“Four things greater than all things are, Women and Horses, and Power and War.” 

―Rudyard Kipling      

Chapter 1 

ROOTS and CABBAGES      

THEY SAY THAT WAR is the purest expression of Nationalism. While I never knew for sure whether that was true or not, what I do know is that I’ve seen War; I’ve seen men in War, stand shoulder to shoulder, grim-faced and die in battle.  I can only think that somehow there must be a higher calling, a more profound sense of purpose, not to be confused with Nationhood, God or Country that keeps a man standing there, in line, shoulder to shoulder with his brother.  It must be his sense of duty, camaraderie, his obligation to the man standing next to him that causes a soldier to stand stalwart steady in a firing line amidst the swirl of confusion, black powder, smoke and death.  I know this; I’ve been there—in War—in the thin red line of Redcoats.  I was only thirteen-years old.

Thirteen-years-old, how is that possible? Well, it did happen; I will tell you my story.  I was born on April 20^th 1865 in the small village of Glamorganshire Wales to a poor Welsh family; we lived in a three room wooden shack in a shanty town tucked in the hills not far from the great coalfields of Cardiff. My Papa, he worked those mines; the hardest purest blackest steam coal in the world came from the mines of Cardiff.

In 1865 the world was changing.  What a wonderful marvelous technological age, for the first time the colony of India was linked by telegraph to the continent, messages could now be sent between London and Bombay in less than 4 minutes. In 1865, Karl Marx completes his yet unknown masterpiece, Das Kapital, with his health failing, his money all but gone; his earthquake manifesto remained a mess of blotted crossing-outs and indecipherable squiggles.  Elsewhere, in 1865 an obscure Austrian monk Gregor Mendel astounded the scientific community with his findings on pea-pods and heredity, the world takes little notice. In America, in 1865, their great Civil War comes to a bloody conclusion; Nathan Bedford Forrest founds the Ku Klux Klan. General Robert E. Lee surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia at Appomattox and their noble President Abraham Lincoln, assassinated.

With the dissolution of the Confederacy, the cotton market crashes. Without cotton, the great mills of Manchester and London threaten to grind to a halt. In 1865, the Empire is hungry for resupply; there can be no interruption in production, the foundation of the modern economy depended on an unlimited supply of cheap cotton fiber—thanks to the invention ofWattsand his infernal machine the steam engine, “The Colonies,” their cotton and Ely Whitney and his gin. Indeed, the entire industrial might of the empire continued to churn in anticipation, voracious, hungry for black coal to feed the factory furnaces, and the steam ships that brought raw goods from far away places in the Americas, India and China.

Unnoticed, in 1865, I was born, sixth of what was to be later nine children.  My Papa, First Sergeant Robert Chard Claiborne, fought at Balaclava, in the Crimea, the 24^th Regiment-of-Foot under Lieutenant-Colonel James Webster. You might remember the battle of Balaclava, from a poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson and the Charge of the Light Brigade. Well, I can tell you second-hand that on that fateful October day there were plenty of cannon, to the right, to the left and everywhere else. A fragment from a cannon ball took out Papa’s left eye. All this happened in 1854 eleven years before I was born. Papa drew a military pension of sixteen shillings nine pence; this was never enough to feed his family. By the time I was born, Papa took a job, the only job a man could do in Glamorganshire, laboring deep in the bowels of the coal mines of Cardiff.    

I can still remember the shrill sound of the steam whistle that signaled the end of the days shift.  My Papa came home each night, his face black with coal dust, looking like a minstrel player, the wick of his candle flame on his felt hat still burning. He was hungry and tired, after the wash’n up, after supper, he always had time for his family, especially me.  Papa, loved his sons, he had eight boys.  Me, I was the only girl.  I think secretly, being the only girl’n all, I was always Papa’s favorite. Papa loved to tell stories, scary stories, funny stories, and then on rare occasions, only when we begged him, Papa would reluctantly tell the story of that terrible battle, at Balaclava, and of the fateful day when the Light Brigade charged. Papa sometimes took down his saber; he showed us the cut marks, where he crossed swords with a Cossack. We kids would shriek with delight when he told how he cut off the Russian’s head. 

Papa’s 1853 Enfield rifled-musket hung over the doorway, the same rifle he carried bravely in the Crimea. I can still remember how each night he took down the long rifle.  I watched in fascination as he took out the ram-rod to clean it, he’d pour boiling water down the barrel. The water must be boiling otherwise the metal would rust.  It was our game for me to watch as he loaded the weapon, Papa said I must watch him lest he make a mistake.  He never made a mistake.

      “Papa, why do you clean your rifle every night?  You didn’t shoot nothing.” I asked.

       Papa only smiled, his one good eye twinkled, “I’m just an old soldier, lamb . . . it’s the black powder.  Black powder is terrible tricky stuff; it gets damp in the night air, if I didn’t reload the rifle, it might not fire.  That rifle keeps you, your Mummy and little Daniel safe.  Now be a good girl Tessa, and run and fetch me my cartridge box.”

     I watched as Papa bit off the end of the paper cartridge and poured the measured powder, ball and wad down the barrel. He thrust down the ram-rod with such force it bounced back up half-its length. He did this several times until satisfied.  Over the nipple, he inserted a shiny copper cap of fulminate of mercury, and lowered the hammer down slowly, always slowly; otherwise the rifle would go off with a bang!

I only ever saw him fire it once, at a rabid dog.

I was baptized Theresa Elizabeth Claiborne, but at home, no one ever called me Theresa, I was always called “Tessa.” Oh, my, was I called! I was the only girl in a family of eight boys, imagine that! I had quite the rough and tumble life growing up with eight brothers and no sisters, in the shanty towns at the foothills of the Powel Duffryn Steam Coal Company. I don’t think I even knew I was a girl until sometime around when I was ten going-on-eleven. With three younger brothers and five older brothers who all took their place in the mines, as the only girl, in a family of nine, it fell to me to do all the cleaning, the washing-up, make the beds, sweep the floor and help Mummy with the laundry and keep the fire in the hearth.  What you call woman’s work, I hated it. I was every bit as strong as any boy.  I could run, climb, and spit, every bit as well as any boy in the county. But because I had a cunny—I was branded a girl; I was relegated to wash’n up work. I became a servant, and I didn’t like it one little bit. 

There weren’t a lot of opportunity to go to school, growing up amidst the tar paper shacks and shanty towns in the middle decades of the 19^th century Wales. Papa knew the importance of book learn’n and he encouraged us to learn to read and write.  He even let us go to winter term when there wasn’t so much work on the farm. It was a five-mile walk and I had to carry the dinner pail on account ‘coz I was the only girl.  I don’t think we ever really knew how poor we was, we never wore shoes from May to October. I don’t think I never even had a new pair of shoes in my whole life, (not at least until I joined the army, but that’s the rest of our story). Thomas, my brother . . . of course he was my brother, I only had brothers! Thomas was a year and five months older than I was, his shoes always fit. When he out grew his, they came to me. Boy’s shoes, boy pants, boy shirts. As I said before, I don’t think I even knew the difference between boys and girls until the summer I turned eleven. 

Life on a hardscrabble shanty farm in Wales was nothing but work. Me Mum, Elizabeth Claiborne, she was the hardest working, the most resourceful woman I ever knew.  Let me tell you, “Bess” was the glue that held our family together; she was chief cook, washerwoman, and coal miner’s wife.  No matter how hard times was, no matter how poor we was, Bess always made sure Papa’s supper was hot and on the table when he came home.

We kids, worked hard too, we knew the consequences, if we didn’t, we went hungry.  Papa always joked he weren’t no farmer; he was a soldier, and a coal miner. Shoveling sixteen tons for a shilling and nine that was all he knew, even still we never went hungry.  Well, least not most of the time anyways.  We raised vegetables in the garden, there was “Worthless” the old dairy cow, so there was milk, butter and cream, half of the year. Papa, he always kept a few sheep. Papa’s sheep were probably the one greatest joys in my life, the sheep, how I loved to go to the pasture, lay on my back in the sweet-smelling grass and dream. I played there in the pasture with my brave dog Jack, broad in the chest, with a bright fox face, short legs and no tail, there was never a dog like Jack! How Jack could herd those sheep! Sometimes there was mutton on Sunday when the Vicar came to dinner. During the rest of the week, there was more often nothing but cabbage. Always Cabbage, rutabagas and leeks, I think I must have turned mostly green by the time of my ninth birthday from all the cabbages I ate. Papa, he worked hard in the mines and gave Mum every penny, well, not exactly every pence, Papa did like to share a pint or two at the village pub. Me Mum, she never grudged him.     

Every day, after we got home from school, after the chores and the wash’n up there was no time for play. We kids, we worked hard, even the little kids, of which I was the oldest. One of our main jobs was to walk along the harbor way collecting any stray bits of rope and twine.  In the mid-nineteenth century, all ships used hemp for rigging, when it got wet or worn; it was often discarded in the most casual way. Twisted bits of old hemp rope may not seem very valuable, but it was gold to us. I should tell you that picking oakum is very tiresome tedious work and hard on the fingers, my fingers got so stiff and sore, I used to cry, from the long hours spent unraveling those tough hemp ropes down to base fibers. It was hard work for very little money. A buyer in Cardiff paid two and quarter pence a pound for clean rope fiber.     

Sometimes when the weather was sunny, but more often when it was wet and miserable, I took me brothers and we walked the railroad tracks to pick coal. It may seem funny, with Papa being a coal miner, but we never seemed to have coal for our own stove.  The railroads, they were so wasteful, if a little coal spilled out as the trains made the sharp bend at Tresimwn, nobody seemed to care.  This became our family’s main source of coal. My brothers and I could walk the rail bed and pick up half a peck of coal and if we got an early start, we walked half way to Cowbridge and back. At least then, we knew we’d have a hot supper. More boiled cabbage.     

By 1874, things in Glamorganshire Wales went from bad to worse. By that time my three younger brothers were born, which meant three more mouths to feed. Then tragedy struck, my two oldest brothers, Wallace and Dewey was killed in a mine collapse. Mum received a check for 13 shillings and five pence, their pay up until 9:03 AM when it was figured they died. With that the owners of the Powel Duffryn Steam Coal Company discharged their legal obligation. By this time, Papa couldn’t work anymore; he was laid up in bed, dying of what we called back then the consumption. Later, I read in America they called it the “black lung” disease. Papa died in the spring of 1875. 

The summer of 1875, that was the year Mr. Squeers came ‘round, Mr. Wallace Squeers of Wallace Squeers, Pierce, Fenner and Smith Esq., owner, operator of the Great London Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory.  Mr. Squeers came thundering into Glamorganshire Wales in his fine black lacquered buggy, his long sharp whip and matching chestnut driving horses.  Yes, Sir, good ‘ol Mr. Squeers dressed all in black. Everything about Mr. Squeers was sinister, oily and black.  His hair was black, his bushy handlebar mustache was black, and his handsome tailored frock coat and enormous beaver top hat, all black. 

Mr. Squeers, he came ‘round to all the villages and towns of Cardiff offering money to poor families with young girls. I seen Mr. Squeers, he knocked on our door, I seen him there talk’n to me Mum. He told Mummy that there was work; work in the great mills in London, textile mills that needed young girls. Mr. Squeers said he could offer Mum five pounds and the promise of a steady wage of five shillings a month for any young girl with quick and nimble fingers.   I knew straight away something was up, and what was up was no good.  I ran and hid out in the hay mow with my dog Jack. But Mum sent Jonathan ‘round look’n for me. Jonathan, he knew all my bestest best hide’n spots.

“Tessa!” Johnny hollered up, “Mummy’s look’n fer you. You better gon git!”      

My first encounter with Mr. Squeers was in the kitchen, where I noticed straight away, there was no supper warming on the hearth.   Mum, stood by while Mr. Squeers examined me roughly as if he were buying a sheep or a horse.  He disheveled my hair, looked at my teeth. At first, I don’t think he knew for sure whether I was a boy or a girl . . . Oh, he knew I was a girl all right! While he talked to me Mum, while Mum wasn’t looking, the old Jew slipped a sneaky hand under my shirt to steal a quick feel of my chest. 

“She seems very skinny, will she work?” Squeers seemed skeptical.  He shoved the tea and saucer away in an arrogant display of class conscious disdain. Apparently, the tea or the service was not to his liking. My face burned hot, I knew there was very little tea left in the tin, and tea was such a luxury! Me Mum offered Mr. Squeers tea in her best china, the tea sat untouched while he sat there haggling as if I were a sack of potatoes. Squeers puffed on his ten-penny cigar, and continued to haggle with Mum, while great plumes of aromatic smoke circled the room, his mustache quivered.     

I coughed.     

Jack growled.

“I promise you Sir, she’s smart, quick, and strong as a French pony.”  Bess Claiborne reassured him.  Mum acted almost desperate to be rid of me.  She twisted my ear and shoved me forward.

“Four pounds and seven.”  

“Sir, you promised me a fiver.”  Bess Claiborne protested.   

“Four pounds, nine shillings, take it or leave it—as I will not bargain further.” Squeers clicked his teeth.  

*     *     *

FOUR POUNDS, nine shillings, that was my final selling price . . . four pounds nine shillings, apparently that was the going rate for very small ten-year-old Welsh girls in those days. I think what hurt me the most, apart from the indignity of having been bought and sold like so much cord wood.  Was how determined, desperate me Mum seemed.  How she clutched the money to her bosom, stoic-faced. I watched as she counted it twice.

There were no tears, no farewells, all Bess Claiborne could manage was a weak face-saving, “Tessa, be a good girl now and go with this nice man.”  After that me Mum, she never said nothing; she didn’t even look me in the eye.  Well, first of all, I learned right quick, Mr. Squeers, wasn’t what you call a nice man; he called me a “Toad!”   Mum she never said another word.  She didn’t even protest as he drug me roughly out the door.   

