World From Rough Stones

by Malcolm Macdonald

  Now that he was closer to it, the crowd looked much larger. He felt the blood hammering in his throat. He had no idea what quality of noise was going to issue when he opened his mouth.

  But he lifted his head and said, in a voice that, to his relief, rang without a tremor in those brick confines, "I'll oblige no man to look up to me!" And the great roar of laughter and applause it brought made him almost feel sorry for the young would-be leader, now standing marooned above him in the torchlight. But the bricklayers at the back, he noticed, still for the most part wore grim faces.

  "Well, lads…" he began.

  "Shut your legs, your breath smells," came a voice from the back. It prompted a ripple of light laughter; but that, in turn, was soon drowned in shocked and angry cries of "Hush!" and "Silence!"

  "I've bin on this contract three month," he said. "Until then, I was, as ye know, ganger on number-one face down Littleborough end. I've made some bad mistakes since I started. I'm't first to say it. Bad mistakes. But't worst was to put navvies on bonus an' leave craftsmen likes o' you all 'ere on't same old flat rate as Skelm was payin'."

  Calls of Aye and ironic cries of "Hear him! Hear him!" rose. He let them die before he went on.

  "Aye indeed! I canna now say as 'ow I was that daft as not to think on it. But I didn't. Not till Tom Metcalfe"—he cleared his throat meaningfully—"drew my attention to it!"

  The murmuring turned to laughter, and heads lifted to Metcalfe, still standing in his unlooked-for solitude above. He was either too cowardly or had too overweening a sense of his own dignity to descend by the rope. And to go round by Deanroyd cutting and come back through the tunnel would not only bring him in at the fringe of the crowd but would put him too long out of contact with events.

  "As soon's I 'eard," Stevenson continued. "I saw 'e were right an' I were wrong. So I come to 'im straight. No pride. No stiff neck. No pretendin' I meant to do it all along…I fully confess it took Tom Metcalfe an 'is band o' 'brothers' to teach me what I should of "—with an orator's instinct he dropped his voice to the limit of audibility, forcing them to total silence—"what I should've felt for missen. I come straight to 'im wi' an offer this very mornin'." His voice now rang out again: "It lets brickies earn on bonus three shillin'—belike three'n six—more nor what they take 'ome now."

  He expected someone to object that they'd have to work harder for it but the only response was an appreciative stir.

  "What of us chippies?" a carpenter asked.

  "Aye—an' the smiths?"

  Stevenson nodded. "Aye. I'm glad t'other tradesmen are 'ere an' all. For I've similar bonus plans for every one. Any man on this contract can now earn at least, at least three shillin' more nor what 'e gets flat rate."

  Again he waited for the objection and this time it came.

  Peter Etheridge, the bricklayer, called out, "Aye but we'll work a bloody sight harder for it!"

  Stevenson looked at him coolly. "'Appen buildin' tunnels is man's work, Mr. Etheridge. Any man afraid o' 'ard work has got no business on a railroad. There's all the easy bricklayin' ye want in Manchester at fourteen bob a week."

  When he saw the nods of agreement all around and heard their low-voiced murmurs of assent, he knew he was over the summit and on the downhill run. He realized, too, how much he was enjoying the sense of power that came with talking directly to so large a gathering of men. The fear, that twist in the guts inspired by the sight of so many faces, so many pairs of eyes, staring so relentlessly…that fear was still there; but above it lay a joy that, while it was on you, transcended all other public joys. He was talking to many, yet he spoke as if to one; and it was he who made them one!

  He wanted to play them then, as an angler would play a fish. What could he do with them? he wondered. How far might he go?

  "When?" a voice called.

  He pointed in its direction. "Fair question. You craftsmen come into your own't day't driftway's through. When't tunnel starts a-buildin. Bonus starts't first o' January next."

  "Five bloody weeks!" one of the smiths called.

  Stevenson smiled but said no more. The grumble grew to a loud buzz with an angry edge as they saw nothing in the offing before Christmas. I'll push them further, he thought.

