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The Iron Masters
A Historical Novel By Graham Watkins
Introduction
The period between 1780 and 1833 was a golden age for some. For others a time of misery and hardship. Fortunes are made in wartime and Britain was going to war. It was an opportunity the Iron Masters of Merthyr Tydfil would seize with both hands to make their fortunes. Men like Richard Crawshay, Francis Homfray and Josiah Guest built huge iron foundries employing thousands of men. The foundries of Cyfartha, Dowlais, Penydarren and Abercynon roared like thunder as they fed the war machine with cannon. The iron masters built canals and railways to get their wares to market. They fought, tricked and connived together. Anything was possible and nothing stood in the way of these powerful men.
Cannon production was important enough for Admiral Nelson to visit Merthyr to see for himself. 'Cheer you buggers, It's Nelson,' commanded Richard Crawshay, to his workmen, when the Admiral arrived.
Thomas Carlyle visited Merthyr writing that the town was filled with such 'unguided, hard-worked, fierce, and miserable-looking sons of Adam I never saw before. Ah me! It is like a vision of Hell, and will never leave me, that of these poor creatures broiling, all in sweat and dirt, amid their furnaces, pits, and rolling mills.'
The story of the rise and ultimate decline of Merthyr which during the Napoleonic Wars was the biggest industrial city in the world, is very real. To avoid upsetting partisan opinions, I've used fictional characters but the events you will find them entangled in did happen and theirs is a fascinating adventure.
Here's a taster...
Chapter 1
Nye Vaughn glanced down at the crude coffin. It looked smaller in the grave, too small to contain his mother's body.
'Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord,' intoned the minister.
His mother's death had been cruel. Consumption devouring her body and destroying her mind. Once, she had been a strong woman. Full of life. She had made a good home and kept it well. Nye had listened to her coughing and her cries as demons tormented her dreams. Nye's father had deserted the marriage bed to spend the evenings in the ale houses of Llangadog, to forget his sick wife. The town was alive with drovers, gathering to walk animals to the profitable English markets. Every room was occupied. Drovers, unable to find a bed, slept in barns and outhouses. On the nights when Nye's father came home, he slept in a chair by the kitchen fire. The farm, too, was neglected. Hedges needed repairing. The barn roof had collapsed. The autumn nights were getting longer and there was no winter feed for the animals. Nye did his best to work the farm, more than anyone could expect of a boy of eighteen.
Nye looked across the grave at his father, hoping for a smile, a nod, a gesture of compassion, of shared grief but his father stood motionless, staring straight ahead. Father and son were never close. Nye imagined his mother's death would bring them together. He was wrong; a void existed, as big as the grave between them, that would never be bridged.
'May she rest in peace,' said the minister and threw a sod of earth into the grave. It landed on the coffin with a thud. Nye shuddered. His father put on his cap and strode out of the graveyard. The minister put his hand on Nye's shoulder.
'Your mother was a good woman. She isn't down there, Nye. She's with God now,' said the minister and glanced up to the heavens. He closed his prayer book and followed Nye's father from the graveyard. Nye watched the gravediggers shovel earth into the grave.
It was raining as Nye walked back to the farm, a soft cold rain that penetrated his coat and chilled his back. Nye changed out of his Sunday clothes and did his chores. The animals had to be seen to. Nye collected eggs, shut the hens in and filled the carthorse's manger with hay. The cow, her udders heavy with milk, was waiting by the barn. He milked her and cleaned the cowshed. The rain grew heavier as he worked. The heavy muck barrow slid in the mud as he pushed it across the yard. When the jobs were finished, Nye lit the kitchen fire, dried himself and sat in his mother's chair. Her shoes were by the grate, her knitting still in a bag on the floor. The hearth mat his mother had woven with strips, cut from old clothes, looked shabby. Nye remembered cutting the cloth for her and helping make the rag rug. It was threadbare and greasy; ready to be discarded.
'I'll clear everything out tomorrow,' he said to himself. He focused on the burning logs. Shadows danced on the walls as flames illuminated the room.
Nye was dozing when the clock struck ten. He stirred. The fire had burned low and the kitchen was dark, except for a faint glow from the embers. Nye added sticks to the fire. There was a noise outside, voices and scuffling. Nye stood up, looked at the door and the loaded gun hung above it. The door opened and his father lurched into the kitchen, followed by a woman.
'What a dirty night. Let's get these wet things off,' laughed his father and grabbed at the woman. She giggled as he pulled at her coat. The woman noticed Nye and stopped laughing. Nye's father turned and saw his son.
'This is Jean. Jean, this is my boy, Nye,' said his father, swaying as he spoke.
'Mum's not even cold in the ground and you bring a woman into her house,' said Nye angrily.