That was how it was in June of 1875; ten years after the great Civil War in the Americas settled once and for all the issue of slavery. I, a ten-year-old girl, going-on-eleven, a sovereign subject of the Crown, found herself sold into indentured servitude, sold down the river to a Mr. Wallace Squeers of London. Mr. Squeers, senior managing partner of the Great London Quadrangle Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory.

Chapter 2

OF BARROWS and WIGHTS

THE CELTS OF IRON-AGE BRITTON possessed no written language.  The Shamans, Druids, the elders of our village relied instead on a venerable oral tradition passed down through generations.  These accounts, records and tales of long past as to how the Celts, my people, came to these British islands.  How we settled here in the fertile valleys, tilled the earth and made this land our home. We worshiped our gods, developed our own distinct language and culture and lived in peace for nine centuries.  Until the Angles and Saxons invaded—these Germanic tribes made war on us, pushed us into far away places like Cornwall, those people became Cornish.  Other tribes fled across the sea to Ireland and became Irish. My people, we were driven into the mountainous regions of Hay-on-Wye and Monmouthshire, where we became Welsh. Our Cambrian mountains protected us for a time; life remained unchanged. We were not to be invaded again for three hundred years, until the year 43 A.D. and the coming of the Romans.  We were unprepared for the power of Rome. Some Celtic tribes resisted. The Iceni, Boudicca, their noble Queen; she resisted the might of Rome. 50, 000 howling Celtic warriors sacked Lundinium. It all came to nothing.

     A thousand years past, we remained Welsh. Our bitter overlords, the Anglo-Saxons they too had their day. In the year of the comet, their King, Harold, met William Duke ofNormandyon the fields ofHastings—on that day—in October 1066, all ofEnglandbecameNorman.  Two hundred years later,Waleswas once again invaded, conquered by the English King Edward I known to history as “Longshanks.”  An English King, English rule, but we were never English, we were Welsh.

     When I was a little girl, I can still remember sitting up late on long winter evenings, me ‘n all my brothers, the grown-ups, the cousins, we’d gathered ‘round the crackling hearth and listened to scary stories. Sometimes there was a drop of beer or a scrape of cheese toast. I mostly remember scary the stories my Grandmother told, stories of old Celtic legends, ghost stories, mostly tales of long past what she called “Screams.”  Stories told to frighten young children before bedtime. We sat wide-eyed, white cheeked, and listened to terrifying tales of wights, wraiths and of misty shrouded moors.  Savage tales of Celtic warriors famed and feared throughout theRoman Empire, Berserkers, fighting naked, painted blue with woad.

     Sometimes, not very often mind you, Grandmother could be persuaded to tell the story of the five great Gaelic families.  In ancient times when a woman died, an apparition appeared, and though called a ghost; she was most often depicted as a specific woman murdered in a most gruesome way or an unfortunate woman who died in childbirth. An airy woman who appeared to sing a lament; having other-worldly foresight, she appeared as a portent of doom, and her keening foretold of the death. This was the tale of the Banshee wail.

     I was a lamb led to the slaughter. I was utterly alone; sold down the river. TheLondontoff seized me by my arm and wrestled me to the ground. Papa always said I was strong as a French pony, and the old Jew soon found out just how strong I was! When I scrambled under the kitchen table, Squeers clutched me by the scruff of my shirt and drug me back out kicking and screaming.

     My brothers looked on, they clung to each other frightened and terrified. They watched as I was dragged from the house.  I figured Jonathan or Thomas might come to my rescue. They was my bestest best brothers, we did everything together; they were not just my brothers, they was me mates! There was no rescue, no deliverance, Thomas and Jonathan stood by and did nothing. In their defense, I think at least Thomas and Jonathan were numb with fear and little Daniel; he was too young to comprehend what was happening. What with Papa dead, Wallace and Dewey both killed in the mine. By the spring of 1875, the cow was gone, the sheep slaughtered, there was only one scrawny banty rooster, and he was too crafty to catch. We were starving!

     “No, lemme go! I won’t go with you!”

     “Shut up Toad!  Enough with all this fuss!”

     I cried, my piteous cries must have sounded exactly like that airy woman from one of my Grandmother’s ghost stories. I kicked—I screamed—I wailed like a banshee. I was now dead. This was my revenge. As I thrashed in the dust, I came to the unalterable conclusion: me own Mum didn’t want me.  I was no longer a Claiborne.  I was not her daughter─I was one less mouth to feed. I was cash money; I was four pounds nine shillings.

     Mr. Squeers was not so easily put off, least of all not anyways by a snot-nosed ten-year-old girl. I was now coin to him. I spat in his face. Mr. Squeers paused; he deliberately took out his handkerchief and wiped my spittle from his eye. Oh my, his revenge was swift and baneful!  He twisted my arm behind my back so hard I felt my joints dislocate.                   

     “You’re coming with me whether you like it or not.  I’m warning you Toad! You are seriously becoming more trouble than you’re worth!”

     More trouble than I was worth?  Well, I hope the old Jew got a bargain on account ‘coz I was plan’n on making him plenty of trouble!  I wasn’t going nowhere, not least of all with a hooknose shylock like him!  His long boney fingers clasp the scruff of my shirt.  I fought like a wild-cat! So violent was my abduction, my shirt ripped. My poor hand-me-down shirt and it was my best shirt too!  Thomas’ shirt made a dreadful tearing sound, my blouse tore open. I was mortified! Not that at ten-years-old going-on-eleven, I necessarily had all that much to show.  I was pretty scrawny back then, a rough-n-tumble tomboy, not much more than a girl with a boy’s dirty face.

     “Mummy, please don’t make me go!”  I pleaded.

     My anguished cries made not one whit of difference. To Mr. Squeers I was an insect, no more significant than a faggot of sticks or a rack of furniture; he stuffed me into his shiny black lacquered buggy like a prize Christmas goose! Mr. Squeers didn’t care.  I double didn’t care!

     “You will go! You wretched brat!  You are bought and sold!” Mr. Squeers reached for his leather-bound driving crop.  He struck me hard across the face with a cruel whip intended for horses. 

     Jack charged. 

     When I think back to that terrible day, out of my whole family, Jack, my loyal dog Jack, he was the only one who cared. The only one who knew what was happening and tried to put a stop to it. Thank god that day Jack was tied to the porch, on account he would have killed Mr. Squeers! Jack charged. Jack charged so violently when the chain caught him, he nearly throttled himself. I learned something that day about Mr. Squeers, he flinched. He was afraid. From his waistcoat, he drew a pepper-box; a kind of pistol gentlemen carried . . . ‘cept’n that Mr. Squeers, he weren’t no gentleman! 

     “Call off your dog!”

     I screamed. “No, Jack! Go back!” Bewildered, my poor Jack obeyed; he didn’t know what to do. Why was this man taking his Tessa away? Jack growled, he whined, he pulled on the chain. I’m sure he didn’t understand why I was being taken away; he was such a good dog. I never saw Jack again.

     ”You’ve caused me a great deal of trouble, you miserable little chuffer!”  Squeers grabbed me by the cheeks and squeezed my face so hard I resembled a fish gasping for breath.  “You will stay here and do as you’re told! Worthless little girls like you disappear all the time and no one is the wiser.  Don’t think that can’t happen to you!”

     Ol’ Squeers huffed and puffed, he wiped his brow, the physical exertion of my abduction seemed to have taken its toll. He took an aperitif from a silver flask and with great deliberation lit a cigar. Mr. Squeers cracked the buggy whip, “Giddy up!”  He lashed those beautiful chestnut horses.  He lashed those horses with exactly the same cruelty and contempt of which he had treated me.

     I learned something else that day, Mr. Squeers was a bad man.

     The buggy lurched, I turned ‘round, with tears in my eyes and caught a final glimpse of my home, my brothers, Mummy, and my brave dog Jack.  I felt my whole life vanish in the distance.  I didn’t know it then, but I would not see my family again for four long years.  All during the long fifteen mile ride toCardiffI sat in sullen silence, disheveled, miserable and dejected. Mr. Squeers, he said nothing; he drank whiskey, smoked cigars and checked his pocket watch.  He had a train to catch.

     “Excuse me Sir . . .”

      Mr. Squeers acted exasperated, “Forever what is it now Toad?”

     “I gotta go.”

     “What!”

     “I gotta go pee.” I said in a small voice, when I told him I had to go to the loo, Squeers, his reaction was such; I thought later I should have asked for the crown jewels! Squeers puffed his cigar with an exasperated air, he spat a bit of tobacco as if to punctuate the point, that I was a little nothing and a damn nuisance. He stopped the buggy.

      “Make it quick Toad, if you ever think of running off, I’ll fetch the Gilly Mr. Gwalchmai, his hounds will find you . . . his devil hounds will rip you up!”

     A chill ran down my spine, the threat was real.  I knew Mr. Gwalchmai, he was the local game warden in these parts.  Everybody who was anybody who lived in GlamorganshireCountyknew Mr. Gwalchmai. Papa often joked, Mr. Gwalchmai was an honest man, so honest in fact the only thing Mr. Gwalchmai wouldn’t steal was a red hot stove.

     I met Mr. Gwalchmai once, I was with Papa.  He offered to sell a brace of quail for a shilling.  Papa shook his head; he said that was too much.  They were fine fat quail too, my mouth watered, I could almost taste that quail, roasting with sage ‘n onions. I squeezed Papa’s hand hoping to persuade him, but Papa didn’t buy ‘em on account it was Sunday, and Papa never bought or sold anything on Sunday. Mr. Gwalchmai, spat, “Suit yourself Claiborne.”

     Mr. Gwalchmai, I can’t say I liked him much. I knew for sure he wasn’t above do’n a bit of poaching or turning a blind eye to the same for a bob.  Fancy English gents came from London for the fox-hunting and Mr. Gwalchmai and his devil hounds made certain not to disappoint. Any thought of escape vanished in my tears, there was nowhere to run.  I sobbed dry heaves; I sniffed, choked and climbed back up into the buggy. Mr. Squeers, by this time I’m sure thought me thoroughly subdued. After all I was a pitiless little girl, from a penniless family.  One small disappeared child from a company coal town was never to be missed.  Mr. Squeers, he didn’t know me very well.

            All during the long ride toCardiff, My brain worked at a feverish pitch. I was desperate to formulate a plan to make my escape.  Mr. Squeers, loved money of that much, I was certain. To a man of Mr. Squeers’ means four pounds and nine, was but a pittance. The way I figured it, Mr. Squeers stood to make money, a great deal of money, piles of money! 

     I remembered one Sunday the Vicar preached a sermon on greed and the seven deadly sins. The Vicar said greed is a great source of wickedness.  Greed will ultimately lead to its own destruction. I smiled to myself, Tessa, you sly dog, I’d thought of a plan . . . Mr. Squeers was greedy, of that much I was certain, and it was his own greed that was to be his downfall.

            I told you from the onset that I was going to speak about Barrows and Wights.  A barrow is a Neolithic term for a burial mound constructed by ancient iron-age Britons. Wights are the supposed restless spirits, guardians of long dead kings.  Half way to Tresimwn, I put my plan into action.  I attempted to strike up a conversation with sour ol’ Mr. Squeers.  I pointed out different points of interest, Roman roads, pubs, inns and establishments of gentlemanly pursuits.  Mr. Squeers, for the most part ignored me, oblivious, disinterested as if I were a mere chirping cricket. I regaled him with tales of Boudicca and savage barbarian Britons. Finally in desperation I mention the barrows, ancient iron-age burials that my brothers and I had explored.

            The buggy rolled on, the horses continued to clip and clop. My heart sank; Squeers said nothing, he didn’t show the slightest bit of interest.  Then after the longest time, Mr. Squeers took out a fresh cigar, he held a match and inhaled deeply, he blew a cloud of blue smoke.

     I coughed.

    “What kind of caves?”

     “All kinds of caves . . . dead people mostly.”

     The buggy slowed, and then came to a halt. “You’ve been to these caves?” Mr. Squeers, stroked his mustache, I could see the wheels go ‘round in his head.  His piercing black eyes sized me up and down as if to penetrate my soul. I felt a crawling sensation.  For the first time I knew his interest was piqued.

     “Hundreds of times,” I lied.

     “If this is some kind of trick you lying Toad!”  Squeers tightened his grip on his leather bound driving crop. “I will thrash you to within an inch of your life!”

     “No, honest, it’s true!”  I brushed my dishwater blond hair out of my eyes and flashed my most sincere gap-toothed grin. “Over there, you’ll see, just beyond that thicket.”

     Mr. Squeers checked his pocket watch; there were still five hours before the last train left from Cardiff to London.  His tongue clicked, the horses gait picked up.  The buggy turned around.  The buggy pulled in front of a particularly un-remarkable burial mound.  Squeers, by this time, was thoroughly infatuated with the notion of pre-iron age gold and relics.  He continued to quiz me; he mumbled something about an Earl he knew, one of the Carnarvon’s who paid good money for ancient relics. It took little further convincing to cause him to venture into the murky depth.  We made our way by flickering candle light, into the dark creepy depth of the barrow.  I’ll have to confess I was more than a little bit afraid.  I thought of death, and of my Grandmother’s frightful midnight travails of wights, the spirits who inhabited such mounds. Mr. Squeers pushed me forward; it seemed there was more to worry about than phantom wights. I felt a cold steel press against the base of my spine.  It was the pepperbox pistol.  Was Mr. Squeers really prepared to shoot me, here in the depth of a burial mound? Mr. Squeers and I picked our way over boulder and crag as we descended deeper into the depth of the burial mound. There by the flicker of candle light; I spied something, a glint, it could have been gold.

     “Look! Over there!”

     “What . . . where?”  Mr. Squeers turned to look.

     In that moment, I seized my opportunity; I hefted a chunk of rock, the size of a cricket ball.  I crashed Mr. Squeers on the head with all my might! I hit him for what he done me.  I hit him to teach him a lesson. I hit him hard; his twenty quid beaver top hat crumpled like a squeeze box. Mr. Squeers collapsed to the ground in a most spectacular heap.  “Oh gawd, I’ve gon ‘n kilt him!”  To my relief, Mr. Squeers groaned. “You ain’t dead, you son of a bitch!” I kicked him hard in the ribs. You might say by that time I was plenty brassed off.