  He spread his hands and adopted a take-it-or-leave-it stance. "I've no need of any extra effort from you lot until then. Ye're all goin' along very nicely, thanks." He heard their rumbling grow angrier still. "I've not got money to chuck about. Ye all know that well enough."

  Strangely, that assertion moderated their anger; if he'd been among them, he thought, it would have made him even angrier. A master who took on a contract without enough to do the thing properly was cause enough for any workman's fury, he'd have thought. He almost decided not to make the offer he had been about to disclose; fortunately, a wiser instinct made him continue.

  "But there's one thing I do need from ye."

  "Aye! Blood!" a bricklayer called.

  He knew it was meant as a joke but he decided to take it seriously. "Blood!" he cried, and his face twisted in a terrible anger. "Blood?" he repeated in even more towering fury. "'Oo's the man as says John Stevenson looks for blood?" He glared over their heads, fighting to master a rage that had swiftly become genuine—such is the intoxication of a mob. A chilled silence fell. Men stared at him open-mouthed and held their breathing. "'E's no man as I know, nor as knows me," he said quietly into the face of that great quiet. "Since I took this contract, there's not one man as given 'is blood beneath these rocks. I'm pained"—he fought to control himself as his voice choked to a whispering tremble—"pained as any man o' mine'd think I ask for blood."

  He breathed deeply and hauled himself erect. "I was sayin'"—he continued crisply but his warmth toward them was now openly withdrawn—"I was sayin' there's one thing I need from ye. Attendance. Accordingly I propose to pay to every man—to every tradesman—as attends every working day from now to January first a bonus o' twenty-four shillin'." There was a gasp of delight at that but he spoke on through it, still tight-lipped and remote. "To be paid on Christmas Eve—on which day knockin'-off will come an hour early at six." Their delight raised itself as far as a cheer. He sensed that they were trying to win back his humour; but he remained implacable. "For every day's absence for which no leave was sought nor good account rendered, the twenty-four shillin is to be reduced by four. The same applyin' to the days between Boxing Day an' New Year as before. Them among ye as is conversant wi' figures, 'up to Cocker' as the saying is…"

  Feeble though the humour was, it gave them their first opportunity to laugh since his rage and they took it immoderately, trying to woo him back. But not a flicker of a smile split his lips. "Them as can do their sums'll soon find out it puts ye on level footin' wi't navvies." He took the first step from the scaffold and then paused to add a footnote. "Oh aye! Proportional bonus for prentices," he said.

  He took one more step and remembered a further footnote. "Aye an' one more thing. This bonus is part o' a private contract betwixt me an' thee, an' thee, an' thee"—he pointed randomly at faces in the crowd—"an' thee, an' thee."

  "No!" Metcalfe's roar of anger fell down on them from above. The torchlight painted him a hellish orange against the deep purple of the sky beyond.

  John continued: "A contract sealed on a 'andshake twixt me an' each man singly."

  "No! No! No!" Metcalfe stamped and stormed with rage.

  "Twixt me an' each man singly." Stevenson was relentless. "An' one clause in that contract binds each such man to join no union." He paused to let it sink in, scanning the faces before him anxiously.

  "No!" Metcalfe called again from above. But he had shot his bolt too soon. This third outburst had a strident edge that made him seem petulant.

  Nevertheless, his cry was taken up by his brother bricklayers and one or two of the other craftsmen. Stevenson waited to see if it would become general.

  It did not.

  From the overall calm and the nodding of heads and the slow
ly rising buzz of talk, it was obvious that the refusals were in a small minority—mainly among the bricklayers.

  "You bastard!" Metcalfe called down with all the bitterness and venom Stevenson had noted in him earlier that day.

  He could not have made a greater blunder. To a southerner the word was merely one of strong contempt—as in politer society a man might say "you cad!" But to that northern assembly, where it was taken in its literal sense, no word bore greater insult; if Stevenson had shinnied back up that rope and personally dismembered Metcalfe, not a man there would have blamed him.

