Victorian Dawn (A Poor Man at the Gate Series, Book 12)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Exactly! I have noticed the self-same phenomenon, Mr Tonks. Time to get out. Better we should sell at the same time, for either of us might be big enough to drive down the prices of shares. If we move them together of a morning, then with any luck they will be snapped up before the brokers realise that a pair of important holders are leaving the market.”

  Tonks agreed, it was simple common sense to do so.

  “And in a month or two, after the panic is over, we can buy the best shares back again, sir!

  “But of course, Mr Tonks! At one half of the price, I suspect.”

  “Sell on a Friday, I think, sir. Then we may over the weekend mention to our acquaintance that we have got out of the market, for fear of a collapse in prices.”

  “So we may, Mr Tonks. If people then behave foolishly and sell unwisely, well, that is their concern, not ours! I think I shall consult with young Mr Clapperley on this – he will undoubtedly have useful advice on the proper management of share prices.”

  “I have discussed the matter with him myself, sir. We meet quite frequently.”

  Sir Matthew Star was concerned, he found, about the state of the slate quarries and underground workings he had bought into in North Wales. He had never specifically intended to become an investor in the industry but had become involved when buyers of ships from his yards had found themselves short of cash and had come to him for assistance. They had sometimes asked him for time to pay for their ships and had always been refused, but he had lent them the money, against security, and had several times become owner by default of land or wharves or a share of an actual quarry.

  The slate industry was in an early stage of its development, he felt. Many of the quarries were worked almost on a mediaeval collective basis, the men of a village cutting and dressing slate in some sort of ancient collaboration, and making a poor living as a result. Newer quarries had been opened up, often by outside interests, investors who knew something of money but remarkably little about slate; almost all of these had underestimated the capital that would be required and overstated the income that would result. This first generation of outsiders had almost all disappeared into insolvency. Matthew found himself to a great extent one of the inheritors of their enthusiasm, and in a better position financially because they had lost a lot of money for which they were responsible and he was not. His costs were limited almost entirely to wages and transport.

  He had employed local men as managers, mostly appointing them by letter, confirming them in positions they already held. He had never actually travelled to the quarries themselves. They had produced their roofing-slates in all their varieties and some had brought slabs of slate to market, finding them very popular as flooring and counters in butcher’s shops and their like; he had assumed all was well and had taken his share of their moderate profits. Now he found himself with a letter addressed from the minister of a chapel in one of the quarrying villages, effectively accusing him of complicity in the starvation of the workers and of their deaths in avoidable accidents.

  “Charlotte, do you know of a place called Bethesda? The name is familiar for some reason.”

  “Had you a greater familiarity with your Bible, sir, you would be aware of its origin! It is, I believe, and probably more relevantly, the name given to a large village in North Wales, newly built to serve the local quarries and mines. The land is so mountainous that the miners could not build cottages at their places of work but were forced to cluster together in a local valley. It is cram-packed full of sectarians. I have read of a score of chapels there, each adhering to a different God to the one next door, and each, of course, the only one that is right. It is preferable to our local towns, as goes without saying, most of them having no places of worship at all and the people uncaring of right or wrong, but it is rather puzzling, I find. Add to that, I am reliably informed that the bulk of the people speak only Welsh, which possibly renders them vulnerable to error when it comes to reading their Bibles.”

  Matthew had a deep unconcern for matters religious; he had been brought up in the Navy and as far as he was concerned the Church existed for the benefit of the womenfolk; it was merely an extension of the kitchen and the nursery.

  “So, a ‘minister’ of one of these chapels has not the same standing as a vicar?”

  “Certainly not. A vicar has the cure of all of the souls in his parish, not merely of those who choose his particular place of worship. In fairness, I must say, reluctantly, that the chapels are full while the vicar’s church will be more than half empty. It is possible that the minister will actually serve many more people than the vicar of a far larger parish. We attend church every Sunday, as is only right in our position, and you know that the bulk of the local folk do not; more pews are empty than full. I am told that in places like Bethesda every man and woman old enough to be considered adult will be present more than once on Sunday in one chapel or another, and that it would be considered a scandal if they were not. Why do you ask?”

  He showed her the letter.

  “A troublemaker, in a position of trust. He is unlikely to be telling lies, of course, that would be out of character… Unfortunate if it be true… Was this letter to fall into the hands of a newspaper and be published then it would harm the reputation of the whole family.”

  “That was my thought. Do I sell out or go there and discover if anything may be done?”

  “I would be inclined to pay them a visit and discover the truth of the matter. You have told me more than once that managers are commonly more concerned to deliver you a profit than to consider the morality or wisdom of the means they employ. If the managers in these quarries have had a free hand then they may have become grasping and iron-fisted in their pursuit of money. You have persuaded me that that is rarely wise in the longer term, and my dear Papa firmly believed that men worked far better for receiving a higher wage.”

  Matthew tended to agree; his years as a post-captain had proved time and again that a ship’s crew was better led than driven. The same must apply in a shipyard, as he had shown, he believed. A quarry must be amenable to the philosophy of men working together to achieve prosperity; it was worth a try, and, if it failed, then he could always sell out.