     I found myself most powerfully pleased at my success.  Had I known my freedom would come this easy I might have done it sooner.  I searched Mr. Squeers’ coat pockets, I found his pocket watch; his wallet contained a wad of bank notes big enough to choke a horse!  One hundred-eighty-nine quid, his purse contained another thirty shillings. I’d never seen so much money in all me life!  I danced a little jig.  I was a bloody millionaire!  My celebration was short lived, cut short by a sobering flush of anger.  How could this mingy old Jew have so much money in his pocket and yet be so mean as to haggle with Mummy over a few shillings!

     I tossed the pepper-box down a dark hole and made my escape.  I left Mr. Squeers, and his filthy Jew money behind. I took only four pounds and nine shillings, not a farthing more . . . I figured that was what he owed me.  I unhitched those beautiful chestnut driving horses and slapped them on the rump. What another two-hundred pounds lost.

     I didn’t go home; I figured that was the first place they’d come looking. What was there to go home to?  With four pounds and nine shillings in my pocket, I could be my own master; I resolved to make my own way in the world.

     I set out to walk to Cardiff.  This turned out to be yet another in a long line of stupid decisions on my part; I was so naive.  Since my own clothes were ripped to tatters, I pinched a shirt from a wash line.  I laid a shilling by the wash basin, I am not a thief. I got a room at The Pike and Eel.  The tavern keeper was suspicious of me at first, a young girl traveling alone. That was until ‘ee saw me money. The bar maids fawned over me, there were plates of food, bangers ‘n mash, Sheppard’s pie, toad-in-the-hole.  I drank cider stored long enough in the cask until it became hard.  When they found out I could sing, they stood me up on a bar stool.  I became the center of attention.

     “Tessa, sing!”

      A lonely note from a solitary fiddle hung in the air, somewhere bones clattered, and a squeeze box joined in. I took my cue and I sang in my best high clear soprano.

      I’d never had so much fun in all my life!  I was having a jolly good time, clapping and dancing, that was until the Peelers caught up with me. I went ‘n got me self nicked in Cardiff.  Apparently the authorities were on the look out for a dirty blond Welsh girl, ten-years-old going-on-eleven with a great deal of money in her pocket. The Peelers clapped me in irons, they done drug me off to the precinct and tossed me in a dismal cell where I sat forlorn for five days.

      There were no murder charges pending, apparently the old Jew survived. I’d barely time enough to contemplate this bit of fortune or misfortune when I found myself summarily delivered without due process to the Cardiff Station, surrendered into the clutches of a Mrs. Mixer, matron, supervisor, of the women’s work detail of the London Quadrangle Mercantile and Shirtwaist.

Chapter 3

LOOMS, BROOMS and BOBBINS

THE LONDON QUADRANGLE MERCANTILE and SHIRTWAIST factory, owned and  operated by Wallace Squeers, Pierce, Fenner and Smith Esq., occupied the top three floors of the eleven-storey Asch building on the lower East side in the heart of London’s garment district at the intersection of Greene Street and Wellington Place, just East of Wilmington Square.  This was to be my home, my prison, for the next two-and-a-half years.

The Asch building was a huge hulking red brick structure constructed around the turn of the nineteenth century. When it was built it was the second tallest building in London. There were actually four building, arranged in a sort of obtuse triangle, of which the Asch building formed the anchor of the scalene city block. The Asch building looked more like a fortress, a prison than a place of commerce. It was there that I took my very first elevator ride. Elisha Otis only recently installed his wonderful vertical transport system. If I hadn’t been so terrified; I think I might have been more fascinated.

I, along with some two dozen other new girls found ourselves herded off the lift and into this cold gray medieval room.  Waiting for us was none other than Mrs. Mixer, the head matron and supervisor charged with the day-to-day operation of the women’s work detail.  I should say this first about Mrs. Mixer, she was no lady!  Mrs. Mixer was a large woman with a shrill voice and a sour disposition, she possessed these great flowing locks of white hair that cascaded down about her making her appear like some graveyard apparition from one of my Grandmother’s scream stories.  Mrs. Mixer always wore the same gray smock and the same white apron. Despite her great bulk, she was spry and quick; she carried a cane switch, which she used to chase after indolent little girls with a vindictive relish.  She carried an enormous ring of skeleton keys; I had never seen so many keys! So many keys in fact, I imagined if she fell in the pond, she’d have gone straight to the bottom! We thanked our good fortune to those keys, because when she walked she clanked, those keys made such a jingling sound as if she carried about “Marley’s chains.”  That was a good thing, as we always knew when she was coming.  I should think she resembled more a jailer than a factory floor supervisor, in many ways she was.  Mrs. Mixer was a tyrant, a despot, a mean dried-up old nanny goat.  Her interminably sour and bitter attitude as to the state of her own sorry lot in life caused her to make it her life’s-quest to make sure others suffered as she suffered.  It was only then I realized Mrs. Mixer really liked her job.

I soon learned, Mrs. Mixer particularly hated little girls and she regarded the youngest girls like myself as chattel, mere property of the London Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory. Mrs. Mixer’s first order of business was to strip us naked.  Our clothes were summarily removed and carted off to the furnace.  I was left standing there to shiver, white skinned, forlorn, in a room with thirty other girls. I was stark naked mortified beyond belief. I clutched my chest. It’s a funny thing about being naked.  I never really minded all that much being naked.  Growing up in Glamorganshire Wales, I was naked with my brothers hundreds of times. We bathed, played, wrestled naked, we went swimming naked . . . I never really thought all that much about being naked.  I was just one of the “boys” (albeit without a willy), we went whooping, hollering, splashing about naked. There was nothing immoral or unseemly about being naked with ones brothers.  This on the other hand was a different kind of naked, a malevolent, humiliating, and ignominious naked.  I felt dirty and violated, no better than a rack of meat hung on a butcher’s hook.  I was the youngest girl there, at not-yet-eleven years old, I wasn’t so womanly, I clutched my arms to hide my flat boyish-chest; I was skinny and pale.  I felt like a stick figure standing there bare-skinned in front of all the other older girls. It was there in the midst of my morbid misery that I first met my friend Sally.  For some reason Sally took a shine to me, she was older than me; she saw how frightened I was. “Shhh, calm down Sissy─Sally love will takes care of yous.”   Sally, she did her best to comfort me.

Even Sally couldn’t protect me from what was to happen next.  I was further mortified when a male doctor entered the room, in the accompaniment of a nurse.  They set up this table, with a stapler, ink and blotter.  We were lined up for some kind of exam.  I stood there along with some thirty other naked girls, bewildered, clutching my chest. I felt myself pushed forward under the weight of the queue.

“Next!”

“Name?” The nurse said, her pen poised to write.  She peered at me sternly across the tops of her reading glasses, icily, uncaring as if I were some kind of insect. “WHAT IS YOUR NAME CHILD?”

“Tessa.” I said in a voice so small it was barely a whisper.

“SPEAK UP!”  The nurse was cross, the doctor too became impatient; he wore this silvery reflector disk on his head, the light of which danced in my face like a brilliant star, mesmerizing me.  I said nothing.

“TELL THEM YOUR NAME, CHILD!”  I felt an impatient prod in the small of my back. Mrs. Mixer, she was through waiting for a response; she relished the chance to use her switch at the slightest provocation.  The switch whirled and landed with a *CRACK* on me bare bums.  I lurched half-a-step forward, me bottom stung under the cruel assault of Mrs. Mixer’s lash.

“Theresa Elizabeth Claiborne.”  I finally found my voice and the words came spilling out of me like tea from a kettle. “My name is Tessa Claiborne; I’m from Glamorganshire, Wales. I’m NOT English, I’m Welsh!  I was brought here against my will!  Mr. Squeers, he paid me Mum four pounds and nine shillings.  I want to go home!” 

“THAT WILL BE ENOUGH!”  Mrs. Mixer, her fat face turned a livid shade of purple.  The switch whirled and hissed and cracked hard on my backside, its sting cut off my words. I clenched my teeth, I did not cry out. I was not going to give her the satisfaction.  “INSOLENT CHILD!  Hands down to your side, stand up straight; let the doctor have a look at you!”  It was all so humiliating; the doctor was remarkably cold and impersonal.  He didn’t seem to care that I was young, frightened, or embarrassed.  He remained completely detached from my misery.  It was if I didn’t even exist as a human being.  The entire exam took less than a minute.  Just a perfunctory look at my teeth, say “Ah,” a couple of thumps on my chest, hands over my head, squat, cough.  The doctor appeared to be concerned with only two things: lice and tuberculosis. Apparently I of which had neither, my chest was marked with a red circle.  I guess that meant I was OK. 

“What do you have to do to fail this exam?”  I quipped, I shot a sardonic glance back at Mrs. Mixer; I was out of range of her switch. 

The fat old cow.

I shouldn’t have been so flippant the worse was yet to come.  I was thrust into an assembly line of grim-faced, white smocked matrons waiting for me in the next room. They seized me and cut off my hair, my beautiful blond hair, shaved to the scalp. If I hadn’t resembled a boy before, I certainly did now! Then they plunged me into a bath of water so cold it burned like fire.  They seized me, scrubbed me down with coarse hog’s hair bristle brushes and a vicious concoction of carbolic and lye soap. I later learned this was to remove lice.  I was offered a most ill-fitting smock and shooed into a large white-washed room with long benches along with all the other freshly processed chattel.

“Now we get something to eat,” Sally said, she squeezed my hand. 

I received my first whipping on my first day.

I got into trouble  promptly in the dinning hall; it wasn’t my fault; really, trouble just seems to find me. We all sat down, shorn, cloven, in a collective state of shock to receive our first meal. Nothing but gruel in greasy oatmeal gravy and a chunk of weevily barley bread.  Even though I grew up in a poor family, starving, Mama, she never served us such food.   I choked down the wretched fare, knowing it might very well be the last bit of food I got for a long time. Several of the other girls, I could tell straight away were going to be trouble.  Especially one of the older girls, Marcella, who eyed me like a fish.   I was the youngest girl there;  Marcella, she thought me small, weak, an easy mark.

“Oi! Taffy, yous ain’t gonna eat dat, gives us dat bread!”  Marcella reached over and pinched me bread. That set me off, I launched myself full body across the table—I took Marcella down.  I wrestled her to the ground there on the dinning room floor.  Believes you me, growing up in a family with eight brothers and no sisters you learn quick to be a pretty good scraper, at ten years-old-going-on-eleven I know how to hold my own.  I can take care of myself. I should think Marcella got the worst of it! I wasn’t finished with her yet, not by a long shot! I was intent on pound’n ‘er some more and I woulda too, ‘cept’n Mrs. Mixer and the other matrons intervened.  They descended upon me like a chick-on-a-June-bug, blowing their whistles, all the rest of the girls screamed and scattered. Even though Marcella was the one who pinched me bread, because I was on top, I was the one caught do’n the major pound’n. Marcella, wailed and shrieked and blubbered tears big as horse turds, from the looks of things you’d think she’d just been kilt!  I was branded the aggressor. Mrs. Mixer, seized me by the ear and half dragged and half flung me across the table.  She jerked up my smock and proceeded to thrash me across me bare bottom with sadistic relish.

“YOU WICKED, WICKED, UNGRATEFUL CHILD!  I’LL LEARN YOUS TO CAUSE TROUBLE IN MY DINNING HALL!”

The cane lash whirled and cracked hard against me naked backside—not the fleshy more protected part of the buttocks, but slightly higher up against my promontory; which is the lowest point of the spine. Cruel Mrs. Mixer knew from experience this was the ideal and most painful spot to beat indolent little girls.  She continued to thrash me until she’d succeeded in raising a row of livid red welts.  With each stroke I did not cry out.  This only served to make Mrs. Mixer more incensed.  As a further punishment, she made me stand on a stool until well past midnight. That night I went to bed, cold, hungry, me bottom stung from the cruel lash, yet I was defiant.  In my own small way I was deeply satisfied.  I had stood up for myself; I was not going to be intimidated.

There worst punishments, aside from being beaten to death, (of which several girls did die from floggings), the absolute worst was to be thrown in the chokey.  A sort of narrow closet, with dozens of iron spikes and razor-sharp nails driven in at odd angles. It was in fact a nineteenth century version of the Iron Maiden, a torture device straight out of the Tower of London. Once locked in the chokey, you couldn’t sit, you couldn’t stand, you had to remain crouched in this impossible position all night. The slightest movement brought flesh in contact with an iron nail. If you urinated or worse yet made a mess, you were first subjected to an additional beating. In the morning before first whistle, when they finally brought you out.  They sent you straight to work without breakfast.

I crawled into bed sobbing.  We slept in dormitories, stacked three high like cord wood.  I had trouble sleeping, aside from my obvious troubles, I was plagued with nightmares. Of being chased by a comical apparition of Mr. Squeers, with an enormous bandage on his head, so large his top hat sat perched at a ridiculously precarious angle.  Mr. Squeers chased me in my dreams.  He hated me in real life, even though I never saw him again,  Mr. Squeers, made certain my existence was sufficiently miserable.  All the supervisors knew I was on the “list.”  That I was to be punished severely for even the slightest infraction.  Over the next two years I suffered numerous beatings, my rations were cut, I was summarily sent to bed without supper. Yeah, you might say I paid dearly for cracking Mr. Squeers up side the head with a rock.  Come to think of it, given a second chance, I think I should have hit him harder!

Me bunk mate Sally Fullam, a randy girl from Warwickshire, was three years older than me.  Taller than me; Sally had strawberry blond hair and tits!  Sally was a veteran of the English poor system and as such knocked around in workhouses, mostly in the White Chapel district of East Charring Cross.  Sally told me,  ‘er Mum were a “working girl” what got ‘erself sentenced to ‘ang fer a killing some gentleman, but cheated the gallows by pleading ‘er belly.  To hear Sally tell it, that was how she ended up a wretched waif in the English poor system. I guess you might say I learned the ropes from Sally.  As hard as it may seem to believe, factory work was actually a step-up from the London poor house. Sally said she liked girls, in a way I had never heard of.

