The Pain Of Privilege (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 4)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Navigators, Mr Rumpage?”

  “Aye, my lord, my people.”

  “Good workers! Will you be keeping all or any of them on after construction is finished?”

  “I would like to, my lord. I do know them, and how they goes on. I can tell they what to do and know they can do it, so long as I do pay ‘em well.”

  “It is your yard, Mr Rumpage, and it is your decision. The sole concern that I have is that they have, shall we say, a reputation for enjoying themselves. Building a canal, they are a week or so in or near one town and then on to the next, do not overstay their welcome. Living here, in one place all of the year round, could bring difficulties.”

  “It do, my lord – but what I was thinking was to keep they all together like, build a lodging house or two, sort of thing, and then you can be sure that some one of them will build a pub where they can enjoy themselves wi’out interfering with the local folk, and maybe a concert-hall, too.”

  Tom tried to imagine just what sort of music would be played in that hall, or what other sorts of entertainment would rapidly come on offer. He decided he would prefer not to know.

  “Robert! Do you think it would be possible to buy out a few more acres close to the yard, clear them as you have here and then build for our men? Some of them will eventually settle down, I have no doubt, and would take the tenancy of a small house, others, as Mr Rumpage says, will live in boarding-houses, or some such sort of establishment.”

  “I will speak with Mr Mostyn, sir, but I am sure that it will be possible. We have funds earmarked for contingency use.”

  “Satisfactory, Mr Rumpage?”

  “Very, my lord, but, they won’t be navvies no more, then, we shall ‘ave to look after they, make certain sure they got work and money comin’ in.”

  “I have to do that for all of my people, Mr Rumpage. These will be your folk to look after.”

  “No choice, be there, my lord?”

  “None at all, sir. Can you do it?”

  “Dunno’, my lord, but if so be I can’t, then there ain’t no other bugger will be able to, either!”

  “Good! Piece of advice, Mr Rumpage – think about a wife, sir. Tired from work and worrying you can go home to a family, and that makes a difference, believe me, sir!”

  “Perhaps, my lord – but just at the moment I got work for eighteen hours a day and I don’t reckon to take anything else on. When the yard’s up and running I shall take a day off for myself, and think about me, my lord. I got that planned for five weeks and two days from now, my lord.”

  They paced the yard for an hour, Rumpage familiar with every foot of it and able to describe it precisely as it would be in a week or a month’s time, everything held in the front of his mind. Finally he took them into his office, introduced Barrow who was sat with a dozen ledgers open in front of him.

  “All going well, Mr Barrow?”

  “All to plan, Mr Rumpage – the day’s deliveries have all been made and the brickworks have confirmed by letter the dispatch of three barges of commons from Bedfordshire, to be here on Friday next. The lame dray-horse has been sent back to its stables and another brought in and we have identified the source of the thieving from the dustbins at the kitchens – boys from the orphanage down the road. I have done nothing about that yet.”

  “Poor little sods be ‘ungry, I do expect – bread and scrape when they’s lucky, water gruel nine days out o’ ten. I ‘ave ‘eard of they places, and nothin’ good of any of they!”

  Tom intervened, he could bring political pressure to bear perhaps.

  “Run by the Poor Law Commissioners, I presume? Trying to save money for the ratepayers.”

  “Save money, my lord? More like pocket it, from all I hear. This one is Church, I believe,” Barrow commented, “texts on the walls instead of food in their bellies, a portion of boiled beef for the good boys who go to the Master’s room at night.”

  “Get their meat rations, do they, Mr Barrow?”

  “Just that, Mr Rumpage!”

  Tom took a little while to see the joke, then decided he did not think it was particularly funny in any case.

  “What will you do, Mr Rumpage?”

  “Nothing, my lord – I have no work for children, ‘tis not like the factories in the North Country, begging your pardon, and I do not want the little boys around here, my lord. A dozen of the lads would rather ‘ave arse’ole than fanny, that I know, but they ain’t doing it in my yard, my lord. What they gets up to on a Sunday is their business, but not during the working week, thank’ee kindly!”

