Owen had plenty of capital to spare. So why, David reasoned, should he not venture some of it in his friend Thomas's growing concern? Or in some other industrial enterprise, such as a mine or a factory? ‘Here in South Wales,’ observed David Morgan, ‘there are certainly plenty of them, from which you might choose.’
‘I'll think about it,’ muttered Owen, but most ungraciously.
‘You do that.’ Sagely, David nodded. ‘Have you replied to Thomas Taliesin's letter?’ he enquired.
‘No. But I'll get round to it soon.’
‘You mind you do.’ David met his nephew's sullen gaze. ‘You need to get out and about, boy,’ he added. ‘Activity! That's the thing.’
* * * *
A month after Owen had returned to South Wales, he received a letter from his uncle Darrow's attorney–at–law, informing him that he was a beneficiary under his late aunt's will.
But, far from being delighted by this sudden windfall, the shock of Rebecca's death almost killed Owen, too. He took to his bed, saying he didn't care if he never rose from it again.
‘Mourn her if you will, child,’ murmured David, as he sat at his nephew's bedside and sighed his sympathy. ‘Remember her goodness, and pray for the repose of her soul. All that is right and just.
‘But for God's sake! Don't torment yourself into an early grave! Surely your dear aunt would never have expected you to grieve like this?’
Owen said nothing. So David wrote again to Thomas Taliesin, this time inviting him to stay, in the hope he would bring his nephew back to life.
‘How much did the old lady leave you?’ demanded the practical Mr Taliesin, as he sat by the invalid's side.
‘What? Oh — the bequest.’ Owen shrugged. ‘I am to receive an annuity, of seven hundred a year. The attorney suggests I cash it in.’
‘What would you get if you did?’
‘Almost four thousand pounds.’ Owen turned his face to the wall. ‘I've a mind to give it all away,’ he muttered. ‘To endow an asylum or hospice, for the care of the melancholy mad.’
‘Don't be so foolish.’ Encouragingly, Thomas clapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘Take the money for yourself!’ he cried. ‘Invest it in industry! Make it grow! Then, you can feather your own nest — and endow your foundation, too.’
‘Perhaps.’ Indifference incarnate, Owen sighed. ‘Very well. I'll consider it.’
Two days later, Thomas went home. A week afterwards, he sent Owen a brief note, inviting him to supper the following Thursday evening, and offering him a bed for the night. For Thomas was expecting a guest, a fellow ironmaster, whom Owen might be interested to meet.
‘I'm not going at all,’ muttered Owen, as his uncle asked if would hire a horse, or take the apothecary's own pony and trap.
‘Duw annwyl, give me patience!’ David glared. ‘You will go,’ he declared. ‘You're looking forward to it tremendously, in fact. So, if you feel you cannot put pen to paper, telling Thomas Taliesin as much, I shall write the letter myself.’
* * * *
‘Mr Owen Morgan, of Cardiff. Mr Michael Atkins, chiefly of Pontypool. But also of Swansea and the Vale of Glamorgan, not to mention all the areas round about.’ Thomas beamed from one friend to the other. ‘Pray sirs, do be seated. Mrs Taliesin will be down again directly. Or so she tells me!’
Owen sat down. Accepting a dish of tea, he glanced again at the other guest, who was regarding him with the polite interest and mild curiosity of a man who made new acquaintances almost every working day. ‘You are a manufacturer, I believe?’ he began. Not because he cared one way or the other, of course, but because he thought he ought to find something to say.
‘A manufacturer, an ironmaster, a philanthropist — Mr Atkins is all these, and much more!’ Complacently, Thomas Taliesin shook his head. ‘Owen, my boy, if you would be an industrialist yourself, you could do no better than hear Mr Atkins on the subject. Indeed, you should hang on every word he has to say.’
‘My dear Thomas, your tongue runs away with you.’ Indulgently, Mr Atkins smiled. ‘Mr Morgan, I am indeed a manufacturer. But, as our host implies, I have other interests, too.’