“They’s not many boys ‘round here . . . I think yous’n me we should be friends.”  I soon found out later that night exactly what Sally meant when she said, We should be friends.  This was all quite an education for me; it gave me quite a start.  I sat up straight in bed.

“Sally!  What are you doing?”

“Shhh, Tessa love, just relax . . .”

I didn’t relax, I couldn’t.  As I lay there in the dark quite confused, terrified, Sally lay cuddled warm beside me, her breath hot against my neck.  She kissed me.   I was sure this was something dirty, immoral, something we shouldn’t be doing, yet I did not protest.  I bit my lip and endured.  I lay there in silent tractable affliction until I felt a shock—a frission, my body jerked and shook.  I convulsed so violently at first; I was certain I was going to wet the bed.

“Good girl, Tessa, now go to sleep.”

The next morning I confronted Sally, I told her I wanted to be her friend, but not in that way. I think she respected me more after that.  Sally and I slept together for the next two-and-a-half years.

As I said before, I never saw Mr. Squeers.  I mostly only saw Mr. Fenner or Mr. Smith, they sometimes walked the factory floor.  I think Mr. Smith, he smiled at me once.  We followed the same routine everyday.  We toiled in twelve-hour shifts.  From first whistle at six O’clock, then there was dinner at noon, and we worked again until six O’clock in the evening.  There was a solemn supper, no talking, followed by lights out at eight O’clock. Six days a week.

The factory was noisy, poorly ventilated, sweltering hot in summer and freezing cold in winter.  I worked the loom floor. My first job was sweeping up of cotton dust, and chasing after loose bobbins.  Eventually I was promoted to shuttle-cock. It was the work assigned to only the smallest most nimble girls of which I was one.  It became my job to crawl on my hands and knees underneath the machinery, amidst the dirt and choking cotton dust and the ever constant danger of slashing mechanical machinery overhead to retrieve the lost bobbins that fell down between the cracks of the production looms.  The noise was deafening, the work was dangerous.  Only the smallest and bravest girls could do this work.  Of which I was an expert.  I actually derived a certain amount of satisfaction from crawling under the thundering power looms.  I gained a feeling of self-worth, I knew I was special.  While the job of shuttle-cock was better than the sweeping-up work, the danger of being snagged, of being sucked into the whirling machine-works was ever-present. Not every girl posessed the nerve to crawl in confined spaces so close to a virtual Hecatoncheires of slashing moving metal parts.  At least I knew my job was secure.

I worked with another girl, Lilly Barnes; she was a slim red-headed freckle faced girl, a veteran mill worker from Manchester. Lilly looked younger than her eleven years on account she had no front teeth. Lilly told me her old man bashed out her teeth in a bout of drunken rage when she was eight.  After he done that she ran away from home.  Lilly and I worked side-by-side; we worked long hours crawling on our bellies, worming our way under the maze of machinery on the factory floor. In the greater scheme of nineteenth century mercantilism, there was no room for false modesty; you might be shocked to learn for a shuttle-cock like myself, clothes were considered an occupational hazard! We slathered our bodies with tallow, lard, with whatever grease was available, our bodies needed to be both slick and free from  any unnecessary clothing—free from any loose clothing at all—we worked next-to-naked, less we risked being snagged, sucked into the remorseless whirling clock-work machinery.  It was vile dangerous work, the cotton fibers stuck to our skin, burned our eyes, by days end we resembled less two little girls than a couple of tar and feathered chickens! This is was my job for nearly a year-and-a-half.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, which ever way you want to look at it, puberty has a way of taking its toll. Despite being skinny-as-a-bean-pole on a near starvation diet.  I eventually, inevitably began to develop, you know . . . what you might call curves, hips, breasts; I was no longer one of the “little girls.”  I became too large to crawl under the machinery.  I was becoming a woman, and as such, I was summarily relegated to the Loom floor. Twelve hours a day, ten minutes for morning tea, fifteen minutes for lunch.   All day long, six days a week.  I stood in the same spot and  watched the machines make money for Mr. Squeers.  On rare occasions, if no one was watching, I sometimes stood on my tip-toes and craned my neck, out of one window, I could catch a glimpse of the outdoors.  I watched the seasons change. This was drudgery on an unimaginable scale. I hated it.

Was this to be the rest of my life?

Chapter 4

A SHILLING FOR DOMINO

BREAKFAST AT THE LONDON Quadrangle Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory was served promptly each morning at precisely five-thirty, and fulfilled every expectation that one might imagine of an institutional meal. Eaten in absolute silence, breakfast consisted of a chunk of weevily brown bread no bigger than your fist, and a pint of gruel.  By the time breakfast came ‘round, I was so hungry, I wolfed down every bite. As time wore on, instead of being the object of revulsion, the weevils, were actually considered a delicacy, a source of protein, and we devoured them with relish.   By the time the noon dinner whistle blew, I had been at work for six hours, since my job consisted primarily of worming my way under the machinery; I was invariably covered in grease, filth and cotton fiber. My stomach by this time was so hollow that nothing else mattered;  I was dying for a cuppa tea, I think I could have eaten a boiled shoe if it had been offered up to me! No such luck, dinner was always the same, a pint-and-a-half of thin vegetable stew, at dinner there was never any bread. Supper was at seven-thirty and amounted to more soup, sometimes, if you got lucky, there was a piece of salt-pork floating in the greasy gravy. At supper time there was both bread and tea, and on rare occasions a chunk of cheese.  Because I was considered one of the children, we were allowed  glass of watered down milk. Once a week our rations were fortified with an apple or a plum. This didn’t amount so much as charity on the part of Wallace Squeers, Pierce, Fenner and Smith, as it was a necessity; even though no one at the time knew  the reason why, the management of WSPFS knew what the British navy had known for decades, that sailors, or in our case mill workers required fresh fruit. Because our daily diet was so poor, the occasional odd piece of  fruit was offered up not so much out of generosity as to literally keep the mill work force from dropping dead from scurvy!

I remember my first Christmas, we were given an orange—which was an inconceivable luxury.  The Christmas orange turned out to be a colossal mistake, never to be repeated again by the management of Wallace Squeers, Pierce, Fenner and Smith. It certainly caused more trouble than it was worth. As it resulted in a near riot, numerous knockdown drag-out-fights as the older girls scrambled to take the oranges from the younger girls.  Nobody fucked with me—by that time I had earned a reputation as fierce scrapper, growing up in a family of eight brothers, I knew how to hold my own.   I remember sitting there in the corner, in perfect oblivious solitude, sucking on that orange.  I sucked, chewed the pulp, I ate every bit of that orange, rind and all; it was the most marvelous and delicious thing I had ever tasted.

The sexes were strictly segregated at The London Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory.  The women and girls were relegated to the ninth, tenth and eleventh floors the spinning and weaving floors.  The men, the roustabouts, who fed the raw cotton fibre up to the looms and sewing rooms labored on the lower floors.  We seldom if ever saw a real man .  .  . other than Mr. Fenner or Mr. Smith who hardly counted This led to such a mythology to the extent that any actual sightings of a real man caused quite a commotion, and was the source of endless gossip and squabbles.  Fraternization between the sexes was strictly forbidden.

Sally, she was pretty much her own person when it came to rules.  “Rules are made to be broken.”  Sally was fond of saying.  She must have told me this a hundred times.  Sally somehow always managed a way to sneak on to the seventh floor.  She was quite brazen about it; she always came back with a couple of farthings, sometimes she had gin on her breath. All the other girls knew about Sally.  Everything was tickety-boo until one of the girls got jealous.  I never knew for sure who fingered Sally . . .  else wise I woulda pounded ‘em.

Sally, she got caught coming up the stairs.  Mrs. Mixer accosted her.  Poor Sally, who never got in trouble, never got punished (in contrast to me who was always in trouble).  Mrs. Mixer was positively furious;  She was a Quaker, and the mere thought of sex, illicit or otherwise sent her into a puritanical rage. Mrs. Mixer was so angry; she savagely beat Sally.  The other matrons took turns beating Sally, when one flagged, a fresh arm took over.  Mrs. Mixer, she called Sally a “Godless whore.”  I should think the old biddies might have killed her out of spite. (God knows they weren’t getting any), if it were not for the intervention of the Overseer Mr. Crowley.

“THAT’S ENOUGH!  My dear Mrs. Mixer, please go see to yer other duties. I’ll deal wit dis wicked Godless tramp.”  Mr. Crowley took off his belt; he looped it around his fist, the buckle, the business end, hung free. He made it appear as though he was bent on thrashing poor Sally.  Mr. Crowley instead grabbed Sally by the hair; he slipped his hand under her smock and whispered something in her ear.  I never knew for sure what Mr. Crowley said, but one look at the tent in his trousers, and I knew for certain his intentions were no good.  Every time after that, mostly on Saturdays when he was certain Mr. Smith was not around, Mr. Crowley came ‘round.  With a wink-and-nod Sally, she would disappear off the factory floor, often for two hours or more, emerging disheveled from behind the dustbin of Mr. Crowley’s office. Sally, she never seemed too terribly cut up about the whole affair.  She called it “Business.”  Forever after that, it seemed Sally always had a sweet cake, a loaf of real yeast bread, or sometimes even a sausage.

In those dark days, if it were not for the extra food Sally shared, I should think I might have starved to death. An extra crust of bread, a rind from a piece of ham, there was little else to bring joy in life.  Our existence at the London Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory was spartan at best. Sally and I slept in dormitories housed on the eighth floor.  The only actual furniture apart from an occasional wooden stool were the barrack style rack of beds.  A straw tick served as the mattress and a corse woolen blanked was the only cover.  Pillows were considered an unnecessary luxury.  By contrast, Sally and I had both pillows and cotton sheets all courtesy of Mr. Crowley.  Everyone shared a bed, and at the end of the workday, I will tell you in all honesty, one of my few real comforts in life was to get into bed and snuggle up next to Sally; it was warm, our flesh touched. At night, Sally lay cuddled next to me, “Tessa, you’ll always be my bestest best girl.”  Sally told me.  I took what Sally offered me, I was so hungry—Yet after that first time, there was never again anything between Sally and me.  I always felt guilty, that I could never be to Sally the girl she wanted me to be.

*     *     * 

THE INCIDENT, the incident that changed my life happened on a Saturday. I should think somewhere near the middle of the afternoon shift. The work had been hard that morning, hectic, Lilly and I scurried around but no matter how hard we worked we could never keep up.  We couldn’t be everywhere at once.  The Overseer, Mr. Crowley he was never satisfied, he drove us  constantly to go faster, “Werk fasser, yer wool-headed toads!”  A switch was the penalty for any indolent girl who dawdled or shirked. I was working with Lilly under the no. 64 Cartwright, a thunderous hulking machine that spewed out fully woven cotton broad cloth at a prodigious rate.  All the machinery was steam-driven, with overhead power-take-offs from a complicated set of gears, belts and drive shafts that derived their ultimate power from the great Kech-Gonnerman steam engine that churned relentlessly ten-storeys below in the powerhouse. A steam engine never stops, it never needs rest; it does not tire,  slack or shirk.  As long as the stokers shoveled coal in the furnace, the steam engine continued in its pitiless pace to do work, the looms turned, twenty-four hours a day, six days a week.  Thus, the worker became nothing but a human cog in a great machine that was the marvel of the industrial revolution of the nineteenth century.

The no. 64 was a cantankerous, troublesome, bothersome machine.  The mule wheel was prone to jamming, it was forever throwing a belt or clogging a gear.  That was where we came in, the shuttle cocks, only the smallest and most nimble girls could do this work.  It took a great deal of courage as well, as it was our job to crawl under the machines, worm our way into the most impossible places and reset the thrown belt or clear the jam, all this while the loom continued thunder overhead.  It was incredibly dangerous work. Cotton fibre rained down upon us, it stung our eyes, choked our lungs, and stuck to our bodies.

Lilly and I had worked together for better part of a year, she was older than I was, stronger, but I was quicker, more clever with machinery. We made a good team. Lilly held the spanner, while I shined the torch.  We were hurried, trying to reset a belt that jumped a pulley.  The machine was in the stop position, each second, each minute the no. 64 was idle, cost the management of WSPFS twenty shillings. Lilly reached up to set the belt, her arms between the gears, each as big as dinner platters. I’ll never know for sure who engaged the mechanism, who released the action break.  All I know is, a cam turned, a friction belt engaged and the no. 64 chugged—it churned to life, a single cycle, but that was enough.  In one catastrophic awful second, Lilly was snagged, literally sucked into the whirling clock-works; I was spattered with bone and blood.

“STOP THE LOOM!” I screamed—It was too late, it was forever too late.

I stayed there  under the machine, I held Lilly’s head, I tried to comfort her.  Lilly could only moan.  I felt her pulse ebb and flow. Lilly’s eyes were wide open the whole time, her face was so pale, finally there was this sort of gurgle from deep down in her chest, and then there was nothing. It’s a terrible thing to watch a person die.  I didn’t know it at the time, but there was plenty more dying in my future.  To feel a man’s  blood pulse hot over your hand, to pull cold steel from his belly, to know you are the cause of his death; this is war—Up close and personal.  Of all of this, I had known idea.

It took them three hours to get her out. 

Mr. Smith, he came on the factory floor to overseer the extraction.  He came straight from his Greene street office, paced the floor, acted as if he were extremely inconvenienced.  He checked his pocket watch every five minutes, and studied the production roster one could almost see the wheels turn in his head as if he were calculating the pounds and shillings all this was costing him.  I mostly just stood there half-naked my chest heaved; I think I was in shock.  The floor supervisors, the plant manager, the workman summoned all acted as if I were invisible.  Hate welled up inside of me and threatened to choke my throat.  They all looked right past me and spoke about me in the third person as if I had no feelings—No feelings at all; at least none they needed to trouble themselves with.  It was if I didn’t even exist.