  “Pontius Pilate set a good example in many ways, I believe. Where a problem is insoluble, far better to pass it across to another person!”

  There were no railways in North Wales, Matthew discovered, and very few roads worthy of the name. When he enquired why, he was told that people tended not to travel, for not having the money to do so or the knowledge of the outside world to make them wish to. The people of the Welsh villages stayed in them, so he was told.

  The most practical method of reaching Bethesda seemed to be a roundabout excursion by ship along the coast and then riding, on horseback, up into the mountains. It was another land, it would seem. He asked his acquaintance in Liverpool whether he should go to the old town of Caernarvon or another port as more used in modern times, but there seemed to be no opinion on the matter. In the end he decided it might be better to ride the whole distance, a few days almost of holiday, an excursion into the romantic hills. He was not so old and sedentary, he thought, that a tour on horseback would be beyond his powers.

  He was saddle sore and regretting his boldness when he walked his horse into the grey, austere mountain valley four days later. His groom was inclined to be amused, he felt, which did not improve his mood. It was a large village of small cottages, dull and drab, unlivened by the influence of money. The community exuded the atmosphere of poverty. The children, those few in sight, lacked the energy to run and play; they walked listlessly, dull-eyed, the infallible sign that their parents lacked the wherewithal to feed them adequately.

  Every street had its chapel, but he could see no inn. There was no chance of a hotel, that he accepted, but he had thought there might be a place for travellers to find a meal and a room. He realised, slowly, that there was no such thing as a passing trade here for an inn to exist on. The only plac
e to go from Bethesda was back down the mountain, or out to one of the slate mines and quarries surrounding the collection of houses.

  He tried to ask for directions, but discovered that the children and the few adults in the streets had only the Welsh tongue; English was unknown. Then he modified that perception; English was feared, it was the language of the masters, a language they most certainly knew, but chose not to use.

  A few minutes, it was not a large town, and he came out the highway, so called, at its far boundary, a frontier it would seem between two different lands. On the town side of the road was chapels and grey virtue; on the other verge was a line of pubs, small shops and cottages with bright paint on the woodwork. It required little imagination to suggest that two estates met just here, the one evangelical, the other old Church of England. Matthew aimed himself towards the largest pub he could see and sent his groom inside to enquire of a room.

  “They can bed us both and feed us, sir, and put the old ‘orses up as well. Don’t like the looks of the object what they calls a groom, mark you, sir, but I shall look after our nags meself!”

  Inside was only moderately gloomy at midday and they could provide fresh bread and a slice of a well-cured ham, signs of some slight prosperity. Matthew enquired of the location of the quarries he had a part-ownership in.

  “Afon Wen, sir? Very small, not much more than a hole in the ground with a dozen men inside it. Good rock, mark you, but no great depth to it. Pantdreinog? Another open quarry, but a little larger, sir. Tan Y Bwlch? More of a mine, sir, underground and with reserves to let it grow, sir. Fifty men and more and the manager with the desire to make it bigger. Uses this house, he does, of a Saturday and Sunday and talks a bit of the hopes he is having. Like all the rest though, sir, the men are not at all happy, not at all, sir.”

  “You are not a local man, I believe, host?”

  “No, sir, not likely to be, running a pub, sir. The locals will drink in here, provided they are not seen coming through the doors, but to run such a place would put them beyond redemption in the eyes of the chapels. No, sir, I come up from Hertfordshire, not so far north of Hertford town, some twenty years since, sir, deciding I had no liking for the air there no longer.”

  Matthew wondered just what he had done and how he had been caught, and, perhaps more importantly, how he had got away.

  “When you say the men are unhappy, now… Oh, while I think of it, I should pay for two rooms for two nights and the horses. Two sovereigns should cover the bill, do you think?”

  The landlord would have charged less than ten shillings, and still have thought he was doing well. He was very pleased to talk at length. The men were paid, he said between nine pence and a shilling a day, for long shifts in all weathers. The underground men bought their own candles, from the quarry store and paying their prices; on top of that, they supplied their own tools and paid for having them sharpened on the quarry grindstone. Accidents occurred frequently and there was no sick pay or compensation to widows.

  “All in all, sir, it is hard work and dangerous and pays a monkey’s allowance. The men know nothing else and most speak no English and so cannot go away to work in Birmingham or Liverpool or suchlike places. Add to that, many are in debt to the quarry store. All it needs, sir, is a burning brand – the powder is ready to explode.”

  “Where will I find the managers, host?”

  “They live in their own houses, up the hill a way, sir. You won’t find them in town here close to the men. Best would be to go to the quarries, sir, and see them in their offices. You don’t want to show your face in town, I would say, sir, whatever else you do. Too many men what have been pushed beyond the point of caring, sir.”

  “You think there might be violence?”

  “Not intended, sir, planned out like, but anything might cause it to come about, sir. One wrong word and one short temper, that’s about all it would take for riot, or so I am reckoning, sir.”

  There was a degree of regret, of bad memory, in the landlord’s voice; Matthew suspected he knew the reason for his flight from the Home Counties.

