Pauper's Gold

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘But he’s reduced their hourly rate,’ Ernest said.

  ‘But . . . but there’s no cotton. What are they going to work with?’

  She saw Ernest and Josiah exchange a glance then Josiah shrugged. ‘He’s found some, Hannah. I don’t know how or where from but he says he’s got enough coming to start the mill up again.’

  ‘He’s demanding rent from all his tenants in the village,’ Ernest said. ‘And back payments.’

  ‘Is he mad?’ Hannah was still pacing the floor distractedly. ‘How can they pay?’ She stopped suddenly and turned to face them. ‘Is that his way of getting rid of them? If they can’t pay their rent, he’s going to turn them out?’

  The two men lifted their shoulders helplessly.

  ‘Don’t you upset yourself, Hannah. You’ve your little one to think of.’

  ‘That’s exactly who I am thinking of, Ernest. The mill is Eddie’s future. If only . . .’ She bit her lip. ‘Tell me – and be honest with me – has anyone heard anything of Adam? Does anyone know where he is?’

  Josiah and Ernest glanced at each other again. ‘Well, we didn’t know whether to tell you.’

  Hannah felt as if her heart stopped. ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘We heard he’s blockade running.’

  Hannah drew in a frightened breath and her eyes were wide with fear. ‘That’s dangerous, isn’t it? He . . . he could get arrested or . . . or even killed, couldn’t he?’

  ‘Aye, he could,’ Ernest said bluntly. ‘And if he does, it’ll be greedy men like his own father who’ve sent him to his death in their demand for cotton by whatever means.’

  Fifty-One

  The mill was deathly silent once more. No wheel turning, no clatter of spinning mules and weaving looms, no sound of voices. The workrooms were deserted. But not now because of a lack of supply of raw material. Somehow, from somewhere, Edmund had obtained some cotton. Inferior quality though it was, it could have kept the water-wheel turning even if only for a little while. But there were no spinners, no weavers, no piecers or doffers. The great mill was empty, its workers on strike against the tyrannical owner. After the months of working together, of helping each other, joining together to fight the hardship that was none of their making, Edmund Critchlow’s harsh demands had finally tipped the villagers over the edge. They had seen how the mill could be operated, glimpsed a promising future. Once the war was over and the raw cotton available again, life could be so much better. If they could just hold out, hang on until the war ended. But Edmund’s return had dashed all their hopes and dreams. And worst of all, he’d taken revenge on the one person they all acknowledged had been the saviour of them all, of the mill and all its workers.

  Hannah.

  ‘They don’t like the way he’s treated you. Not after all you’ve done. And as for threatening you over little Eddie, well, that’s the last straw. Folks round here love the little chap. They see him as their hope for the future,’ Ernest told her soberly. ‘They’re calling a strike, Hannah.’

  ‘Oh no, Ernest. They mustn’t. Not on my account, please.’

  ‘It’s not all about you, love, but even if it was, I wouldn’t try to stop them even if I could. I’m with them all the way. I’m one of ’em.’

  ‘But how did they find out. I mean, about me. About him threatening to send me away and keep Eddie here?’

  Ernest grinned without a trace of embarrassment. ‘I told ’em, lass. I told ’em.’ He began to turn away, but hesitated to ask, ‘What about the Bramwells?’

  ‘Oh, they’re not going anywhere. If we have to go, we’re all going together. The Bramwells, Sarah, me – and Eddie.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘Don’t forget, I’m the expert at running away from this place.’

  ‘Aye, well, I hope it won’t come to that, lass, ’cos it’ll be a sad day if we all lose you again.’ He turned away abruptly. A bluff, kindly man though he was, he wasn’t one to hand out the compliments very often. It embarrassed him, yet he had to let this girl know exactly what she’d come to mean to him and all the villagers. If she went again, he believed there’d be a stream of folk following her up the hill.

  By the time the chilly days of November were upon them with a vengeance, the only people at the mill now were a few men gathered near the gate, guarding the entrance to stop anyone going in to work. They stamped their feet against the cold and lit a brazier. Yet they needn’t have stood there in the snow and the biting wind; there were no strike breakers. Their action against Edmund was unanimous – at least amongst the spinners and weavers.