“I don’t suppose the child needs to go to the infirmary?”

“Well, look at her!”

One of the floor supervisors got down in my face and shouted at me as if he thought I was deaf and stupid, “Are you hurt child?”

“At least in all that’s decent, let the child go to the latrines to wash-up . . . and get her to put some clothes on!”

Mr. Smith, he said nothing.  He peered down at me across his long nose.  I must have struck a pathetic figure standing there, bare chested, clad only in knickers, smeared with grease and stuck with cotton fibres, still spattered in Lilly Barnes’ blood.  I kept thinking that he might say something, offer me sympathy, a humanizing word of condolence, at the very least tell me to go wash-up or send me to the infirmary for a lie down.  Mr. Smith, he said nothing.  He took no notice of me at all.  I was an insect, a nuisance.  It became painfully evident that he was far more preoccupied with the loss of production of loom no. 64 than he was as to any concern over the death of a worker.

I know what you’re thinking, when I said that this was the incident that changed my life, that I must be referring to poor Lilly’s death. That’s not entirely true. While Lilly’s death affected me profoundly, holding her there in my arms, feeling her life’s force slip away, however traumatic, this is not the event that changed my life.  No, it was something far more mundane—it was Mr. Smith, his cold calculated preoccupation with time. Time is money and his constant retrieval and checking of his pocket watch.  How can this be? I’ll tell you, you see each time he checked his watch he pulled it out of his waistcoat pocket.  During one of those numerous ritual retrievals, he inadvertently dropped a shilling.

A single shilling, one shinning silver shilling, a twentieth of a sovereign lay on the factory floor.  Even in the midst of my grief, I spied it at once, in all its gleaming, potential glory.  I looked to Mr. Smith, his face revealed nothing.  The Foreman, Mr. Crowley he saw nothing, neither did any of the mechanics summoned to disassemble the no. 64, neither did the orderlies who joked and jostled while they waited their turn to cart away poor Lilly’s mangled corpse.  No one seemed to notice, no one at all.

I surreptitiously kicked a clump of cotton fiber over the forgotten shilling in order to conceal it.  I didn’t dare retrieve it now.  Such was considered theft, and punishment for theft was a night spent in the chokey.  We were sent straight back to work; there was no pause, there could be no delay of production.  All the rest of that long day I thought of nothing but Lilly’s white face and where that shilling lay. I resolved before the last whistle to retrieve it.  All this happened in June the beginning of that long hot summer of 1878, two months after my thirteenth birthday.  The summer of poor Lilly’s death, the pocket watch, the day I found the shilling, and the summer I met Domino.

*     *     *

I SAT FOR THE LONGEST TIME, alone in the  cold darkness on the hard red brick floor of the women’s latrine.  I sat there and listened to the water drip, drip, drip, then trickle, gurgle and ultimately run down the drain. I huddled there in the gloom and cried, not so much out loud, so anyone could hear, I sobbed softly to myself.   I was a big girl now, thirteen-years-old, and it was shameful to cry.  I smothered my face in my knees and let out little pathetic dry heaves. The dinner gong rang over an hour ago, I had missed my supper.  I didn’t care.  On this crucial point, my heart and my stomach were in disagreement; my stomach growled, and my heart ached.

I cried for myself, I cried for poor mangled dead Lilly.  I cried for Mr. Smith and his cold wicked heart.  I didn’t think up to this point it was possible to hate anyone anymore than I hated Mr. Squeers, but now there was Mr. Smith.  My face burned hot when I thought of him.  The arrogant way he flicked open his pocket watch, the way he checked the ledger, the way he had Lilly Barnes carted off the factory floor like yesterday’s garbage.  No, Mr. Smith and I were now enemies.  He made my list, he was going burn in hell for what he done.  I was sure of it. Now, I was going to burn in hell too, because now I was a thief.  I thought of the shiny silver shilling and where I had secreted it.  I knew in my heart it belonged to him.  I knew it was stealing and this made me feel wicked inside. The worst part of it was—I didn’t care .  .  . I liked it.

“Tessa?”

I heard the lavatory door creak and bang shut.

“Tessa . . . You didn’t come down for supper.” It was Sally Fullam. Sally entered the woman’s latrine, she knelt down beside me and put her arms around me.

“Oh—Tessa, love.  I brought you some tea.”  I looked up at Sally, silent tears streamed down my cheeks; Sally’s face was face was full of compassion.  I took the warm enamel ware cup and drank, gratefully. For the first time all during that long awful day, I felt good inside.

“Sally .  .  . I, Why?”

“Shhh, Tessa, why is anything the way it is in this cocked-up world?  It wasn’t your fault .  .  . You did everything you could. Look at you, you’re a mess love, com’on let’s get you cleaned up.”

I nodded, my heart still numb with pain.  Sally took my hand and led me to the showers, my knickers melted away.  Before I knew it, Sally stood there beside me, she was naked as well.  Her fingers dug into the pannikin of soft brown soap, she gently soaped me all over. She worked the slimy soap into a frothy lather. Sally scrubbed my back, I began to get these warm conflicted feeling as her gentle hands caressed my breasts. Sally, didn’t stop there, she scrubbed my belly. I shuddered,  as her expert fingers swirled and flowed venturing down lower to  cosset my cunny. The water from the overhead bucket was ice-cold, so cold it raised goose bumps, but it felt good to wash away the blood, filth and sorrow of the second worst day of my life.

Sally helped me wash my hair. “You have such lovely hair.”

“Sally, why are you so good to me. You know I can never be your friend, not like what you want.”

Sally continued to brush my hair ’till it shown with a luster.  She helped me get dressed; one of the other girls lent her a clean nightshirt.  “You’re already my best girl, Tessa.”  Sally said, she smoothed my forehead.  “Besides, I’m older than you; somebody has to look out after you.  Let’s go to bed, tomorrow is Sunday, we’ll talk about it in the morning.

That night, I cuddled up next to Sally and slept soundly ’till morning.

Chapter 5

HENRY and HENRY

THE NEXT DAY WAS SUNDAY; we greeted Sunday, every Sunday with a certain amount of measured joy and relief. Sunday represented a momentary brief respite from the everyday relentless drudgery of factory work. When I say “We,”  I don’t just mean Sally  ’n me—I mean all the mill hands here at the London Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory. Sunday was the day upon which all our hopes and dreams were predicated. Sunday was our one day of rest. Being good Anglican Christians, even the callous, cold-hearted, soulless management of Wallace Squeers, Pierce, Fenner and Smith did not require the mill hands to work on Sunday.  There again, after attending compulsory morning worship, Sunday often turned out to be a busier day than a regular workday.  It seemed that everything that ever needed to be done got somehow deferred to Sunday, “I’ll do that come Sunday.” There were numerous domestic chores like sweeping the barracks, airing out of the dormitory, laundry, and mending. Some of the girls, the ones who could write, wrote letters to home, most of the girls idled away their time in catty gossip. I found if I worked diligently, sometimes in the late afternoon, I could eke out a couple of hours in which one was free to pursue leisure.

It wasn’t as if we was exactly prisoners of the London Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory; there were no walls, barb-wire, or guards.  In theory at least, Sally ’n me we was free to walk out anytime we pleased. The problem was there was nowhere to go; secondly, we was both destitute. As for myself, where was I to go?  I couldn’t go home, Mama didn’t want me.  Besides, I couldn’t leave on account of Mr. Squeers; you see he held a note of four pounds and nine shillings. I was therefore under the law, a debtor. I was obliged to “work off” my debt. At three shillings a week, fat chance like that was ever going to happen! At least not anytime soon. No matter how hard I worked, and I worked seventy hours a week!  No matter how many frames I produced,  I never saw so much as a brass farthing; each month I received a bill detailing the cost of my housing, found and upkeep. I continued to sink deeper in debt. I owed my soul to Mr. Squeers and the company store.

Yeah, Sally   ’n me we was both free as jay birds; some fine, fat, fucking freedom! After all, slavery was abolished in Great Britain in 1770. The haughty forward thinking House of Lords, with their high-minded morals, even our own beloved Queen Victoria turned a blind eye to the ostensible practice of slavery in the Sugar plantations of the colonies in the West Indies. Indeed the practice of indentured servitude, the institution of which I now found myself ensnared was widely practiced, tolerated, and even encouraged. Parliament knew very well the economic livelihood of the Empire was dependent upon the intuition of slavery, for it was the labor of blacks on the Southern plantations of America that fed the great textile mills of London. The government went so far as to even support the fledgling Confederate States of America! After Appomattox, after 1865, when all was lost, these same legislative superiors, sought to distance themselves from the issues of slavery. They looked down upon their neighbors across the pond, yet they never once hesitated to reap profit from an institution that required our English-speaking cousins to fight a bloody civil war to accomplish the same legislative achievement. The long and the short of the argument was, despite any haughty notion of emancipation by act of Parliament in 1770.  If the definition of slavery is a person who labors for the profit of another for little or no compensation, then WE of the London Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory were for all practical purposes Slaves of Wallace Squeers, Pierce, Fenner and Smith. This was the stark reality of the mercantile system of the nineteenth century.

All than changed the day I found the shilling.  I clutched the shilling in my hand; I squeezed it so hard I thought it might squish out between my fingers!  On this morning, on this particular Sunday, I was so happy. I had a whole shilling in my purse. At first, I didn’t know what to do with both leisure time and money in my pocket! This was a new experience. I resolved to do something special, to surprise Sally, to treat her to a proper tea. I told Sally to get ready, “We’re going out!”  We scrubbed our faces and put on what amounted to our best clothes and rode the lift down to the Greene street exit.

Sally was curious, I told her nothing, it was gonna be a big surprise! Sally ‘n me we set out on the streets of London.  We left our troubles, the dark gloom of the brick Asch building behind. We set out on a Sunday afternoon lark. Walking in fresh air, blue birds in summer, on a glorious Sunday afternoon, this was the one happy pursuit that the London Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory had not yet figured out how to charge to the company store. Sally and I walked; we walked past the powerhouse, we set off towards Wilmington square.

“Tessa, where are we going?”

I could barely contain my excitement, “Just wait Sally.” 

I thought I knew what I was doing, I thought I knew where to take Sally. I was wrong, we were summarily turned away from the first establishment. The proprietor turned his nose up at us. 

“Gon, git! We don’t serve your kind here!” 

In the summer of 1878, I had very little joy in my life, no hope to occupy my time. I was a skinny little vagabond nothing. My hair, my beautiful hair had started to grow back, my natural hair was silky fine with just the slightest tinge of auburn blond. The oppressive factory work took its toll on my hair, it seemed I never had time or spirit to take care of myself. My hair hung in hanks, in greasy unkempt clumps, I was this hideous, skinny unkempt creature.  

‘Oi yourself, and I’m not your mate!”

The boy who approached us was a good-looking lad, a cheerful young man, with a ruddy face and an unkempt shock of sandy blond hair; his hands were dirty with coal dust.  He was trying to grow a mustache.  “You know yous got a gap between your front teeth?”  I cringed, I quit smiling, I clamped my mouth shut. As luck would have it, the first real boy I ever met outside of Wales who was not my brother and what’s the first thing he does? He goes out of his way to point out my worst attribute!  The boy, apparently oblivious to his faux pas, not knowing any better  continued, “Sorry, but that there is my dog.”  Domino he was such a sport, he pranced about so excited, he broke the ice and got us over our awkward moment. Domino wolfed down the kidneys greedily.  “My name is Henry, Henry Hawkins”  Henry extended his hand,  ”This here is my dog Domino.” 

“Second assistant to the boiler engineer.” Henry said proudly, “That’s my brother Henry Jr., he’s the Fire Captain on Pumper no. 99.”

“Your brother’s name is Henry?” I was confused.  As it turns out, Henry’s father, Henry Sr. was also named Henry. To make matters worse, Henry’s grandfather, (called Henry the Great),  he was the first Henry in the Hawkins family.  “Are all the men in your family named Henry?” 

“My father, Henry Sr. he was the Captain of the fire house, until he got burnt to death last year, when part of a wall collapsed. Three other firemen got killt that day. My brother, Henry Jr., he’s the acting Fire Chief until the city selectmen choose a replacement.” I said I was sorry, then not knowing what else to say, added that I thought firefighting must be grim business. 

“Not all the time, we sure do eat good!  Some days it’s down right bloody exciting. What say we pop ’round back ’n I’ll show you the horses!  We got the finest fire horses in all of London!” 

Henry took us across the street to the Wilmington Square Firehouse, Henry was indeed proud of his team.  He showed us the horses, a white, “Hokey,” a dapple-gray, “Pokey,” and a black horse named “Smokey.” I brushed their soft noses. Domino was all very interested, he circled the fire house and watched our every move. Henry showed us the brass bell on the pumper wagon and the gauges where Henry Jr. monitored the steam pressure. 

“So how do you know when there’s a fire?” I was immediately embarrassed because I thought my question stupid. 

Henry didn’t think so at all, and he was more than happy to explain. The firehouse was connected by telegraph, to every Police call box in the whole of London. When there’s a fire, a  Constable turns a key in a box, there is one of these boxes on every corner in London.  The firebox sends a telegraph message to the fire house. If there was a fire anywhere in the city, we’ll know about it in minutes. I found all this fascinating, I never knew such a wonderful and romantic job existed. Compared to crawling around on a factory floor half-naked, Henry’s job seemed a world a way. 

I noticed the open circle in the floor of the second storey.  I found myself fascinated with the fire pole.

“Care to give it a go?” 

“Oh, no I couldn’t.”  I gasped.

“Com’on.” 

We climbed an iron spiral staircase up to the second floor where the firemen ate and slept. We walked past a row of rain coats and boots always at the ready. Henry took us to the edge of the black hole pierced by a shiny steel pole. 

“Have a go, it’s easy, like falling off a log.” 