There was silence as Nye's father digested what he said. Rain beat on the window. Drops of water came down the chimney. The fire hissed and spat a burning ember onto rug. Nye's father stepped forward and slapped his son across the face.
'Your mother is gone. This is my house and you've insulted my friend,' said his father. A trickle of blood ran down Nye's face. 'You'll apologise to Jean.'
Nye pushed past his father, snatched his coat from behind the door and ran out, into the darkness.
'Go after him,' said Jean.
'What for? He's got nowhere to go. He'll be back,' replied Nye's father. The rug had begun to smoulder. Nye's father carried it outside and threw it in the mud. Jean watched from the doorway. Nye's father peered into the gloom, hoping to see his son but the farmyard was empty.
Chapter 2
Nye stumbled along the track in the darkness. Rain lashed his face and wind sucked the breath from his mouth. He pulled his coat tighter around his neck, pushed his hands deep into the pockets and curled his fingers around his pocket knife. The handle felt warm and reassuring. Nye passed the graveyard where his mother lay. A gloomy mist hung, shroud like, across the gates. Nye hurried on. He followed the track south east, towards the mountain. Something moved behind the hedge and startled Nye. He relaxed. It was a bullock, sheltering from the wind. The rain stopped and the clouds passed, revealing a bright moon that lit up the fields. An owl hooted nearby. A second, distant bird, answered. Nye's mother had always said the owl's call foretold of a death. He knew it was an old wives tale. A patrolling fox crossed the track ahead of him. Nye saw a stone barn beside the track. Yellow eyes, shining in the moonlight, stared from within. Nye saw the loft and smelt the sweet fresh hay. He climbed over the gate in the doorway, pushed through the nervous sheep, climbed into the loft and slept.
'What are you doing in my barn?' demanded a voice. It was light and a man was standing over him. A dog was barking outside. The tines of a pitchfork rested on Nye's chest.
'I meant no harm,' answered Nye. The shepherd prodded with the pitchfork.
'What's your name? Where do you come from?'
'Vaughn, Nye Vaughn, I'm from Llangadog,' replied Nye.
'What are you doing here?' asked the shepherd and jabbed Nye again with the pitchfork.
'I argued with my father and left home last night,' replied Nye. The shepherd studied Nye for a moment, raised the pitchfork as if to strike and thrust it into the hay.
'Are you hungry boy?'
'Yes sir,' replied Nye.
'Follow me,' ordered the shepherd.
The cottage was warm. Fresh bread was cooling on the table. Stew simmered in the hearth. A flitch of bacon hung from the ceiling. The shepherd's wife filled a bowl with stew, cut a wedge from the loaf and told him to eat.
'Where will you go?' in
quired the shepherd, filling his pipe.
'I don't know,' answered Nye with a mouth full of bread.
'I hear there's work to be had in the iron foundries at Merthyr,' said the shepherd and lit a spill from the fire. He held the flame to his pipe and sucked.
'I don't know anything but farming. What would I do in a foundry?' asked Nye.
'A strong lad like you would soon find something, labouring perhaps,' replied the shepherd and blew smoke across the kitchen.
'You could join a cattle drive to England,' suggested the shepherd's wife.
'That means going back to Llangadog. That's where they hire,' said the shepherd.
'I'm never going back. Where is Merthyr? Is it far?' asked Nye.
'Follow the drovers track east along the mountain. A day's walk will bring you to the road between Brecon and Merthyr. Turn right and go south. The road will take you over the mountain to Merthyr.'
'Then I shall go to Merthyr,' said Nye and wiped the bowl with the crust.
As he was leaving the shepherd's wife produced a small parcel.
'It's bread and cheese, for the journey,' she said and pushed it into his pocket.
The drover's track was wide and well trodden. Nye stopped after mid day and sat on a boulder to rest. He unlaced his boots. A blister had burst on his left heel. He wrapped the heel carefully with his handkerchief, replaced the boot and laced it tight. Nye remembered the packet from the shepherd's wife. The bread and cheese tasted good. He had finished eating when he heard a cry.
'Heiptrw Ho,' yelled a distant voice. There were more shouts and whistling. Nye stood up and walked towards the voices. The shouts grew louder. He reached a ridge and saw animals in the valley below. Sheep, and cattle were moving along the track. Drover's called, as they herded the animals. Dogs nipped at the heels of stragglers, followed by a rider on a pony. The rider turned his pony and cantered up the slope towards Nye. He stopped and Nye saw he was holding a pistol.
'Why you are following us?' demanded the rider.
'I'm not,' replied Nye. The rider cocked his gun.
'Where's the rest of the gang?' he shouted. Other drovers ran up the slope.
'Is he one of them?' called a one.
'He's got to be, following us like that. Tie him up. We'll bring him along. The magistrate at Brecon can decide what to do with him,' ordered the horseman. The drovers seized Nye, tied his hands behind his back and placed a noose around his neck.