  “I have a letter from a minister of a chapel in Bethesda. That is why I have come here. If I should not go back into the town then I shall find it difficult to talk to him.”

  The landlord of the pub shook his head dubiously.

  “There is little I can do, sir. I could send my son, young George, my last-born, only twelve, which is why he is still here, sir, rather than gone away to work where there is money. The minister would like as not refuse to talk to him, for fear of contamination, him coming from a place of evil. Even if he listened to his message, there is not a chance that he would come to speak to you here, in the place of the Demon Rum and the Scarlet Woman. Not that you’ll find any sort of women in this house, not even pale pink, sir!”

  The landlord sounded rather regretful, as if he might have appreciated the company.

  “Very staid, we are, sir, for a Gateway to Hell and Perdition. Still and all, I suppose you must take your sin as you find it, even if it comes tedious in these mountains.”

  “I should speak with the gentleman, as a matter of courtesy at least. Would you get your boy to run across to the chapel and try to persuade the minister to appoint a place where we can meet?”

  Matthew wrote a brief note and gave the lad a shilling – wealth, indeed!

  Half an hour later the youngster returned, an answer written on the reverse of the letter. In a large, bold, forward-leaning hand the minister regretted that he could not enter the premises where Sir Matthew had chosen to locate himself, but there was a bridge across the river where they could conveniently meet. He would be there in a few minutes, as long as it took him to walk the short distance.

  “Keeps him safe, sir! Very cautious sort of gentleman, that one!”

  Matthew did not understand why, until the landlord very kindly pointed out that it was well known that the Devil could not cross running water.

  “Ah! A practically-minded man, I see!”

  It was an interesting indication of local opinion of the masters.

  Matthew changed out of riding clothes before venturing the few hundred yards to the bridge; it could be the case that breeches, boots and spurs might convey the wrong set of ideas.

  There was a black-clad figure waiting, in the middle of the span, the mountain stream running high and fast beneath him.

  “Good afternoon, sir. I am Sir Matthew Star. If you are the Reverend Lewis, then you wrote me a most disturbing letter, sir, and raised matters which I must discuss with you.”

  Matthew offered his hand; it was ignored.

  “I am the Reverend Lewis, indeed, Sir Matthew. I am pleased, but, I will confess, surprised to see you. I had feared that you might much prefer not to see evidence of the crimes committed by your minions.”

  “If felonies have been committed in my name, then they will be dealt with, sir. I will say only that I came into part-ownership of these slate quarries by default; they were offered as security for debts that were not redeemed in the final instance. I am a builder of steamships, sir, and have sold several to quarry and mine owners on the Welsh coast. I know nothing of slate, or of its winning, and paid no attention to these quarries which are an insignificant part of my business interests. That said, I am no slave driver, sir!”

  The reverend did not seem comforted by Matthew’s words.

  “You say in fact that we are unimportant to you, Sir Matthew.”

  “I have travelled four days to come and speak to you, sir. Were you unimportant, I should not have left my shipyards unattended. You have said in your letter that I have treated your people as worse than Africans in the plantations of America. If I have done so, then it has been in ignorance which I wish to amend. That said, sir, I am only part-owner of the three enterprises; I may not be able to persuade the other gentlemen to take action. I have indeed met them only briefly, when taking my partnerships with them, to which they had to formally give their assent, of course.”r />
  The minister interpreted this as a warning that nothing would be done, at least in the short term.

  “Then I can but inform you of the misery faced by my flock, Sir Matthew, and hope that you may be moved to charity at least. Many of the children will die in the winter coming, I fear, for lack of food and warm clothing on their backs. The price of foodstuffs is rising almost every week, sir, and the wages paid by the quarries have not changed in ten years. The people are desperate, sir, and Poor Relief hardly exists for lack of landowners to pay the Poor Law in this county.”

  The minister seemed close to tears, despair almost overcoming him. Matthew observed him closely, saw that he was thin, underfed himself, and that his suit of blacks was old, almost threadbare; he shared the privations of his people, it would seem.

  “The landlord of the place where I have taken a room – for lack of any other hotel or inn, I would add – told me of wages of less than a shilling a day?”

  “Sometimes as low as nine pence, sir. For six days of sixteen hours of labour, working often from rickety ladders across a rock face a hundred feet and more high. Men die from tiredness, sir, sometimes fainting from lack of food.”

  “I must see the quarries for myself, and speak to the managers. I must warn you, sir, that if I discover all is as you say, then I may find no alternative to closing the enterprise, to forcing a full shut down. A rise in wages will be the ideal, but I cannot support the mines here as a charity. The end may be no work at all, sir.”

  The minister seemed resigned to that possibility, almost to welcome it.

  “Possibly better that and the town abandoned, the men forced to take their families away, rather than continue in their present miseries. Most of the men own their houses, you see, putting them up over the years, often with the help of their own building society. They formed clubs in the better times and put a few pennies a week each into a fund which then built the houses one by one until every man had his place, and then the club was disbanded as no longer needed. Owning a house ties the men down, for they cannot leave their own roof to go to an unknown place to try to rent a place for their family, especially for having no savings to tide them over.”