“That’s the problem,” I muttered under my breath. Henry leaped to the pole and neatly slid down to the ground. I must say, it did look like fun. 

“It’s much faster than the stairs, well, com’on!” 

Sally was afraid, I was afraid too. But I wasn’t going to let Sally know just how scared I was. I closed my eyes and leaped into space. It’s a wonder I didn’t break my fool neck. It was the scariest and most exhilarating thing I had ever done in my whole life. After a few more tries, I was sliding down that pole like a real fireman. 

Henry laughed, “There you go,  Bob’s your uncle!” 

Eventually, even Sally worked up enough nerve to try it. We had so much fun, we laughed so hard, before we knew it, the afternoon was gone. 

Henry ‘n me we seemed to hit it off from the start. At first I didn’t know what was happening, but Sally, she squeezed my hand and whispered, “Tessa, you’ve got a boyfriend.”  I was up front with Henry from the start, I told him I had no money, I had no family. I was an indentured servant at the London Mercantile  and Shirtwaist factory and I only had every other Sunday afternoon off. I told him I was only thirteen-years-old. Henry, he didn’t seem to care; he said he’d wait for me. I told him I didn’t see why he should wait for me, I wasn’t pretty, I didn’t think I was pretty at all. 

“Tessa, I think you’re beautiful.” Henry said.

“Aw, gon!” I was so embarrassed. “I don’t know what you see in me.  My nose is too big. You said yourself, I’ve got a split between my teeth,” I glanced down at my pathetic boyish chest . . . me tits barely poked through the fabric of my smock.  “I’ve got nothing up top, you’re just being nice.”

“Tessa, I think you’re just about the prettiest girl I ever did see, honest. I want you to be my bestest best girl.  When I get enough money saved, I’ll come for you,  I’m gonna buy your contract.  I promise. I’m gonna take you away from all of this.” 

I shook my head, despite Henry’s sincerity, I knew it wasn’t  possible. “My contract is four pounds, nine shillings. Henry, where you gonna get four quid nine bob? How much money can you earn as a second assistant to the boiler engineer?” 

“You just watch, I’ll work weekends, I’ll work seven days a week. I’ll clean the horses’ stalls if I have too, I’ll come for you Tessa.” 

Henry’s promise gave me hope, a purpose to my  life. For the first time since being kidnapped, dragged from my home and sold into indentured servitude. I looked to the future. I worked; I worked harder than I ever worked in my life. I even volunteered for extra shifts so I could manage to save a few farthings. Every day, each hour, I thought that brought me that much closer to Sunday, and Sunday meant freedom; on Sunday I could see Henry, and Domino.

Chapter 6

PRELUDE TO DISASTER

THE LONG HOT SUMMER  OF  1878 brought  many changes to my life, some good, and some bad, and some so utterly horrible that even to this day I still can’t bear to contemplate them. I continued to toil in the service of the London Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory.  One of the biggest changes you might say was I wasn’t a little girl any more, I was growing taller, fuller, that was a good thing I guess, every girl likes to feel she’s becoming a woman. The only bad part about growing up was after the accident, after poor Lilly got chopped, Mr. Crowley decided that I was now too large to crawl under the machinery; I was summarily relegated to the loom floor. I hated it. Younger girls assumed my old duties, scuttling back and forth under my feet, I watched with a certain amount of reticent envy as they wormed their way half-naked, under the slashing hissing machinery.  They were at least free. I by contrast became a prisoner; I stood there working the mill, rooted in the exact same spot, hour-after-hour, twelve hours a day, under the ever-watchful eye of the Foreman Mr. Crowley.  My work now dictated by the relentless rhythm of the Kech-Gonnerman steam engine.

The loom floor was a cacophony of noise, clacking machinery and swirling cotton dust.  The weaving room was always hot and suffocating; the summer of 1878 came early, and was unusually warm and humid. The loom floor became a monotonous stifling sort of hell. It was so hot; some girls even fainted on the factory floor. The lucky ones got to go to the infirmary, the unlucky ones, the ones that did make it end up in a pauper’s grave. If you wanted a drink or worse yet had to use the loo, you had to signal to the Foreman. This was a risky proposition; there could be no interruption in production. You had to wait for relief, which could sometimes take an hour. If you left your machine unattended, that was a guaranteed invitation to a beating. I always seemed to run afoul of the rules. I remained defiant. I may have been a prisoner of Wallace Squeers, Pierce, Fenner and Smith, but they didn’t own me, they were not going to break my spirit.

On this particular day, on this particular shift, you see I found myself in a predicament. I had to use  the loo. I signaled to the Foreman Mr. Crowley but he only smirked and ignored me. A whole hour past, by this time I was sincerely beginning to regret that second cup of tea at dinnertime. By three O’clock, I stood there cross-eyed and cross-legged; I had to pee so bad I thought me bladder was going to burst. I signaled desperately to  Mr. Crowley again. This time he laughed at me, and whether out of meanness or spite he sent a relief girl to the machine next to mine! This made me mad. When the thread on the bobbin ran low, I resolved to get his attention one way or another. I stood there like the house by the side of the road, and watched with some satisfaction as the last bit of the thread wound off the bobbin.  The loom ran dry. The machine continued to click and clack  maniacally weaving, but with no cotton thread to feed the loom, gears stripped, the overhead belts shrieked, the fabric tore and the  massive no. 64 Cartwright ground to a halt. I expect I ruined a couple of hundred yards of  broad cloth.

“STOP deh loom!” Mr. Crowley bellowed from atop the catwalk. He made a funny sight, standing there screaming, gesticulating wildly. I couldn’t actually  hear what Mr. Crowley said, nobody could. It was impossible to hear anything over the din of the factory noise.  Instead Mr. Crowley’s rage resulted in a slow-motion comic pantomime as he descended the steps and charged across the factory floor.  Oh, he was mad; any fool could tell he was mad, Mr. Crowley pounced on me like a chick-on-a-June-bug; his face livid purple with rage.  “Oi, yers down der on t’floower wat’n the bloody ‘ell   goes on ‘ere? Jest wat do yer tinks yer a do’n girl!”

At least I got his attention.

What happened next was an accident, honest, I suppose if I had thought too much about it, I never could have summoned the courage. Nonetheless, what happened—happened with dramatic effect and in the end represented a supreme act of defiance. Before I could stop myself, right there  in front of an infuriated Mr. Crowley, I pissed myself.  Mr. Crowley yelled for me to stop, he cursed me until I thought he was going to burst a vein. I looked him straight in the eye and with a satisfied look on my face, pissed me pants! I continued to pee even after Mr. Crowley’s switch hissed and stung flesh. I didn’t stop until there was a sizeable puddle on the factory floor. I never felt so satisfied in my all life.

“Yer did dat on purpose, yer dirty leetle Welsh taffy!” Now it was my turn to smirk. “Clean dat up! Clean  dat up Goddamn yer!” Any feeling of satisfaction or smugness I might have enjoyed being quickly dispelled when Mr. Crowley’s cane switch whirled and cracked against my bare legs. I didn’t clean it up; he never gave me a chance. Mr. Crowley seized me, up ended me; he turned me over a nearby saw horse, hiked up my smock, jerked down me knickers and proceeded to thrash me bare arse until I passed out.

That night, when I crawled into bed next to Sally, I hurt so bad I groaned. I was covered in vicious welts from my calves to me bum. “Ooh dat mean ’ole Mr. Crowley, ’ee gon ’n busted you up but good love.” Sally said as she gently rubbed tallow on my poor legs. I flinched as her hands passed over an open wound. “Mmm, does that feel better now love?” Sally cooed. Much to my dismay, I think Sally enjoyed rubbing my legs far more than I should have liked.  Sally’s fingers kneaded my flesh, worked their way around me bum, and then crept lower; my breath came in short gasp by the time I finally begged her to stop I was starting to get that funny concupiscence feeling in my fanny. Sally made a pout.

I smiled to myself.  Was it all worth it? At the time, I thought so. I was soon to discover that “sorry” has many different dimensions. I had no idea I was about to learn just how sorry and miserable  I could become. The unexpected consequence of my incontinence came crashing down around my ears on Sunday afternoon when it came time for Sally and me to go out, to see Henry and Domino.  Mr. Crowley it seemed was one to hold a grudge, he blocked the lift way door; he held in his hand not a common cane switch but an ugly wooden truncheon. I’d seen them use those truncheons only once before, and they used ‘em to beat the poor hapless girl to death.

“Jest where ‘n the bloody ‘ell do yer tinks yer a go’n?”

“O-out.” I stammered, “It’s Sunday.”

“Not fer yer it isn’t, yer pissy leetle Welsh cunt! Yer arse is mine wench! Mr. Smith, ‘ee said I’s could do wit yer wat I please . . . ‘n wat I please is a lot.” Mr. Crowley towered over me, he leered a yellow snaggle-tooth grin as he spanked the truncheon in his palm.  I felt a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach; I was overcome with a feeling of morbid trepidation. I knew what Mr. Crowley was capable of; I knew he liked young girls, and I knew what he done to Sally. My abject terror found a mirror in Sally’s face.  I squeezed Sally’s hand to let her know I was gonna  be OK.

Sally was inconsolable, she screamed piteously, “Roland please!  I’ll do whatever you want . . .”

Mr. Crowley, he was in no mood to be deterred, intent on exacting his revenge, he dismissed Sally’s pleas with a cruel laugh. He grabbed a hold of my ear and jerked me roughly, and drug me off to the dreaded dustbin behind his office.  I expected the worst. Mr. Crowley didn’t exactly beat me. Oh, he smacked me around a bit; called me a “godless whore-cunt” and screamed in my face with a vulgarity so vehement his spittle spattered my face.  To his credit, he never tried to molest me. Instead, Crowley satisfied himself by putting me to work cleaning the latrines. All that long Sunday afternoon, I cleaned up stinking shit! I thought of my precious Henry and Domino. My heart ached.

That night, as I lay in bed next to Sally, feeling sorry for myself, I cried silent tears. Not tears of sorrow but tears of hate. My face burned hot. I hated Mr. Crowley, and I hated Mr. Smith.  I wished they were all dead!  It was then I resolved, no matter what, Mr. Crowley could beat me, rape me, kill me. I didn’t care; I was going to see my Henry. I lay in bed and counted the hours until the clock struck eleven. I slipped out of bed, pulled up my knickers, and put on my smock.

Sally stirred, “Tessa?”

“Shhh, Sally, I’ll be back by morning, the work bell don’t sound ‘til six O’clock.  I’ll be back by then.”

“Jest where do you think you’re going?”

“To see my Henry,” I was defiant.

“Girl, you’re crazy . . .”

That I was.

I got out of bed and made my way to the dustbin, to the one window I knew was neither barred nor locked. I found this out while shoveling shit for Mr. Crowley. Outside, the window was a drain pipe that ran the full length of the Asch building. I wasn’t what you might call a particularly brave or careless person. Neither was I a trapeze artist or circus acrobat. The truth was I was terrified, but I was also determined and desperate.

I pushed open the window and gripped the drain pipe. It seemed solid enough; of course back then I only weighed 94 lbs. soaking wet.  Eleven storeys up, the cobble stone pavement loomed below me. I didn’t dare to look down. I started to climb down. I eventually found that I could sort of shimmy slide down, almost like Henry had shown us on the fire pole. How I was ever going to get back up again, that I didn’t know. I figured I’d solve that problem when the time came. If I was caught by Mrs. Mixer or worse by Mr. Crowley, they could beat me, throw me in the chokey, even kill me.  Nothing  mattered. I had resolved to see Henry whatever the cost.

After what seemed like a forever climb, my bare feet touched wet cold cobblestone.  I made it! I was on the ground. Now what to do? London it turned out was a dark and scary place by gas light. Being a young girl from a small hamlet in Wales, I had never so  much as even seen a big city, let alone after dark. The streets were full of unsavory personages, I  imagined rouges, drunks, prostitutes.  I made my way quickly towards Wilmington square Firehouse.

*     *     *

I WAS IN LUCK. Henry was still awake.  It was after midnight, a single gas lamp burned low in the firehouse.  As I crept nearer, I could hear the horses snuffle. Henry was the second assistant to the boiler engineer, it was Henry’s job to get out of bed, every hour, on the hour, bank the coals, and check the log.  I listened to his shovel make a scraping sound, as he stoked the furnace of boiler no. 2.

“Pssst, Henry!”

Henry spun around with a start, I so surprised him, he dropped his coal shovel; it made the most spectacular clattery-bang. At least Domino was glad to see me.  “Tessa? Oh—Tessa! It’s only you! Gawd girl, you gave me such a fright! What on earth are you doing here?” Henry glanced at the clock on the wall, “Blimey O’reilly, it’s half past twelve O’clock!”

“I came to see you Henry,” I threw my arms around him; kissed him, he was so strong and manly, he smelled faintly of smoke.

“How’d on earth did you get here?”

My nose crinkled, “I walked, goosey!”

“Don’t be silly, I mean how’d you get out of the mill?”

“I—I . . . I, climbed down the drain pipe.” I stammered. “I ran away!”

“What!  All eleven storeys?  Tessa!  That’s like 140 feet!”  Henry made a frown, “That was a very foolish thing to do!” Being a fireman, Henry was only all too aware of the dangerous consequences of falling from such great heights. “Tessa, you might  have been killed! Promise me you’ll never ever do anything so foolish like that ever again!”

I didn’t promise.

“Don’t be angry, Henry; I came all this way to see you! Aren’t you glad to see me?”

“That you did Tessa . . . ”  Henry feigned a weak smile, “You’re my bestest best girl, you know that.  I don’t suppose you get enough to eat.  Are you hungry?”

At the mere mention of food, my belly growled. “Starving.”

I played with Domino while Henry went upstairs to the kitchen to fetch me something to eat.  He returned with a heaping portion of last night’s supper. Bangers ‘n mash and a steaming cup of tea. I wolfed down the food. Henry eyed me critically; I pulled my smock down lower, I was self-conscious, I tried to hide the switch marks on my legs.