Owen was just about to ask what these were — but then, the door of the drawing room was thrown open wide. ‘My dear Mrs Taliesin!’ At once, Mr Atkins rose to his feet. ‘A pleasure. As always! I trust I see you well?’
Mrs Taliesin blushed. ‘Mr Atkins,’ she murmured. ‘I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting. One of the children, you see — ’
‘No matter, dear lady, no matter!’ Mr Atkins beamed. ‘Well? I trust all is now in order?’
It was. The party went in to dinner.
A fair–haired, handsome gentleman in robust middle age, Michael Atkins proved to be well–mannered, well– informed, and to have plenty to say for himself. Obviously an Englishman, he had something of the arrogance and complacency of most of the breed. But his general air was pleasant enough, and he was clearly no fool, so Owen had no objection to hearing what he had to say.
‘Mr Morgan has been in India these six years,’ explained Thomas, as Mr Atkins left off talking about his own particular concerns, and began to discourse on the state of the nation and the growing divisions between masters and men. ‘So he has seen nothing of the recent upsurge in radicalism, which threatens the established order. Nay, which bedevils all trade and industry! Nor has he observed how the morals and manners of the labouring classes have decayed.’
‘Has he not?’ Shaking his head, Mr Atkins smiled. He turned to Owen. ‘So, Mr Morgan,’ he began, ‘you are a traveller, recently returned to your native heath. What brought you to South Wales? Have you relatives here?’
‘Yes,’ replied Owen, ‘I have indeed. In fact, my nearest relation lives in Cardiff.’
‘Is the gentleman involved in industry, or trade?’
‘Not exactly. My uncle is an apothecary. He has a large practice in Cardiff and the countryside round about.’
‘Have you no closer family?’
‘Alas, no.’ Owen shrugged. ‘My parents died when I was a little child. My uncle brought me up.’ Well, he thought, this was true enough. Apart from his family connections in Warwickshire, which were lost to him forever, he had no other kin in the world.
In spite of being somewhat preoccupied, Owen paid close attention to much of what Thomas and Mr Atkins had to say, and on the whole the evening went very well. Asked by Mr Atkins if would care to visit one of his manufactories some time in the near future, he accepted the invitation readily.
* * * *
‘The domestic goods market,’ explained Mr Atkins, as he ushered his visitor from the forge and into the machine shop, where bought–in castings were being drilled and punched and bored. ‘The tinning and japanning industries, the non–ferrous metal trades — these are the coming thing.’
‘I see.’ By now half–deafened by the relentless banging and clanging of metal on metal, not to mention half– blinded by smuts and sulphurous, burning dust, Owen gazed all around the modern pandemonium which was the machine shop. Here, he found himself absolutely marvelling at the energy of the smoke–blackened hobgoblins, who laboured so diligently in this hellish atmosphere. He also wondered if his own headache would ever go away.
But soon enough, Mr Atkins led him out of that demon's den and into fresher air. As an ironmaster in the Vale of Glamorgan, he continued, he had done very well out of the French wars. But these would not last forever, and a manufacturer who applied himself to nothing but the production of artillery and cannon would find himself bankrupt when peace was declared.
Therefore, Mr Atkins had opened a new manufactory here in Pontypool, and was beginning to diversify into household wares — fire–irons, grates, fenders and the like. Perhaps Owen would like to inspect the casting sheds now?
Owen agreed that he would. For, to his own great surprise, he found he was becoming interested in all this.
So, in spite of his headache and the ringing in his ears, Owen enjoyed his day out.
He left the factory in Pontypool very thoughtful. He felt something had clicked neatly into place. At last, he thought, he'd found his occupation. He would become a manufacturer, too.
* * * *
‘He's a pleasant fellow,’ observed Owen, as he and Thomas Taliesin sat together enjoying a light supper, a few days later. ‘He's plain–spoken, cordial, and he seems honest, too. I feel I could do business with him.’
‘Indeed, you might go much further and fare far worse.’ Thomas poured more madeira. ‘I've been one of his suppliers for a good six months now, and I'll tell you this for nothing. He pays his bills regularly. Cash on the nail, and he doesn't quibble over trifles, either. Not like some.’