  Only two people passed through the gate. Edmund Critchlow and Josiah Roper.

  The first was greeted with morose silence, the second ran the gauntlet of questions and threats.

  ‘We thought you was on our side, Roper.’

  ‘You helped keep things going. Why’re you siding with him now?’

  ‘Reckons he’ll fare better buttering up to the master.’

  ‘We’ll remember you, Roper. We won’t forget.’

  Josiah walked on, head lowered against the taunts. No, he thought, and neither will I. I don’t forget. If only you knew!

  On the evening of the third day of the strike, just as Josiah was about to leave for home, Edmund flung open his office door. ‘I blame you for all this, Roper. You and Scarsfield and that blasted girl. Look where your pampering has got us. Kindness? To workers? They don’t understand it. The whip hand, that’s what they understand. That’s what they fear and that’s what keeps them in line.’

  Josiah said nothing. He raised not one word of protest. His silence seemed to enrage Edmund even more. He jabbed his forefinger towards Josiah. ‘You’re sacked, Roper.’

  Josiah didn’t move, didn’t turn round. He carried on writing slowly and clearly in the ledger. The only betrayal of emotion was a slight tremor in his hand and a line of uncharacteristic shaky handwriting.

  ‘Make your own pay up. Leave tonight. I don’t want to see your face in this office again.’ With that parting shot, Edmund slammed the door with such force that it shuddered on its hinges.

  Josiah carried on writing for a few moments longer. Then slowly he closed the book, knowing it was for the last time. He put his head on one side, listening for any sound from beyond the door. No doubt Edmund was leaning back in his chair, indulging in his usual early evening tot of whisky, which he kept in his desk drawer.

  Josiah put on his coat and stood listening again for a moment. Then he bent and from the very back of a cupboard he took out a slim ledger, which he slipped quickly into the copious pocket of his coat. With one last glance around the room where he’d spent the greater part of his adult life, he was about to snuff out the candle that burned on his desk, when he hesitated. His eyes gleamed as an idea began to form in his mind. He left the office closing the door soundlessly behind him and carrying the candle carefully, shading the flickering light with his hand so that the flame did not blow out.

  He began to descend the stairs, then halfway down he stopped. The whole building was silent, yet drifting through the open door at the bottom of the stairs he could hear the voices of the men standing guard at the gate. Slowly, he descended the rest of the way, but instead of going outside, he went into the storeroom on the ground floor that was directly below the offices. No longer was it stuffed to overflowing with bales of raw cotton, but there was enough there for Josiah’s purpose.

  As he closed the door of the room moments later, the flames were beginning to lick at the few bales of cotton. Josiah hurried out into the yard. He hadn’t long. It wouldn’t take many minutes for the fire to spread through the whole room, and when that happened someone would be bound to notice, yet perhaps not as quickly as if the mill was still running.

  ‘Here comes the scab,’ Daniel sneered as Josiah pushed his way between them. For the first time he was physically jostled, as the five men congregated there surrounded him. He felt a moment’s alarm, but he glared at them, betraying nothing of his fear in his eyes.

&nbs
p; ‘Good day, gentlemen,’ he said smoothly. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d let me pass.’

  ‘Aye, we’ll let you pass this time, Roper. But no more. You’ll not pass through this gate again. Not until this business is settled.’

  Josiah gave a brief nod and they parted to let him through. As he hurried up the hill towards his lodgings on Prentice Row, Josiah was smiling. How prophetic! He had no intention of ever returning to the mill again.

  Within twenty minutes, Josiah had flung his few belongings into a bag, collected his money and personal papers from a hiding place beneath the floorboards of his room, and was hurrying along the pathway behind the mill to the bridge over the waterfall and up the steep slope. It was growing colder as he emerged from beneath the trees and gained the narrow path leading up to the railway line. He slipped and slithered on the frosty ground as he climbed.