“Tessa, what have they done to you?”

“Nothing . . . they beat us all the time.”

Henry summarily jerked my smock away from my legs. He pulled the fabric up well past my naked backside, exposing the livid welts on me bums.  There was nothing prurient or sexual about his inspection, it was more like parent and child, he examined the switch marks on my legs and backside. For the first time he knew the truth.

“Bloody ‘ell! That don’t look like nothing to me . . . Tessa; we’ve got to get you out of there!” I felt my heart flutter, for the first time Henry used the word “We” I knew then we were together.

“Well, you can’t stay ‘ere.” Henry thought aloud.

I looked up, surprised, my face full of food. “Why not? Don’t make me go, Herny please, I came all this way.”

“I got nowhere to put you.”

“Henry, please . . . I came all this way, you don’t know what it’s like there, I can’t go back, I just can’t.”

“Tessa Claiborne!  I do declare, you’re more trouble than you’re worth!  *Sigh*  Well, I suppose . . . If you don’t mind sleeping down here with the horses, you can flop on this cot.  But if my brother Henry Jr. catches us, he’ll thrash me and toss you out on your ear!”

I nodded my head.

The clock in the hall struck one. “I’ve got to get off to bed; I have a lot of work to do in the morning. You’ll be O.K. down here I expect. Domino will take care of you.”

“Henry . . . can’t you stay with me—just a little while longer.” I made my voice sound all whiney and sleepy.

Henry smiled an exasperated smile, “Just one night, just this one time.” He climbed into the cot alongside me, but not before meticulously positioning a blanket between us. I snuggled up warm against him, satisfied.

“Henry?”

“Mmm?”

“Henry . . . I think I’m in love with you . . .”

“Shhh, Tessa, go to sleep.”

“Henry . . . The day Mr. Squeer’s dragged me away—The day I lay under the no. 64 Cartwright, the day poor Lilly died. I prayed. I prayed for Mr. Squeers, I prayed for Mr. Smith, I prayed for Lilly.” I lay on the cot beside Henry warm, I could feel his heart beat as I laid my head on his chest, I could smell the earthy smell of the clean hay and the horses’ breath. “Henry, I prayed, but mostly I prayed for myself.”  I propped myself up on my elbow, “That was the day I found the shilling! Henry, I love you!” I expect Henry didn’t know quite what to say, we were in fact in bed. Even though a blanket lay between us, there was no denying that we were a couple. My head rested on his chest, while his arm held my shoulder; with his other hand Henry stroked my hair.

“Tessa, listen to me,” Henry was earnest, “Love between a man and a woman is a serious commitment.”

“Henry, I do love you!  Please Henry, if I say I love you, then there can’t be anything wrong with making love either . . .”

Henry sat up; he turned up the wick on the oil lamp until the mantle glowed. He smoothed my hair. “Tessa, making love is a beautiful thing, but we haven’t really known each other for very long.  Tessa, I’m very fond of you—I love you, you’re my bestest best birl.  What you don’t seem to understand is, I’m seventeen years-old, you’re only thirteen. I don’t think we’re ready for that kind of love.  I think it’s best if we content ourselves with  loving first—before we think about the other.”

“Henry . . . if I content myself with loving just a little while longer, will you teach me the other?”

“Tessa, please . . . It’s not possible.”

“Will you make love to me, Henry,  please?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Shhh, Tessa, please, listen to me,” Henry was staid. “You’re just a young girl.” Henry sat up and grabbed me by the chin.  He looked me straight in the eye. “You’re desperate; a girl like you, a girl in your situation would lie, cheat, steal, you might even kill. I think you’d do whatever it takes to get away from that factory, including sleeping with me. Well, I for one am not going to take advantage. Tessa, I’m very fond of you. I love you; I’d do anything in the world for you. You’re one terrific kid, but that’s the problem; you don’t know what you want—You’re still just a kid.”  The reality that Henry regarded me not as a woman, but as “just a kid” came suddenly cascading, crashing down around my ears. I felt rejected, wholly inadequate; any aspiration I might have ever had of attaining womanhood were dashed against the rocks of Henry’s miss-placed chivalry. I wasn’t attractive; I wasn’t a woman. I was  nothing but a stick-figured, dishwater blond little girl with a split-gap between her front teeth, trying her best to seduce a grown man.

“It’s me tits isn’t it?” I sat up in bed and pulled Henry’s hand to my chest; all that separated his broad firefighter hand from my flesh was the thin cotton fabric of my camisole. My heart beat hard; I felt a flush of rage and passion.  “Is it because I don’t have big tits like Sally!” I was suddenly bitter, “I know you Henry Hawkins!  You men are all the same!  I seen you look’n at Sally’s bristols!  You like Sally better than me!”  I began to sob. “I don’t understand, Henry, why won’t you love me?”

“Tessa! Don’t ever do that again!” Henry jerked his hand away from my chest as if he’d touched a red-hot stove. There was this imperceptible moment of hesitation; in that moment, I knew he wanted me. Then to emphasize the point, with a wink and a nod Henry pushed me off the cot. I landed hard on the stable floor, unceremoniously on me bum. Henry laughed; he thought it all quite a good sport. I myself was not so amused, I sat there quite surprised, not sure how to interpret Henry’s rejection. Therefore, I resorted to what girls do; I scrunched up my face up and started to ball. Tears rolled down my cheeks as big as horse turds.

“Tessa, don’t cry, please don’t cry, love.” Henry realized he’d over played his hand, how much his little schoolboy prank had hurt my feelings. He dusted off the straw that clung to me bottom. We sat together on the edge of the cot. “Tessa, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.  If you only knew how much I truly love you. I love you so much; I love you more than life itself, that’s why I can’t.”

“I don’t believe you. This isn’t fair.” I sobbed and sniffed. “You do love me! Henry, please, why won’t you make love to me?”

“Tessa, I do love you. Just not the way you want. This is no way to pass the test.”

“Test?”

“Trust. If you love someone . . . You trust what they say is true.”

“Does this mean we can’t be together?”

“No, what it means, Tessa, is that I want you to go to sleep. It means you’re still my bestest best girl.”

“Henry, do you mean that!” My heart fluttered, “Am I really your best girl?”

Henry smiled, “Go to sleep, Tessa.”

*      *       *

ON THAT FATEFUL JUNE DAY, in the summer of 1878, at the end of the shift, I saw Mr. Squeers for the first time in two years; he still had that same hunched over bony silhouette cloaked all in black, decked with a fashionable beaver top hat (presumably a different one than the one I squashed). He was still the same self-absorbed, self-serving, money-grubbing skinflint that I remembered. When Mr. Squeers came on to the factory floor, all work stopped. The overhead shafts screeched and hissed the mill went silent. Mr. Squeers walked on to the factory floor like some prima donna.  He inspected the bins,  demanded the day’s tally. It was then he issued his order: He ordered all factory doors locked. He ordered Mr. Smith to chain the downstairs exits as well. It seemed workers were sneaking out for smoking breaks. Mr. Squeers  was determined to put and end to such shiftless slovenly employee behavior. Before he left, Mr. Squeers seized a paintbrush. In green paint, he wrote on a wooden panel in broad, fat, sloppy letters. Mr. Crowley admired his bosses handiwork.  Mr. Squeers ignored him,  he walked right past him, Mr. Crowley was reduced to the level of an insect. Then like some mafioso  Don, Mr. Squeers made the slightest of imperceptible gestures.  Mr. Crowley scrambled to hang the sign in the main factory way:

WORK MAKES YOU FREE

Chapter 7

FIRE RUN

FIRE—of all the Earth’s primordial elements:  earth, air, fire and water—fire alone represents the basest and most absolute of the planet’s elemental forces. Fire symbolizes the apogee of human invention. Its invaluable capacity to warm, cook, ward off danger, is without parallel in the annals of human existence. What fire can create, fire alone possesses the unrivaled capacity to destroy. Its reputation for misery, destruction and death is limitless. No other metaphysical force in the history of human existence rivals fire for its remorseless ability to do work, and wrought destruction. Everyone intrinsically understands and fears fire. Singularly, fire represents the most cataclysmic catastrophe of all human calamities.

On a warm Saturday afternoon, on the 21^st of June, in the summer of 1878, a Saturday like any other Saturday, a Saturday noteworthy only for its sameness, its monotony, perhaps a little hotter than most, a little more humid than some, but otherwise a wholly unremarkable Saturday. By mid-afternoon, I was cranky, board, my back ached; I expect everyone was flagging a bit. I watched the clock, anxious for the days shift to end. It was six days—six days since I had laid on the cot a long side my Henry. Six days since I told Henry, “I love you.”  I was anxious to be with my Henry again. Silly of me isn’t it?  But in those days, I had very little else to occupy my thoughts, that was how I measured time—each waking moment only served to draw me closer to Sunday, the day I could be with my Henry! I had eighteen pence sewn into my pillow on my bunk, and with the two pennies in my pocket, I’d saved from the extra shifts I’d worked. That amounted to a whole shilling! I squeezed the coins tight in my pocket as I worked the no. 64 Cartwright. I imagined Henry and me walking hand-in-hand on a glorious June Sunday afternoon in Wilmington square. I resolved this Sunday to treat Henry to ice cream. Six days and tomorrow was Sunday! I was so happy. How could I have possibly imagined that within the space of a few hours my concept of time was to compress from days to seconds to half-breaths .  .  .

A single cigarette—I think it’s safe to say that my life was forever changed—indeed, the course of the entire British Empire altered, first by a shilling, a dog, and then a single cigarette.   Cigarettes were still considered quite a novelty in late nineteenth century London. The blame for this vice, if you could call it that, lay mostly with the Ottoman Turks.  Brought back by our soldiers in the Crimean war, cigarettes rapidly made their way from the Caliphs to the Redcoats to the more fashionable sects of London society and eventually filtered their way down to the lower classes that included the workers at the London Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory. In 1878, most people still smoked either pipes or cigars, but cigarettes seemed to be catching on fast.  On that clear warm Saturday afternoon, a single cigarette—a cigarette tossed carelessly, callously into a dustbin of cotton scraps to smolder, changed my life.  As I look back, it doesn’t seem possible that any little thing as innocuous as a cigarette was capable of unleashing such calamity, catastrophic death and unimaginable suffering. Yet, the moment some nameless, faceless, careless worker flicked that single cigarette, 149 workers of the London Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory had less than an hour to live.

In the summer of 1878, any notion of fire safety was summarily dismissed out-of-hand by the managing partners of Wallace Squeers, Pierce, Fenner and Smith as too costly and so much frivolous useless liberal prattle. Lazy workers, lost profits, stolen goods, these issues on the other hand foremost occupied the minds of the boardroom and were the driving force behind their every labor decision.  In their continuing efforts to secure higher profits for themselves and their shareholders, the partners exhibited a callous contemptuous and blatant disregard for employee safety. Petty theft, indolent workers, workers sneaking out back for a smoke break; such was the antithesis of good business.  Consequently, that very week, Mr. Squeers issued his fateful edict: All factory doors are to be locked.   He ordered Mr. Smith to chain the downstairs exits as well. The only exit, apart from the steam-powered lift, was the iron fire escape, that egress was useless, long since blocked with stacks of bailed cotton scraps. The only realistic exit left available from the eleventh floor of the Asch building was the same way we came in, the steam-powered Otis lift. The lift could effectively accommodate thirty workers every four minutes. Every morning, we dutifully queued up in lots of thirty, as sheep led to the slaughter and rode the Otis lift to our assigned floors.

On that particular Saturday, as luck would have it, I was assigned the infamous no. 64 Cartwright. Actually, the no. 64 and I had made peace; in the time since  it  chopped up poor Lilly and spat her out as so much ground meat, the no. 64 had settled right down and become a dependable mill.  My shuttle-cock, a slight built girl of nine from Warwickshire, named Tabitha,  dutifully wormed her way under the hissing, slashing machinery—just as I had done two years earlier, blissfully unaware of the no. 64’s reputation as a girl-killer.  As I worked the no. 64 Cartwright, I hummed to myself, I counted the hours, just three more hours until my shift was finished, then supper, bed and the next morning was Sunday! On Sunday I was free!  I could be with my Henry and Domino!  Three hours, that was nothing, I can do three more hours.  I was so happy, as the mill continued to click and clack, I sang softly to myself.

♫ A ei di’r deryn du
To my dearest love
O cais fy nghangen gu
For I’m so deep in love. Ni welaf yn un man
Such a handsome in my sight
Â’r ferch mor lân o liw
he is a beauty bright. Mae’i gwallt yn felyn aur
Just like a ring of gold
A’i phryd fel eira gwyn
The truth it must be told .  .  .

I am so in love. ♫

I wasn’t the first person to smell smoke. The fire actually started two floors below. The first real sign of trouble came  when someone threw the action break. The overhead drive belts hissed, screeched and flapped as the entire mill jerked to a halt. The sudden cessation of noise came as quite a shock, the silence was deafening.  Everything came to a halt.  Everyone stopped, there was this eerie calm of confusion as everyone  looked to everyone else. This had never happened before, no one seemed to know what to think.  The fire that afternoon took less than six minutes to spread from a single smoldering cigarette tossed carelessly in a dustbin to a raging inferno. It was then that the cacophony of silence was broken.  Someone, way deep down two floors below yelled,  “FIRE!” A second later, pandemonium, the screams began as panic set in.  I looked to Sally; already choking smoke had begun to seep its way up through the floorboards.  There was no plan—No plan for escape. Only a few pails of sand and a moldy fire hose that was so rotten it burst at the seams the moment the water was turned on, no matter, the water pressure failed soon enough. Terror ensued, some of the girls ran towards the exits, these were cruelly blocked, chained shut. The flailing crush of humanity continued to pile up against the locked doors.  Some girls were crushed, trampled in the mob’s blind panic to flee.