‘How long have you known him?’
‘Three years. Four, maybe.’ Thomas raised his glass. ‘Yes, I'd say Mr Atkins was as straight as a die. Honest as the day is long — which is remarkable, when you come to consider it.’
‘How so?’
‘Well. I would not bear false witness against my neighbour. So, if I tell you what I've heard, it is between you and me only. Is that agreed?’
‘Most certainly.’
‘Well, then. He's a widower. His unfortunate wife, whom he married quite late in life — he must have been forty, at least — was apparently something of a catch. Rich, beautiful and virtuous, too. But she died in childbirth. He lost her, and the infant as well.’
‘Poor fellow.’
‘Poor fellow, indeed.’ Thomas refilled Owen's glass. ‘But there were those in the metal trades who murmured it was no more than justice and due retribution, all round.’
‘Retribution?’ repeated Owen. ‘For what?’
‘For his manifold sins and wickednesses. You see — during the last century, before he was involved in his present occupation, our Mr Atkins was a mere country gentleman. He came from an ancient line of English squires, living in Pembrokeshire, I believe — or at any rate, in one of those little outposts of Saxon autonomy dotted here and there throughout rural Wales.
‘His father was a farmer, and a magistrate. But he dealt in contraband too. Times were violent then, and it seems old Mr Atkins was implicated in the deaths of at least two Excise men. For this he was arraigned, convicted and hanged. There were those who whispered that our friend was as deep in that business as ever his father was. But, even when he was on trial for his life, old Mr Atkins refused point blank to implicate his son.’
‘What do you believe?’
‘I don't know that I believe anything in particular. Of course, one doesn't go up to a man and enquire! But, as you say yourself, Michael Atkins seems to be an honest man. His business associates speak well of him, and his word is undoubtedly his bond.’ Thomas looked thoughtful. ‘The seed does not necessarily carry the taint of the parent plant.’
‘I suppose not.’ Owen had the grace to blush.
‘It was a long time ago,’ continued Thomas, reflectively. ‘Twenty years or more. If our friend does have anything on his conscience, there's been time enough for him to repent.
‘Indeed, in some ways he does behave like a penitent. He supports an orphanage near Swansea, and he endows the foundling hospital in Bridgend.’
* * * *
Mr Atkins was delighted when Owen visited him again and asked if he would be interested in going into partnership, or at least in making a deal. For as it happened, said Mr Atkins, he knew just the thing that might suit.
His new factory had a constant use for a particular type of iron casting, which he could not readily manufacture himself. In the past, he had dealt extensively with an ironmaster who had made exactly the kind of thing he wanted. But eighteen months ago, Mr Heatherwood had died intestate, leaving a strong–minded widow and her five sons to squabble amongst themselves.
Unable to agree on the division of spoils, the family had allowed the business to decay. Lawsuits looked likely to bring them all to the brink of bankruptcy. What if Owen were to step in, offer them cash — which Michael Atkins was certain they would take — and become an ironmaster himself?
‘The site of the works is an excellent one,’ continued Mr Atkins, encouragingly. ‘A ready supply of coal, iron–ore and limestone is to hand. An idle workforce would welcome a new employer with open arms.’
If Owen would undertake to produce what he wanted, moreover, Mr Atkins would undertake to buy, and also recommend him to other manufacturers throughout the region.
Owen decided this was a heaven–sent opportunity. For some weeks now, he'd been considering various business ventures in the north of England. But if he became an iron– founder here in South Wales, he'd be near enough to Cardiff to visit his uncle. Nowadays, David Morgan's chronic shortness of breath and bad colour seriously alarmed his nephew, who did not relish the thought of losing virtually the only kin he had left in the world.
He decided to take a look at the Heatherwood Works.
* * * *
Hiring a horse from the livery stables, Owen set off across the valley. On the northern rim of the South Wales coalfield, he found the site.
