The place that Michael was to take at the board was indicated to him, and he sat down. The food placed before him consisted of a small bowl of what was denominated stir-pudding, a sort of miserable water-porridge, and a lump of oaten cake, of a flavour so sour and musty, that the little-fellow, though never accustomed till the fatal patronage of Sir Matthew fell upon him, to any viands more dainty than dry bread, could not at this first essay persuade himself to eat it. The wife of the governor of the Prentice-house, a help meet for him in every way, chanced to have her eye upon the stranger child as he pushed the morsel from him, and the smile that relaxed her features might have told him something, had he chanced to see, and understand it, respecting the excellent chance there was of his having a better appetite in future.
A girl nearly of his own age sat on one side, and a boy considerably older on the other; the first who had as much of beauty as it was perhaps, possible for any human being to have after a six month’s residence at Deep-Valley Mill, looked up into his face with a pair of large blue eyes that spoke unbounded pity, and he heard a soft little voice whisper, “Poor boy!” While his lanky neighbour on the other side made prize of the rejected food, venturing to say aloud, “Any how, it is too good to be wasted.”
The wretched meal did not last long, and for a few minutes after it was ended, the governor and his wife disappeared. During this interval, those who had strength and inclination moved about the room as they listed, but by far the greater number were already dropping to sleep after a day of protracted labour, during which they had followed the ceaseless movements of the machinery, for above fifteen hours. Among the former was the hungry lad who had appropriated the oat-cake of Michael, and no sooner were the eye of the master and mistress removed, than he turned to the new-comer, and in a tone that seemed to hover between good-humour and ridicule, said, “So you could not find a stomach for your supper, my man?”
“I did not want supper,” replied Michael, dolefully. “You didn’t want it, didn’t you? That speaks better for the living as you have left, than I can speak of that as you’ll find,” returned his new acquaintance. “Don’t you say nothing to nobody, and, to-morrow morning, after the lash have sounded through the room to wake us all, just you start up, and jump into your clothes, and when we goes to pump, I’ll show you where we gets our tit-bits from.”
Michael was in the act of nodding assent to this proposal, when the woman, who five minutes before had left the room, returned to it, and by a very summary process caused the ragged, weary, prayerless, hopeless multitude to crawl and clamber, half sleeping and half waking, to their filthy beds. They were divided by fifties in a room, but notwithstanding the number, and the little space in which they had to stow themselves, the stillness of heavy sleep pervaded every chamber, ere the miserable little inmates had been five minutes enclosed within the walls. Poor Michael lay as motionless as the rest, but he was not sleeping. Disappointment, fearful forebodings, and excessive nausea, all conspired to banish this only blessing that an apprenticed factory child can know.
He had already laboured, poor fellow, for nearly half his little life, and that under most hard and unrelenting masters; but till now, he had never known how very wretched his young thoughts could make him. His mother’s fond caresses, and his brother’s fervent love, had in spite of toil, and sometimes in spite of hunger, cheered and comforted the last moments of every day. The rude bed also, on which the brothers lay, was too clean, notwithstanding all the difficulty of keeping it so, to be tainted with the loathsome scent of oil, or sundry other abominations which rendered the place where he now lay, almost intolerable. Yet to this den, far, far away from the only creatures who loved and cherished him, he was come by his own consent, his own express desire! The thought was almost too bitter to bear, and the bundle of straw that served him for a pillow, received for the first hour of the night a ceaseless flood of tears.
It was, as his young companion had predicted, by the sound of a flourished whip, that he was awakened on the following morning. In an instant he was on his feet, and a minute or two more sufficed to invest him in his clothes; this speed, however, was the effect of terror, for he remembered not the invitation of the preceding evening. But hardly had he finished the operation of dressing, when Charley Ford, the boy who gave it, was by his side, and giving him a silent hint by a wink of the left eye, and a movement of the right elbow that he might follow him, turned away, and ran down stairs.
