lake that had been formed by damming the river, they heard a burst of children’s laughter. A moment later three figures darted out of a stand of willows next to the lake and ran across the road directly in front of them. They were shouting and chasing one another, playing some kind of game. They pulled up short at the sight of the wagon.
It was three girls. The oldest was probably David’s age. Her long hair shimmered gold, and her eyes were a luminous blue. As she surveyed first his father, then him, her mouth curled disdainfully. Next to her was a girl of maybe ten—clearly a sister—with slightly darker hair that bobbed in tiny ringlets. Though surprise registered on her face as well, she smiled up at them. The third girl was maybe five or six and looked like neither of the other two. They all wore long dresses with full skirts and petticoats, with hair ribbons that matched the color of their dresses. Black patent-leather shoes covered their surprisingly tiny feet.
Suddenly, the oldest one pulled a face. “Ew!” she said, then shouted to the others and darted away. Off they raced, disappearing into the trees on the other side of the road.
David recoiled. The revulsion and disgust in the girl’s eyes had been as real as a slap across the face. It was like she had accidentally overturned a rock only to find something very repulsive there.
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