But if he'd expected to be inspired, he soon realised he was doomed to be disappointed that day. Overgrown — in fact, near–derelict — the place was desolate. The sight of crumbling, roofless casting sheds, a boarded–up foundry, and an empty forge in which yellow dandelions and rosebay willowherb grew in wild profusion, did nothing to raise his already sinking spirits. As he poked about the rubbish, as he took in the squalor and wholesale decay, his enthusiasm for Michael Atkins's scheme evaporated into thin air.
His dream of becoming an ironmaster had been an idle one. This was not for him, after all. He was about to turn his horse's head for home, when he heard somebody call his name.
‘I thought we said Wednesday!’ gasped Thomas Taliesin, as he clambered over a jagged boundary wall and stood there in his greatcoat, breathing hard, and desperately trying to recover his wind.
‘We?’ muttered Owen, ungraciously.
‘Of course.’ Thomas grinned. ‘You did intend to come here with me, I assume? Well — there's no sense in looking round this sort of place all by yourself, is there?’
‘Isn't there?’
‘Of course not! What will you see? Nothing but ruination, desolation and decay.’
‘What do you see?’
‘Well, now.’ Thomas gazed all about. ‘It's a good site,’ he observed. ‘There's plenty of coal to hand. Not to mention ironstone outcrop, over there in the hills. Transportation of goods would be a problem, mind. There's no canal, so you'd need to use pack–mules, and they don't come cheap.
‘But if you could sell cast iron at twenty six pounds a ton — and there's no good reason why you should not – you wouldn't fail to make some sort of profit. In the end, that is.’
‘But could I make the type of castings Mr Atkins wants here?’
‘Oh God, yes!’ Thomas grinned. ‘You've got a decent foundry, look. No problems there. There's a forge, too. Of sorts. So you could make bar iron, as well.
‘But let's begin at the beginning, shall we? Have a look at the furnaces. See how long it would take to put them back into blast, and get you in business again.’
The Heatherwood Ironworks was typical of many small operations to be found in South Wales, in that it did not specialise. It was neither foundry, forge nor mill, but all three — and more. Anything the customer wanted, Heatherwood could attempt to provide. For here, the raw materials extracted from the hills round about could be processed to make pig iron, which could then either be sold, re–melted to make castings, or further refined in the forge to make wrought, or bar iron, for which there was a limitless demand, both in England and throughout the world.
Thomas Taliesin strode through the casthouse and gazed up at the hillside, into the side of which were built two blast furnaces. Alongside these were calcining kilns, and a building to house a steam–engine, which provided the blast. This was empty, for the machine itself had been sold for scrap months ago.
The furnace
s were old. Peering up these great, dark chimneys, Owen's heart sank even more. Even he could see the firebricks were crumbling, and would need to be replaced. Ducking out of the hole in the side of the south furnace, he gazed up at the leaden sky above. ‘It's getting dark,’ he observed. ‘Time to be on our way.’
‘Don't be too eager.’ Thomas laid a restraining hand on his sleeve. ‘Let old woman Heatherwood sweat it out a few days longer. She'll drop the price a bit further then.’
‘What?’ Owen gaped at him. ‘You don't imagine I'm going to buy this place?’
‘You'll be a fool if you don't.’ Thomas grinned. ‘I know it looks terrible at present. The words millstone and neck, not to mention hopeless and liability, spring readily to mind.
‘But by the time you've put these furnaces into blast, got the forge working and the foundry on song, together with a hundred men scurrying about the place, you'll think differently, believe you me. Come on, man. I'll help you. Give you the benefit of my sound judgement and good advice. Will you give it a go?’
Owen considered. He looked at his friend, standing there four–square and confident on the windy hillside. Could Owen Morgan be an ironmaster, too?
Suddenly, he knew he could. He could bring Heatherwood back to life. ‘I'll see my lawyer tomorrow,’ he replied.
* * * *
‘There. You've done it!’ Thomas Taliesin shook Owen by the hand. ‘So now, I bid you the most hearty of welcomes to the most exclusive of clubs.’
‘Thank you.’ Owen grinned. ‘But, Tom — I hope you don't think I intend to tread on your toes?’
‘No, indeed. In fact, I've taken steps to ensure you could not.’
The Ash Grove Page 14