  He glanced back just once at the building below. Already he could see the flames in the window two storeys directly below Edmund’s office. With an evil smile he turned away and clambered up to the railway line. He glanced both ways, but it was silent. He peered down in the darkness and stepped onto the track. He trod heavily on an icy, uneven sleeper, and his foot slipped and twisted over. He felt a jab of pain in his ankle and dropped his bag. It fell open, scattering his possessions. Josiah cried out as he fell to his knees, the pain making him feel sick and faint. In the darkness, he scrabbled around for his belongings strewn around him, unaware of the train appearing out of the tunnel and bearing down upon him.

  ‘Fire! There’s a fire at the back of the mill.’ Hannah had seen it from her windows at the apprentice house and now she came running pell-mell down the hill towards the men at the gate.

  ‘Fire? Where?’ Ernest Scarsfield demanded.

  ‘I think it’s in the storeroom where the bales are kept.’ Breathless, she put her hand on her chest. Her heart was hammering painfully. Distantly, they heard a train, heard its whistle, but none of them was consciously aware of it.

  ‘Is anyone in there?’ Hannah demanded. ‘Josiah – is he still working?’

  ‘No, he left about half an hour ago.’

  There was a brief silence. They all seemed frozen, unable to move.

  ‘But Mr Edmund hasn’t come out, has he?’ Daniel muttered.

  ‘Oh no!’ Hannah gasped. Before anyone could stop her, she had picked up her skirts and was running to the door into the mill.

  ‘Hannah, no!’ Daniel cried and began to run after her.

  Galvanized into action, Ernest began to issue orders. ‘You – get to the village. Fetch all the workers – as many as you can round up. You – find as many buckets as you can. When more get here form a chain . . .’

  Hannah had entered the building. But she didn’t go to where the fire was, but up the stairs to the office. Already smoke was drifting up the stairwell and into the rooms on the first and second storeys.

  ‘Mr Edmund,’ she called, as she felt her way through the smoke, ‘Mr Edmund – are you there?’

  She almost fell into the outer office. The smoke hadn’t reached here yet. Mr Edmund was probably sitting in his office, serenely unaware of the tragedy unfolding two floors below. She rushed across the room and opened the inner door. ‘Mr Edmund—’

  She stopped, aghast. Edmund was certainly still there, sitting in his chair with a half-empty whisky bottle on the desk. On the floor to one side lay a shattered glass and liquid spilt around it. Edmund was slumped awkwardly in his chair, the side of his face pulled down, his eyes glazed, his arms hanging down limply on either side of him.

  She ran to him, lifted his arm and felt for his pulse. It was there, but erratic.

  ‘Hannah, Hannah, where are you?’

  ‘Daniel,’ she cried out thankfully. ‘In here. In the office. Quick. We must get him out.’

  Daniel appeared the doorway.

  ‘I think he’s had another seizure. You must help me. We must get him out of here.’

  Daniel stood transfixed in the doorway, staring at the helpless man.

  ‘Daniel – come on.’

  He half turned away, mumbling, ‘I’ll fetch help.’

  ‘No, there’s no time. You’ll have to help me lift him. You get on one side.’

  Reluctantly, Daniel moved forward. The paralysed man was a dead weight, but they managed to get him upright between them, looping his useless arms around their shoulders and grasping him from each side around his torso.

  ‘We’ll never manage him. He’s a ton weight,’ Daniel protested, but nevertheless he helped Hannah drag Edmund to the door, through the outer office and to the top of the stairs. The smoke was thicker here now and they began to cough. Slowly, they stumbled down the stairs, not daring to stop though their lungs were bursting with the effort and the smoke.

  ‘We’ll never make it. Leave him,’ Daniel said. ‘Why should we save this bastard?’

  Hannah didn’t answer – she hadn’t the breath or the strength.

  ‘Hannah? Daniel? Where are you?’ A voice called through the smoke.

  ‘Ernest,’ Hannah gasped. ‘We’re here – on the stairs. Help us.’

  In a moment, he was with them, steadying and guiding them to the bottom of the stairs and out into the blissful fresh air. ‘Here, Hannah, let me take him.’

  Gratefully, Hannah relinquished her hold and Ernest shouldered the weight. Two more men hurried forward, carrying a door on which to lay Edmund.