  “So, build a higher fence, do you think?”

  “Yes, my lord – come winter the trouble will get less – ‘alf the poor little buggers will freeze and the rest will get a consumption, and that’s if the typhoid don’t get in first. It’s ‘ot already this summer and that place is built right on the river!”

  Tom nodded – that was the way of the world, it was only a lucky orphan who survived at all in a big city, and none came through unscathed.

  “You are doing an excellent job here, Mr Rumpage, as I had been told. I think I would like you to go to Liverpool and St Helens next year for a month or so, to look at the yard there and at Roberts Works. I suspect you would both learn and teach a few things there. Mr Barrow, you are Clerk of the Works, I understand – what do you intend when this yard is built? Will you stay as assistant or move on?”

  “There will not be enough work for an assistant to Mr Rumpage, my lord – this office will need a junior clerk, no more. So I will look for another contract, my lord.”

  “Roberts and Star will both be building houses next year and for some time to come, Mr Barrow. If you wish to move to the North Country then you should inform Mr Robert when the time is right – there will be a place for you.”

  ‘As simple as that’, Barrow thought, ‘independence gone, security in its place, another devoted worker to make profits for the firm’.

  “Thank you, my lord. I shall be very pleased to do so. My experience of working for Roberts has been of the best and I shall be happy to stay with you.”

  “Provide the men with a feast when you top out the last building, Mr Rumpage, equally for those who have chosen to stay and those who wish to go back to the roads and canals. A band and dancing partners for the evening, I am sure you know what I mean, sir. All of the food they can eat, and of the best, and beer and porter and rum and gin till it runs out of their ears. Mr Robert will arrange payment, of course. Then on the next payday, a week afterwards, a bonus of five sovereigns in the hand of every man who has chosen to stay – that to be kept quiet so that it is not a bribe but a thank-you. Let them know that they have chosen to be loyal and that we value that very highly.”

  Rumpage nodded, it made very good sense to him.

  “What about Snowy, my lord – the man from Antigua who wants to go home? He will ‘ave enough money in his pocket by this time next year, so do I take ‘im knowing ‘e ain’t goin’ to stay?”

  “Which is he?”

  “The one over there, my lord, ‘e ain’t that easy to mistake for any of the rest!”

  Tom laughed, he had asked the question deliberately, wondering whether he would be called a bloody fool for his pains or whether Rumpage would prefer to be obsequious.

  “Neither he is, Mr Rumpage. Would all men of colour be called by that name?”

  “Mostly, my lord, that or ‘Darkie’, generally speaking. The Indian men have different names, of course – ‘Sahib’ for most of ‘em. The Spanish men – quite a lot of them from the soldiers, my lord, most just got to be called ‘Dago’, but there were one or two others – there was one who said ‘e was one of they matadors, so ‘e got to be called ‘Bullshit’, out of course.”

  Tom nodded, it all made sense, of a sort.

  “Is Snowy a good worker?”

  “He’s a navvy, my lord!”

  “So he is. Ask him if he would come across and speak to me, please.”

  “He don’t li
ke to be treated like a raree-show, my lord, not by people what ain’t never talked to a black man before.”

  “I spent time in the Sugar Islands as a boy, Mr Rumpage.”

  Snowy came and gave a brief nod of his head, said nothing.

  “Navy, Snowy?”

  “Yes, sir, pressed, sir, my dad’s boat hit a reef, fishing, sir, and I managed to stay aboard while me brother and dad got thrown out. Barracuda got they, sir, while I watched, must ‘ave taken the better part of a quarter hour, sir, not quick and easy like a shark. Then the navy come and saw me and got me and took me aboard. Nine year back, sir.”

  “You wish to go back to the Sugar Islands? You could stay here working for this firm, if you wanted.”

  “I want to go back, sir, back home.”

  An ordinary young man, mid-twenties, Tom supposed, tears in his eyes. He must keep those memories well hidden away.