Michael did so too, and presently found himself with a multitude of others in a small paved court, on one side of which was a pump, to whose spout every child came in succession to perform a very necessary, but, from lack of soap, a very imperfect act of ablution.
Neglecting to watch his turn for this, and not permitting Michael to do so either, Charles Ford made his way to a door that opened upon another part of the premises, and pushing it open, disclosed to the eyes of Michael a loathsome and a fearful spectacle.
Seven or eight boys had already made their way to the sort of rude farm-yard upon which this door opened, one and all of whom were intent upon purloining from a filthy trough just replenished for the morning meal of two stout hogs, a variety of morsels which, as Michael’s new acquaintance assured him, were “dainty eating for the starving prentices of Deep Valley mill.”
“Make haste, young’un,” cried Charles, good-naturedly, “or they won’t leave a turnip-paring for us.” And on he rushed to the scuffle, leaving Michael gazing with disgust and horror at the contest between the fierce snouts of the angry pigs, and the active fingers of the wretched crew who contested with them for the offal thus cast forth.
Michael Armstrong was a child of deep feeling; and it was, perhaps, lucky for him, that the burning sense of shame and degradation which pervaded every nerve of his little frame, as he looked on upon this revolting spectacle, come upon him while yet too young for any notion of resistance to suggest itself. He felt faint, sick, and brokenhearted; but no worm that ever was crushed to atoms by the foot of an elephant, dreamed less of vengeance than did poor Michael, as the horrid thought came over him, that he was going to abide in a place where little boys were treated with less care and tenderness than pigs!
He turned away shuddering, and feeling almost unable to stand — and then the image of his mother seemed to rise before him — he felt her soft gentle kisses on his cheeks, and almost unconsciously pronounced her name. This dear name, lowly as it was murmured, came upon his ear so like the knell of happiness that was never to return, that the hard agony of his little heart melted before it, and sitting down upon a bundle of fagots that were piled up against the wall, he rested his burning head against the bricks, and burst into a passion of tears. At this moment he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and trembling from head to foot, he sprung upon his feet, and suddenly turning round beheld, instead of the savage features of the overlooker which his fancy had conjured up, the meekest, gentlest, loveliest little face, that ever eyes looked upon, within a few feet of him. It was the same little girl who had been placed next him at the miserable supper of the preceding night, and whose low murmur of pity for all the sorrow he was come to share with her, had reached his ears and his heart.
“You’ll be strapped dreadful if you bide here,” said the child.
Come away — and don’t let them see you cry!” But even as she spoke she turned from him, and ran towards the door through which the miserable pilferers of the pig-trough were already hurrying.
Perhaps no other warning-voice would have been so promptly listened to at that moment by poor Michael, for it was something very like the numbing effect of despair that seemed to have seized upon him, and it is likely enough he would have remained in the attitude he had taken, with his head resting against the wall, till the brutal violence of his task-master had dragged him from it, had not this pretty vision of pity appeared to warn him of his danger.
He rose and followed her so quickly, that by the time she had reached the crowd of children who were still thronging
round the pump, he was by her side.
“Thank you!” whispered Michael in her ear, “It was very kind of you to call me — and I shouldn’t have come if you hadn’t — for I shouldn’t care very much if they killed me.”
“That’s very naughty!” said the little girl.
“How can I be good?” demanded Michael, while the tears again burst from his eyes. “Twas mother that made me good before, and I don’t think I shall ever see her any more.”
“I never can see my mother any more, till I go to Heaven,” replied the little girl— “but I always think every day, that she told me before she died, about God’s making every thing come right in the end, if we bear all things patiently for love of him.”
“But God can’t choose I should be taken from mother, and that’s why I can’t bear it,” said Michael.
The little girl shook her head, very evidently disapproving his theology.
“How old are you?” said Michael.
“Eleven years old three months ago, and that was one week after I came here,” answered his new acquaintance.
“Then you are more than one whole year older than me?” said Michael; “and I dare say you know better than I do; and I’ll try to be good too, if you’ll love me, and be kind to me always, like poor Edward. My name is Michael — What’s your name?”