  A terrible hush descended. Metcalfe must have sensed at once that he had said something a great deal more than he had meant. Everyone waited to see what Stevenson might do in his wrath.

  But he had done with the use of anger for that evening. He watched that sea of stunned faces until all had turned from Metcalfe back to him. Then, slowly, slowly, as if his arm moved through invisible beds of clay, he raised a single pointing finger. And such was the majesty of his gesture that if a bolt of lightning had leaped from its tip and struck down the unhappy man above, it would have seemed a fitting conclusion to most who watched. When his arm was at full stretch he jabbed his finger once, twice, at Metcalfe. "Tha'llt pay for that word! By God, and as these men are my witness—tha'llt pay." Metcalfe stood and took it.

  He snatched his arm down and turned to face them again. A deep sigh went up. "I'll say no more," he said quietly. "But from five o'clock tomorn I s'll be standin by't clerk's-o-works office to shake 'ands on a contract wi' any man among ye as wants to better 'issen. Sleep on it! An' sleep well."

  He swung himself down from the scaffold and walked out among them to the short tunnel that led north into Deanroyd cutting. No emperor ever had a way cleared before him so swiftly; but he looked neither to one side nor to the other. Every man in that assembly knew that he, personally, had to make a new his compact with Lord John and earn his favour afresh. This night's work had cleaned the slate of all goodwill.

  When he came to where his horse had been tethered, he saw it was Metcalfe who held its bridle ready. It was an act of courage he had to admire.

  "I owe you an apology, Lord John," Metcalfe began.

  "Accepted and forgotten." Stevenson took the reins. "I know the way ye meant it, Tom. I've worked in't South. Ye weren't to know 'ow it'd get took up 'ere. I bear thee no malice—not for that, anygate." He mounted and pulled the hack's head toward the turnpike. "What I said…well I couldn't let't lads think as I was…"

  "I know," Metcalfe said. "I understand."

  "Then I'll see thee at work tomorn," Stevenson said carelessly, spurring his mount forward.

  "No!" Metcalfe called. And, when Stevenson had reined in again and half turned in his saddle, he added, "Bricklayers will be on strike from tomorra. That was to be thy answer. It still stands."

  "But I've met thy terms."

  "Thou may think so."

  "Then ye may all go to Hades!" Stevenson spurred the horse to a canter and set his face southerly for fear that by some unguarded look or word he would reveal to Metcalfe his delight.

  He was so elated that he wanted to ride straight back to Nora and tell her of all that had happened. He had not simply talked to a crowd of a hundred men—he had pressed them into an almost united band, he had taken them to the verge of mutiny, and then he had brought them back until they were ready to eat out of his hand. He wanted to be with Nora at once and to relive every moment of it again, and then again. Triumph! It was Triumph made incarnate. He wanted to cry it aloud, to shout it at all the hills around and into every corner of the blackened sky above.

  When he reached Littleborough, he leaped down and hammered on the stable door.

  "Oppen it thissen," Clifford's voice came from some distance inside.

  He pulled open the tall door and led his mount into the dimly lit stable. It was warm with the humid reek of dung and ammonia.

  "Is 'e lathered?" Clifford asked. The words fell from the hayloft above.

  Stevenson looked up to see the man's face peering down through an open trap.

  "Nay," he answered. "Not sweated at all. We never done more nor a trot."

  "Aye, well—put 'im in yon third stall where there's a pail o' watter an' just loosen th'girth an' bridle. It'll be a while yet afore I can come down." He winked and vanished.

  Stevenson hadn't needed the wink to tell him what was happening. The loose, flushed face he had seen and the by-no-means furtive rustlings he heard as he put the horse to its stall, told him exactly what was detaining the ostler. And having seen the size of it limp, his mind boggled at the thought of it proud! Who among the girls in Littleborough, he wondered, could manage it?

  His mind, picturing the lascivious scene above and peopling it with a whole row of pretty Littleborough maids, quickened with the thought of Nora, now waiting for him at the inn. Hunched against the cold, he trotted all the furlong that lay between them.