'Let's slit his throat and leave him for the buzzards. No one will find him on the mountain,' suggested one of the drovers.
'No, we'll do it properly,' said the rider and yanked Nye's halter.
'I haven't done anything. Why are you doing this?' shrieked Nye and stumbled.
'Get up or I'll drag you to Brecon through the gorse,' snarled the rider. Nye got up and lurched after the horse.
The drovers stopped at a stream to water the animals. Nye got on his knees and bent his head down to drink like one of the beasts. The rope tightened, dragging him back.
'No water for you,' said the rider. The drovers laughed. The rider dismounted and pulled Nye towards him.
'Was it you? Did you stab David, last night?' demanded the rider. 'He was only fifteen. Did you kill him?'
'I haven't killed anyone. Why would I want to?' answered Nye. He could taste the riders stale breath.
'Because he was guarding my cattle,' said the rider and tightened the noose. Nye began to choke.
'Finish him,' called a drover. The rider increased the pressure, lifting Nye onto his toes.
'Someone's coming,' warned one of the men. The rider relaxed his grip. Nye gulped for air. A tinker, leading packhorses was coming along the track. He greeted the drovers and walked on, ignoring the noose around Nye's neck. It didn't pay to interfere in other men's business. As the tinker passed, the rider regained his composure. He remounted and ordered the drovers to move the herd on.
It was dusk when they reached a clump of Scots pines. Beneath the trees stood an inn, a blacksmiths shop and a walled field. The buildings where at the junction of the drivers track and a dirt road. The landlord greeted the drovers and counted the animals into the walled field. The rider produced a purse.
'Half a penny per beast,' he said and counted seven shillings and six pence into the landlord's outstretched hand. 'Some of the beasts have lost shoes. Can you see to them?' he asked.
'I'll light the forge in the morning but your men will need to sort the cattle that need shoeing,' replied the landlord.
'You boys will sleep with the animals tonight and keep watch. Tomorrow, while the cows are shod, I'll take the rustler to the magistrate at Brecon,' said the rider.
The drovers sat Nye by a gatepost, lashed him to it and went into the tavern to eat, leaving a guard watching from the doorway. Nye eased himself upright with his back to the post. The wet mud had soaked through his breeches. His legs were numb and his wrists throbbed where the rope had cut his skin. He wriggled around, twisting his coat to move the pocket containing his knife within reach. Eventually, he was able to push a hand into the pocket and pull out the knife. He tried to open the blade but the spring was strong. The knife slipped from his wet fingers and fell into the mud. Nye strained to retrieve it but the rope was tight. His hands didn't reach the ground.
Nye heard footsteps and looked up. The lookout was walking towards him with a tankard. It was the drover who wanted to cut his throat.
'Are you thirsty?' called the drover. Nye didn't answer. The drover took a mouthful of ale and spat it at Nye. He pulled a dagger from his belt and pressed it against Nye's neck. Nye felt the point pierce his skin.
'David was a good friend of mine. I'll be back, later,' whispered the drover. He made a slashing motion across his own throat, kicked Nye and ambled back to the tavern. Nye reached for his knife. He turned sideways, to get one hand lower than before. The rope cut deep into his wrists. He felt the knife in the mud. He picked up the handle with the tips of his fingers and carefully raised it until it was cupped in both hands. He tried to prise open the blade, knowing that if he dropped the knife again it might vanish in the mud. The blade moved and sprang open. Nye turned the blade upwards and cut himself free. He couldn't see the lookout and wondered if he was still watching from the shadows. Nye waited until a cloud obscured the moon and crawled through the mud, away from the tavern. As he reached the track the sky cleared and there was a shout.
'He's getting away.' Drovers ran from the tavern. Nye stood and ran.
'There he is,' yelled one of the drovers. Nye heard a shot. The bullet hit a stone wall, showering him with fragments. Nye tripped, fell, got up and ran blindly into the night.
When he could run no further, Nye stopped and listened, straining to hear his pursuers through the darkness. At first, he heard nothing but his own panting but as he caught his breath there were voices, the drovers were calling to each other on the mountain. They seemed all around him. Nye lay down in the heather and tried to conceal himself. It was still dark when he woke from a restless sleep. He was cold and cramp knotted his legs. He rubbed them to restore the circulation. Nye listened for the drovers but the mountain was silent. He waited until the rising sun revealed the dirt track leading across the mountain. He remembered the shepherd's words.
'Follow the road south. It will take you to Merthyr.' Nye scrambled across the heather to the track, checked the sun was to his left and walked south.
Continue reading Nye Vaughn's adventure here
with a free copy of
'The Iron Masters Volume 1 For the Love of Eira.'
You can also visit Graham's website to find out what else is new.
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