“Fanny Fletcher,” replied the little girl, “and I will love you and be kind to you, if you’ll be a good boy and bear it all patiently.”
“I would bear it all patiently,” said Michael, “if I knew when I was to get away, and when you was to get away too. But perhaps we are to stay here for ever?” And again the tears ran down his cheeks.
“That’s nonsense, Michael,” said Fanny. “They can’t keep us here for ever. When we die, we are sure to get away from them.”
Michael opened his large eyes and looked at her with something like reproach. “When we die?” he repeated sadly. “Are we to stay here till we die? — I am never to see mother and Teddy any more then?”
“Don’t cry, Michael!” said the little girl, taking his hand—” We shall be sure to get out if God thinks it right. Don’t cry so!”
“I wish I was as old as you,” said Michael, with an accent expressive of great respect. “I should bear it better then.”
As Michael ceased speaking he felt the little girl shudder. “Here he is!” she whispered, withdrawing her hand from him—” we mustn’t speak any more now.”
“Off with you, vagabonds!” roared the voice of the apprentice-house governor, from behind them. “Don’t you see the factory-gates open?”
The miserable little troop waited for no second summons, well knowing that the lash, which was now only idly cutting the air above their heads, would speedily descend upon them if they did; but not even terror could enable the wasting limbs of those who had long inhabited this fearful abode, to move quickly. Many among them were dreadfully crippled in the legs, and nearly all exhibited the frightful spectacle of young features pinched by famine.
Let none dare to say this picture is exaggerated, till he has taken the trouble to ascertain by his own personal investigation, that it is so. It is a very fearful crime in a country where public opinion has been proved (as in the African Slave Trade), to be omnipotent, for any individual to sit down with a shadow of doubt respecting such statements on — his mind. IF they be true, let each in his own little — circle, raise his voice against the horrors — detailed by them, AND — THESE HORRORS WILL BE REMEDIED. But woe to those who supinely sit in contented ignorance of the facts, soothing their spirits and their easy consciences with the cuckoo note, “exaggeration while thousands of helpless children pine away their unnoted, miserable lives, in labour and destitution, incomparably more severe, than any ever produced by negro slavery.
It was — with a feeling certainly somewhat — akin to comfort, that Michael found himself thrust into the same chamber with his gentle little monitor, Fanny. The mules they attended, were side by side, and though no intercourse was permitted, that could by possibility interfere with the ceaseless labour of piecing, nevertheless, a word when their walk brought them near enough to each other to be heard, was often exchanged between the children, and the effect of this on Michael, was most salutary. —
Superlatively, and above all others, wretched as are the miserable young victims apprenticed to factory masters, it is not unusual to find among them some helpless creature, whose first impressions were received under more favourable moral circumstances, than those in which the pauper children of the manufacturing districts are placed. For it is from a distance from those unblessed regions, that the great majority of apprentices are furnished, and the chances are, therefore, greatly in favour of their having first opened their eyes amidst scenes of less ignorance, degradation, and suffering, than those born within reach of the poisonous factory influence.
Such was the case with Fanny Fletcher. It was not till mother and father were both dead, that she had ceased to hear the voice of love, and the precepts of religion. For three years she had, indeed, been supported by the labour of a poor widowed mother; but being her only child, Fanny had wanted nothing, had never been exposed to the hearing of coarse language, or the witnessing vicious habits, and all her little studies had been so thoroughly mixed up with religious feelings, that by the time she was ten years old, it would have been almost impossible to eradicate them, or rob her entirely of the gentle courage, and patient endurance, such feelings invariably lead to. When her mother died, all the world — her little world, consisting of a score of poor bodies of her own class, exclaimed, “Poor Fanny Fletcher!” But there was not one among them rich enough to save her from the workhouse, and to the workhouse therefore she went, whence within three months she was sent, with many others, as apprentices, to Deep Valley factory, ostensibly, and as doubtless the parish authorities believed, to learn a good trade, but in truth, to undergo a species of slavery, probably the most tremendous that young children were ever exposed to in any part of the known world, civilized or uncivilized.