  And when he burst breathless into their parlour, and she came swiftly to him, he threw his arms around her and, lifting her to the ceiling, whirled her around above him.

  "Eay!" she cried in great delight. "I know what tha wants o' me toneet!" She reached her head forward, trying to kiss him, but he held her off. "For a change!" she added.

  Slightly sobered by the tone in her voice, he lowered her to the ground. She parted his cloak and crept inside.

  "'Ave I been remiss?" he asked, thinking backward day to day. "Aye," he had to confess. "'Appen I 'ave."

  "There's been a lot on tha mind."

  The smell from her warm body was heady in his nostrils. He began to tremble with desire for her, and the sudden force of his lust robbed him of words. He lifted her face and covered it with hot kisses.

  She reached out a hand and slipped the snib on the door before she surrendered totally to him. They left a trail of discarded clothing in their slow, delirious progress from the door to the couch beside the hearth. At last, he stood in only a hoisted shirt, she in her corset and a torn chemise. The cheerful orange light from the glowing coals made her lovelier than at any time since they had first met.

  "No hurry, John," she soothed as his hands fiddled urgently with the drawstring of her corset; and she opened his shirt, button by slow button.

  When her corset eased itself from around her waist, the bone of its stays seemed to sigh with the relaxation. It slithered to her ankles and she stepped lightly from it into his embrace. Lightly, too, his fingertips caressed the folds its grip had piled in the flesh around her waist and hips.

  The delicious freedom of his fingers brought her almost to an ecstasy, so that she stood on tiptoe and raised a thigh to curl it round him. But even on tiptoe she was still too short for him and he had to tighten his grip on her waist and lift her onto him.

  There was no labour in it. He relaxed his hands to take a different grip and the torn chemise fell between them.

  "Tear it off me," she whispered in his ear.

  He hesitated; the puritan in him was shocked.

  "It's torn anygate," she added. "I s'll patch it tomorn." More than anything she longed to feel his great, powerful hands wrench the cloth in two and burst her from it, flesh to his flesh.

  Slightly astonished at himself, he gripped the cloth and took a half turn on it as he would on a rope. She felt his muscles ripple and harden as he took the strain. It held more firmly than either of them expected. Her excitement intensified as he braced himself for a greater effort. Bands of iron, thrust out the skin of his torso; his arms shivered, sending her into a delirium. Hot flushes billowed through her body. And then, with an explosive violence the cloth parted. Its tucks and ragged edges seemed to score her stomach as they raced past; and then she was all skin to his skin, surge to his surge, cry of bliss to his deep-voiced sigh.

  Peeled, it seemed, to her very insides, impaled upon him, she clasped him with her arms and thighs; while he, brought to his extremity by her sudden writhing and clamping, charged by seven ni
ghts of unintended continence, filled her till he thought he'd never stop.

  At length, when their hearts had ceased to race, and their breathing returned to near normal, and the sweat that bathed them turned a little chill on the side farthest from the fire, she eased her grip, lowered her thighs, and slid gently from him.

  Drained and sated, they fell drowsily to the couch and lounged side by side in the fireglow. She reached out a toe and raised the torn, sweat-stained chemise.

  "'Ow…How do gentlefolk do it?" she asked. "D'ye think they mebbe wear gloves and say please and ta for everything?"

  And when he laughed, she, having no apron to hide her face in, turned to him and buried herself in his chest. He laid his arm on her back and caressed the pale skin of it. She was so strong an individual in herself that it was only at times like this—when she was girlish and impulsive—that he remembered she was only eighteen. In a curious way, she had grown both younger and older these last three months. Her body was younger; the starved flesh that had creased her skin with lines of toil and care had plumped out and filled each crevice, making her as full and firm and supple as a girl could grow. Her dark hair, too, had turned more lustrous as she gained in health. She looked at the world with a brighter eye, a firmer jaw, and a head held proud.