  “Roberts will buy you a passage from Liverpool, Snowy, this month, as soon as you show up at the office – if the firm pays for your ticket you will get home safely. Too many ships you would pay over your money and then be knocked over the head as you reached harbour, wake up on the block as you were sold. That will not happen to you, sir; they know what I would do to them when I heard of it.”

  Rumpage escorted the navvy away, came back looking puzzled.

  “Why, my lord? We ain’t nohow in the charity business that I knows of.”

  “Two reasons, Mr Rumpage – the first is that every man here will know that we have looked after that young man – he has had some damned bad luck and has done his best for himself and we have just helped him out a bit. They will like that and that will be good for the firm. The second reason? It was the right thing to do, sir, and sometimes that is good enough in itself.”

  “So it be, my lord. I reckons I ought to do my bit, as well. Me and two or three of the lads will go along to the orphanage, my lord, and speak to the Master there and persuade him to give the boys more food, make ‘im behave like a Christian.”

  “Will he be easily persuaded, Mr Rumpage? I have never heard such men to be kind-hearted or moved by love of their fellow-man.”

  “No difficulty at all, my lord. Time we stops kicking ‘im ‘e’ll be only too pleased to be more generous.”

  Tom remained in London for the whole of the Season, enjoying, increasingly, the company of Miss Drew. Not the fire of young, romantic love, he decided, but a developing affection, sufficient that he would miss her when they were apart. She would never be another Verity, but she would be herself, and that would be sufficient. He had thought that his life was over, that he should just quietly fade away, but perhaps he need not give up for a while, another decade or two.

  The Drews intended to spend a month in Brighton and then to make their way to their estate just beyond Dorchester for the late summer and early autumn. The wedding would be in September and the elder Drews would then return to London where my lord intended to offer himself to the government, confident that a place could be found for his talents, initially on one of the Boards, later perhaps as a minor member of an Administration. He had decided that he was too young simply to retire and share a house, however large, with his thoroughly boring son and heir.

  “Rural seclusion and all that, Lord Andrews – good for those who need it, and I am very sure that the sheep or whatever would benefit from me peering knowledgeably at them, but I have suffered ages in the ultimate backwater of existence. I need civilisation for my declining years!”

  Tom had heard Frances’ descriptions of the excitements of Canada, smiled in sympathy.

  “I enjoy the country life for part of my year, Lord Paynton, but have the advantage of not staying too long in any one location. My business interests take me often to South Wales and to Lancashire as well as frequently to London. I am able, if you like, to make a choice of whether to be a sophisticate or a yokel, week on week. I would wish, if possible, to join you for a sennight or so in Brighton, but I really must be seen in Lancashire soon, so I will go from here to Kettering next week, then up to St Helens before returning south. I will endeavour to bring Joseph with me. He will need a break, at sixteen he counts a week as spent in idleness if he works fewer than eighty hours. He worries me sometimes – I fear he will burn himself out before he is thirty.”

  “We would all be very pleased to meet the young gentleman, my lord, Frances especially, I suspect. A pity that your second son is so far away!”

  “Yes, and no letter for three months now. He was becoming a regular correspondent, but if he is in the field, and I would expect him to have wangled his way into a campaign somewhere, he may well not have the time or opportunity to write.”

  “Always a worry, is it not, my lord?”

  “It can be nothing else – he is a good lad, James, but not perhaps the sharpest of needles. The army is the best place for him, but he has shown a willingness to risk his neck that I cannot like, though it will do his career no harm. I imagine that having realised just how close I came to my own end I can see his too easily. I am too old, I suspect, to be sanguine!”

  Thomas Miller disembarked in Liverpool after a long, stormy voyage – seven weeks at sea and never a whole day with less than half a gale. He was sure that he had lost ten pounds in weight; of course, he told himself, he could easily afford to do so – his sedentary existence as his business commitments grew had been putting flesh on him.