  ‘Take him home and mind his man calls the doctor,’ Ernest instructed. ‘Now we’d best get this fire out.’

  Hannah glanced around her. Figures were running everywhere, but already they were organized into a working team, though it took a while to get the flames under control. The storeroom was ruined, what little stock there was spoiled. The fire had only spread into the neighbouring rooms, but the smoke had permeated through most of the building.

  When the fire itself was out, the exhausted workers stood around the yard in small groups, talking in low voices, glancing at Hannah, who leaned against the wall, breathing hard. Her dress was drenched with sweat, her hair hanging in bedraggled hanks.

  ‘You look all in, lass. Get yourself home and—’ Ernest began, but Hannah shook her head.

  ‘No, I must get things organized, Ernest. I’m sure Mr Edmund has had another seizure. And if that’s so,’ she stood up, squaring her shoulders, ‘then I – we – are in charge again. This foolishness has gone on long enough. Get word around all the workers.’

  Ernest waved his hands towards the men and women standing about the yard. ‘Most of ’em are here.’

  Hannah nodded. ‘Then call them together. I have something to say.’

  In a few moments, Hannah was standing on a crate, the workers gathered around her.

  ‘Thank you for saving the mill.’ She glanced around. No one spoke and most of them looked as if they couldn’t have cared less whether the mill was saved or not. Yet some inner instinct had driven them to come running when their place of work was endangered. They muttered morosely amongst themselves. Hannah raised her voice. ‘I’m going up to the Manor to see how Mr Edmund is. Please – may I ask you all to come back here in the morning, when I shall have some news for you?’

  Ernest held out his hand and she stepped down from the box. ‘I was going to tell them to go back to work – that everything would be all right – but I changed my mind. If Mr Edmund is not as bad as he looked and likely to return to work, then it’s no good me making them promises that won’t be kept, is it?’

  ‘No, lass, it ain’t,’ he said soberly. ‘I won’t send a message to him, Hannah, because right at this moment I don’t quite know what to think – or say.’

  Hannah sighed and glanced around her. The workers were all drifting away now towards their homes, their futures hanging in the balance.

  ‘It’s a bad situation, Ernest,’ Hannah murmured. ‘How can you wish a man harm, and yet—?’

  ‘I know, lass. I know just what you mean.’

  Ther
e was a pause and then she said, ‘I’ll see you back here in the morning then.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  Fifty-Two

  At home, Hannah washed and changed her clothes and then hurried to the Manor. Her breathing was laboured from the effects of the smoke and she would’ve liked nothing better than to lie down and rest. But she had to find out what had happened to Edmund.

  As the butler ushered her into the hall, the doctor was coming down the stairs. His face was grave.

  ‘A word with you, Hannah, if I may?’ By now, Dr Barnes was a friend. He’d given generously to the villagers through their time of hardship and was beloved by them all.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘If you would come this way, sir, madam.’ The butler led them towards the morning room.

  ‘How is he?’ Hannah asked, as soon as the door closed and the doctor and she were alone.

  Dr Barnes shook his head. ‘It’s a very bad one. It’s touch and go if he’ll even survive it. And if he does, I doubt he’ll make any kind of reasonable recovery. I fear he will be paralysed and speechless this time.’

  ‘I see.’

  The doctor glanced at her keenly. ‘I’m sorry to hear about the fire at the mill. Has it done much damage?’

  ‘A fair amount, but with a lot of work I think we can be up and running inside a week.’ She pulled a wry face. ‘That’s if we can get any raw cotton.’

  ‘But the workers are on strike, aren’t they?’

  ‘Not for much longer, I hope. I’ve asked them to meet me at the mill in the morning, but I needed to know how Mr Edmund is before . . . before . . .’ She took a deep breath, but the doctor finished her sentence for her. ‘Before you could tell them that the strike is over and that they can come back to work.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Good,’ he said, picking up his bag. ‘Some of the families are in a poor way. Their health would’ve suffered before long and then it’s a downward spiral, isn’t it? And all your efforts to keep things going through these hard times would’ve been for nothing.’