That the desolate little creature suffered fearfully, both in body and mind, cannot be doubted; yet at the time Michael first saw her, there was still that beautiful look of innocent patience in her eyes, which shows that the spirit, though bending under sorrow, is neither reckless nor degraded. Herself, and her companions from the workhouse to which she had been consigned at her mother’s death, were the latest arrivals at Deep Valley when Michael reached it, and were still considered by the rest of the inmates as new-comers, who did not yet know the full misery of incessant labour, with strength daily failing for want of pure air and sufficient food. Fanny was by nature a slight delicate little creature, with an elastic sort of vitality about her which seemed to set fasting at defiance. That is to say, her sweet eye had not yet lost its brightness, but her beautifully fair cheek was very pale, and her delicate limbs most deplorably thin, though they had not yet reached that shrunk and wasted condition which was nearly general among her companions. Michael looked at her as she bent over her threads, and repaired the incessant breakings among them with her white little hands, with a degree of love and pity which while it wrung his heart, softened the hard despair that had nearly seized upon him, by making him feel that though his mother and his brother were lost to him for long long years, during which he was to taste of nothing but misery, still there was somebody who might grow to love him. This was a timely solace! Young as he was, he perceived at once, that instead of being brought to Deep Valley to learn a trade, he had been beguiled to enter there bound and helpless, for more years than he dared to count, and with no prospect of learning any thing beyond the same slavish process of waiting upon the machinery, which had painfully occupied his daily existence, and that of his dearer brother, as long as they could remember to have lived. Under these circumstances, it was truly a great blessing to have found somebody of whom he might make a friend, and so strongly did the poor little fellow feel it, that when the miserable band were led
to their morning meal, he told Fanny as he walked beside her, that he thought he should grow to behave better than he had done that morning, if she would always talk to him about good things, and let him talk about mother and Teddy to her in return.
“There’s a good boy!” replied Fanny, soothingly. “I will talk to you, Michael, whenever I can — and never mind,” she added, as they sat down again side by side at the long dirty board that formed their breakfast table, “never mind not having what’s good to eat, it won’t taste so nasty by and bye, when you grow used to it.”
“I won’t mind it!” replied Michael, manfully, as he supped the musty-flavoured watery mess. “But I wish I had got a bit of good bread for you, Fanny!”
CHAPTER XVIII.
AN EXPLANATORY EPISTLE, WHICH DOES NOT PROVE SATISFACTORY PLANS FOR THE FUTURE, FOLLOWED BY ACTIVE MEASURES TO CARRY THEM INTO EFFECT — A MORNING VISIT TO MRS. GABBERLY.
DURING the whole of the day which followed Miss Brotherton’s expedition to Hoxley-lane, that young lady remained waiting at home, not very patiently, for Sir Matthew Dowling’s promised communication. But still it came not, and when, at an hour too late to hope for it any longer, she at length retired to bed, it was in a state of irritation and anxiety that left her little chance of quiet slumber.
Pale, harassed, and fearing she knew not what for the little fellow, for whose safety she had undertaken to answer, Miss Brotherton joined her good nurse at the breakfast-table, incapable of thinking or speaking upon any other subject. But it was in vain that the gentle-spirited Mrs. Tremlett again and again declared it to be “impossible, and quite out of all likelihood, that Sir Matthew should mean any harm by the boy Mary, though “weary of conjectures,” could by no means end them by coming to the same conclusion; nor did the following letter, handed to her while she still sat before her untasted breakfast greatly tend to tranquillize her. It was from Sir Matthew Dowling himself, delicately enveloped, highly scented and sealed with prodigiously fine armorial bearings on a shield, almost large enough to have adorned the panels of a carriage. But all this perfection of elegance was lost on poor Mary, whose heart, indeed, seemed to leap into her throat, as she tore open the important despatch. It contained the following lines:
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 191