  He had heard of Lord Andrews’ bereavement and proposed therefore to call upon Lord Star first while he discovered whether a visit would be an imposition on Lord Andrews – he hoped not, having some strong suspicions about his parentage since meeting Robert Andrews. He had always known that the Colonel was not his blood-father, was naturally curious to discover who was, but consoled himself that it mattered very little, his affection and respect for the Colonel was great and would be abiding. His natural father had, after all, abandoned him in effect, though his mother when asked, had said only that the gentleman had been unaware of his existence, which might or might not be true. He took a hotel room while he composed a letter and conferred with the manager on its delivery.

  “Messenger would be best, sir, by horseback to Freeman’s – half a day to return with an answer. I believe the family to be in London, sir, for the Season, but Mr Thomas Star is in residence, we are informed.”

  The manager found the local newssheet for the month, turned to its society gossip page for confirmation.

  “Yes, sir, Lord and Lady Star and Miss Star are in Town, in company with Lord Andrews, it says. Mr Thomas Star remaining, his wife imminently expecting an interesting event.”

  “Meaning, sir?”

  “First baby, Mr Miller – I saw her last month when the family were here overnight, shopping, I believe, and noticed her to be great with child then.”

  “Then perhaps I should not force my presence upon them, sir?”

  “If the parturition has been successful, Mr Miller, then I would imagine you to be very welcome – all will depend, obviously, on the course of events.”

  A note came back that day begging Mr Miller to join the Stars at Freeman’s, to take a very welcome part in their celebrations.

  “A son, Mr Miller, and my wife very well, sir. Have you met Mr Joseph Andrews, sir? I know that you are acquainted with his brother and believe there is a strong family resemblance…”

  Thomas Star’s voice tailed off as he made the comment about the similarity in appearance of the brothers. His young sister, naturally at Joseph’s side, tried to step into the breach.

  “Will you take a refreshment, Mr Miller? I believe Americans habitually take coffee, from all I read, is that not so?”

  “It certainly is, ma’am, though tea is also much drunk in the States, even in Boston!”

  “My wife has not yet left her rooms, Mr Miller, but she will be very anxious to second my welcome within a few days.”

  “Thank you, Mr Star – would you send a message of congratulations to her, sir? Always a wo
rrying as well as a joyous occasion, I am told, and I am very pleased for you both.”

  The American visited the Star mills in duty bound, though not deeply involved with textiles, and found himself fascinated by the organisation of the firms, the logical progression of the cotton through the factory buildings, raw bales coming in at one end, yarns and threads leaving at the other.

  “Weaving and dying is still separate, Mr Star?”

  “Stars is mostly a spinners, Mr Miller, though we have the one weaving plant, but, in common with most other firms we have found it better to specialise. Adding a weaving mill to the end of the spinning would make for too large a set of buildings – as much as anything we would be hard-pressed to find the length of flat land to build on.”

  The notebook came out of Miller’s pocket, and he scribbled a memo to himself to investigate the possibility of buying up lots of flat, well-drained land in the industrial sections of New York. Textiles were growing there, he knew, and it seemed that good building land on the river might command a premium.

  The Roberts Works were an equal amaze, but for wholly different reasons – the British were so wasteful of labour! He watched as a cast iron pillar was cracked out of the sand-mould and was shifted, effectively by hand, to the next shop where it was to be dressed – the flash to be removed, the surface buffed and then red-leaded preparatory to taking a coat of paint that should, hopefully, inhibit rust. A set of rails led through the shops – he inquired why there was no engine running on them, why the trolleys were all hand-pulled.

  “Messy, Mr Miller – smoke and steam, the men choking, the machines covered even more with muck!”

  Wages were lower in England, it transpired, and manpower was easily come by, unlike the States where there was competition for every hand and where even the semi-skilled were rare beasts.

  Miller noted all, especially the almost profligate use of expensive steel in the machines. Using steel parts it was possible to achieve much tighter tolerances, to cut to one hundredth part of an inch rather than one tenth using cast or wrought iron. Well and good, but how often did one actually need such precision? Most machines worked perfectly adequately using iron and cost less than half as much – this was perfection for its own sake, ideal, perhaps, but not entirely practical.