In those first few moments, I saw Mrs. Mixer take charge; her flowing white locks of hair swirled amidst the smoke and confusion. Mrs. Mixer, her shrill voice cracked like a whip as she rounded up some two dozen girls and drove them to the lift-way gate. I watched in horror as the lift engulfed them, staggered downward a few feet and stalled. Far below, in the powerhouse, the great Kech-Gonnerman steam engine ground to a halt. The lift, jerked, sagged, and never moved again. The elevator shaft became a black bottomless pit.  I thought of my Henry. I thought of the call box, the key and the amazing dit-dot-dash of the modern telegraph. I knew even now that the brass bell in the Wilmington Firehouse was sounding, that Domino, was barking his commands. Hokey, Pokey and Smokey were falling in to line ready to be harnessed. That coal, great shovels of hard black Cardiff coal was being stoked in the furnace. That any second, the Wilmington Square Fire Co. 99 was to come tearing out of the firehouse. Domino,  my Henry, were coming to save us!

*     *      *

WHAT I DIDN’T KNOW, what I couldn’t possibly have known, was the lengthy deliberations of the otherwise conservative and fiscally responsible city selectmen, how their budget cuts and inadequate allocations of fire-safety funds was about to contribute to this tragedy.  Of all these things, of Ladder Co. 35, about the previous town council meetings, about the warnings, the danger of fire in these new modern high-rise buildings, about the denial of funding for new fire safety apparatus. How the ladders of Fire Co. 35 only reached up to the sixth floor. Now, the reality, the remarkable shortsightedness of the city selectmen was about to take center stage.

There were 149 women and girls, trapped by fire, eleven floors up in the Asch building.  Already I could feel the heat, the inferno as it raged two floors beneath me, it radiated hot, and scorched my bare feet.  I screamed for Sally to follow me, I never knew for sure if she heard me or not. I lost sight of her in the confusion and swirl of smoke. I never saw her again. I made my way to the dustbin, Mr. Crowley’s dustbin. To the one window on the entire floor, I was sure I could open. The sudden rush of fresh air gave me enough strength that I ventured back, to look for Sally.  A wall of flames blocked my path Sally was gone.

While I had every faith in my Henry and Domino and Fire Co. 99 to come to my rescue, I also knew if I was going to survive, if I were going to survive for even the next ten minutes, it was up to me to affect my own rescue. I climbed out on to the ledge and grasp the safety of the drain pipe.  It was here from this vantage point, I saw the extent of the calamity. Great gouts of black smoke and flame seemed to pour from every orifice of the building. The fire roared as if it were an entity unto itself, as if dispatched like four riders from the apocalypse from the very bowels of hell.  Sent forth to obliterate and eradicate every crime and injustice, real or imagined ever committed by Wallace Squeers and his management of Pierce, Fenner and Smith. If all this carnage resulted in the deaths of a few proletariats, the fire in its cleansing fury seemed justified.

I watched in abject horror as flames licked the sides of the Asch building. The over-loaded fire escape, teemed with desperate screaming humanity, it sagged, buckled, then gave way in a thunderous roar, sending scores of victims crashing to the pavement below. It was on this day, clinging there, from my precarious perch, high on the side of the Asch building that I learned a terrible new sound—a sound more horrible than my poor powers of description can describe.    “Thud-dead, thud-dead, thud-dead, thud-dead .  .  .”   looked up after the first two thud-deads.  I was in a state of shock; I saw scores of girls, young women at the windows. The flames from the floors below beat their faces, I knew them all. As I clung to the drain spout, I watched one desperate girl jump. Waving her arms, trying to balance herself, to keep her body upright, until the very instant she struck the pavement. I turned away, I couldn’t watch, but my ears couldn’t escape the sound, thud-dead.  All that remained of that poor girl was a silent unmoving pile of clothing and twisted, broken limbs.

As I looked across the vast panorama of horror and death, I saw what amounted to a love affair in the midst of all the horror. A man helped a girl to the window sill, he held her out, deliberately away from the building, and let her drop .  .  . He held out a second girl the same way and let her drop. Then he held out a third girl . . . They were as unresisting as if he were helping them on to a streetcar instead of into eternity. Then came the flames. The man, he brought the last girl to the window. Those of us who were looking saw her put her arms around him and kiss him; it was Sally. Sally and the Overseer Mr. Crowley, it all suddenly made so much sense! The special privileges, the extra food, Sally was shagging Mr. Crowely! He held Sally out into space and dropped her, thud-dead.  Quick as a flash he was on the windowsill himself. Mr. Cowley, his coat fluttered upward the air; the force of the updraft filled his trouser legs. I could see he wore tan shoes and hose. His hat remained on his head.  Roland Crowley, he had done his best. He was a real man.

By this time, the heat from the fire was so intense it  had softened the steel lag bolts that secured the drain pipe to the side of the building. The whole structure was in danger of crashing to the ground,  me included. I gripped the pipe fiercely with my hands and bare feet, still I did not move. I looked up. The day’s horror was not yet finished.

*      *      *

I GRASP THE DOWNSPOUT, that ran along the spine of the Asch Building.  My naked toes gripped the four-inch copper pipe, then slipped then finally found an anchor. With nothing between me, this life, and whatever life awaited me but the thinnest of all possible footholds. A slender four-inch copper downspout. Everything, all my senses moved in slow motion. I watched, I knew I should move, shimmy down, or do something. Instead, I clutched the side of the Asch building, transfixed as the horrific spectacle unfolding all around me. There I was, one-hundred-and-forty feet above the pitiless cobblestone pavement, the heat from the updraft was so intense, I became painfully aware, I wasn’t wearing any knickers! The actually absurdity of the situation never dawned on me. Here I was, dangling eleven-stories up, calamity and death swirled around me and the only thing I was worried about was that people far below me could see my fanny .  .  . My predicament was far worse than any loss of modesty, far worse than I ever could have imagined.  The heat from the fire was so fantastic it poured from the interior of the building into the bricks and penetrated the copper fittings of the downspout. The intense heat blistered my bare feet and threatened to knock me from my perch. Still I clung to my slender spire and did not move, it never occurred to me that I was inches, a mere fire-lick away from becoming myself one of hundreds of nameless-faceless thud-deads, to which I had already become a witness. I clung there, paralyzed, not so much out of fear, as what you might call morbid curiosity. All this to my own detriment, I was transfixed. A silent spectator to the incomprehensible scope of the cataclysmic horror that is fire.

Not everything I shall tell you today happened to me personally. The events of that terrible June day in 1878 were too enormous for any one single person to witness. Some of these stories I heard second-hand, told to me later by my Henry.

*      *      *

THE HORSES QUIETLY swished their tails in the serene complacency of the clean stalls of the Wilmington Fire station. The horses munched their oats and bided their time as only horses can do. Henry always liked to boast to Sally and me, that Wilmington Station had the finest fire-horses in all of London. All three horses were Percherons, the strongest and most noble of all French horses. “Percherons were once the horses of Kings, the noble steeds of French knights, of Agincourt, Crécy, all that tommyrot.”  Henry said with a wink, a wry grin, as he continued to curry the horses.  “There’s not much work ‘round here these days for a heavy warhorse, instead we use ‘em to pull heavy loads. I don’t much fancy the Froggies, but they do raise great draft-horses.”

“Hokey” a white three-year-old mare, was fierce and brave. “Pokey” a dapple-gray, a four-year-old gelding was stalwart and dependable. “Smokey” a  black stallion, with a streak of white down his nose, was the team leader, he was a five-years-old, spirited as he was gentle, a powerful fire-horse afraid of nothing. Together the three horses, Domino, along with the six firefighters were the core of Pumper Co. 99.

Domino, he was the Sergeant-at-arms. Always on duty, the ever gallant vigilant sentinel with never a days rest.  Domino lived with the horses; he guarded the horses, watched over the horses. Dalmatians, for whatever reason, fifty thousand centuries or otherwise, got along famously with horses; Dalmatians have a long illustrious tradition as “coach dogs.” In nineteenth century London, the coach dog was indispensable to the team. The coach dog ran fierce in front of the horses, clearing the way of stray chickens, driving off the odd cow or errant pedestrian.  Domino, his devotion to the team to the firehouse never flagged. That was except until the day he met me.

On the day we first met, Domino and me, I should think that was the first time his loyalty to the team was tested.   For in me, Domino found his companion, compatriot, his soul mate. Domino loved his horses, but it was always a source of special pride—I knew Domino loved me more.  Domino, he worshiped the ground I walked on, there was never a better dog!   Not even my dog Jack, back home in Glamorganshire Wales .  .  . Well, I loved my dog Jack; I don’t need to tell you that.   However, Domino, he was special.  He was the bestest, best dog anyone ever had and he was smart too!  I know it sounds crazy, like I’m making it all up, like I’m ascribing some higher cognizance power to an animal that doesn’t really exist.  I swear it’s all true.  Domino in some unexplainable way could tell time.  Without a clock or calendar, Domino intrinsically knew the time, and he knew the day of the week too!  Domino knew that today was Sunday, and he knew on Sunday that was the day his friend Tessa came to the park. Henry confirmed this, he said on Sunday morning, Domino started to act excited, as if he knew, he knew today was  Sunday! Without fail, every Sunday morning, Domino was waiting for me there in the park in front of Wilmington Station. Domino, was always there, wagging his tail, ready to play, waiting for the arrival of his best friend, Tessa.

On this day, on this particular day it was Saturday, not Sunday.  Tessa was not coming—so Domino, he went about his business. The men of Firehouse 99  they too idled away their time.  While  Sam  cleared away the late dinner  dishes, Henry, not my Henry, but Henry Jr. the Fire-Captain sat down to challenge George to a match of draughts. Bill-Bob checked the racing section of the Times, while Clyde contented himself with smoking his pipe.  It was a typical lazy Saturday afternoon, a Saturday like any other; it was hot, a scorcher, Wilmington square was empty, even the most ardent of afternoon park attendees took shelter from the heat.  There was a haze in the air, the kind of thick stiffing haze that rises off the pavement and shimmered in the air. Everything was deathly calm and quiet, even the birds were silent.

That was until the great brass bell in the firehouse sounded. Checkers flew into the air, Sam, Bill-Bob, Clyde, and finally Henry Jr. slid down the fire pole. George the teamster already was at the ready, the team gnashed and chomped  at the bit. Domino barked. Henry Jr. the Fire-Captain climbed on to the front seat. George lashed the team, and looked to Henry Jr. for his orders.   It was five bells, a major fire, every fire-rig in all of lower East London was to respond.

The brass fire-bell, connected to a complicated series of clock-works that in turn was connected to a telegraph this was the absolute last word in modern fire prevention. With in a few seconds of a police constable turning a key in a special firebox, the Wilmington fire station sprang into action. The brass fire-bell sounded and the Edison ticker tape chattered, information spat out on a long thin paper tape, told the Fire-Captain, Henry Jr.  the exact location of the fire. Domino, he didn’t need any fancy ticker tape, he knew what to do. Domino took charge he barked his orders. The horses fell into line, Hokey, Pokey and Smokey, ready for the teamster George to harness them. The second assistant to the boiler engineer, my Henry, he knew what to do. Henry threw the damper on boiler no. 2. As fast as he could, he began to shovel coal, black hard Cardiff coal, Welsh coal, into the furnace.  The fire roared, and the steam pressure continued to build with each shovel. It was a five alarm fire, a fire like no other.

“Asch building, corner of Greene and Wellington Place!” Henry Jr. barked his orders through his megaphone.  The great Percherons thundered out of Wilmington Station, Pumper Co. 99 churned around the corner like some primordial entity belching smoke and flame.  Domino was at the fore, leading the charge. At absolutely the last second Henry, my Henry, caught a hold of the running gear, as he was swept up, his coal shovel clattered to the ground and disappeared in the distance.  His stomach left him, Henry vomited into the street.

“TESSA!”

*      *       *

FOR THE FIRST TIME I felt a glimmer of hope. Far below on the street I saw my brave Domino, the charging horses, and the chugging, belching furry of Pumper no. 99 pull on-line. I watched as hundreds of feet of fire hose paid out behind the fire-truck. Henry Jr., not my Henry, was in command, with his megaphone, he stood atop the rig, shouting orders. The pumper hoses were connected to the fire-plugs.  George led the horses, Hokey, Pokey, and Smokey some distance from the fire.  Thirteen thousand gallons an hour  that was what my Henry told me Pumper no. 99 was rated. A fantastic amount of water! It amounted to a pittance, even at full steam pressure, the steam engine could never pump enough water. Even with every fire-rig in all of East London pouring water on the flames, it amounted to no better than pissing on a bonfire. There was evil in the air, there was thunder in the sky.  The fire was an out-of-control indefatigable beast—the day’s carnage assured.

]]> http://smcallis.wordpress.com/2010/01/23/chapter-seven/feed/ 1 smcallis Steamerrun http://smcallis.wordpress.com/2010/01/17/chapter-eight/ http://smcallis.wordpress.com/2010/01/17/chapter-eight/#comments Sun, 17 Jan 2010 11:54:34 +0000 Smcallis http://smcallis.wordpress.com/?p=1877 ]]> TESSA CLAIBORNE

Chapter 8

AFTERMATH

ONLY AFTER THE ARRIVAL of Ladder Company no. 39 was the total inadequacy of the London Municipal City Council fire planning laid bare. To the abject horror, of everyone who witnessed the carnage, the police officers,  spectators, newspapermen, the brave noble firefighters of lower East side London who responded; most of all the fire-victims themselves who clung piteously screaming vainly awaiting rescue from the upper floors.  No amount of superhuman heroics could over come the cruel fact the high-rise ladders only reached to the sixth floor. The frustrated firefighters literally found themselves dodging dozens of falling bodies that plunged to the pavement like rag dolls, from the upper floors of the doomed Asch building, the Thud-deads.   One hundred and forty-nine women, young-girls and a few men, Mr. Crowley included either jumped or burnt to death on that dreadful June day. The shroud-covered corpses littered the streets.  

A few people did make it out alive. Those, the lucky ones on the lowest floors all made it out alive. Mr. Smith, Mr. Fenner veritably strolled out of their Greene Street office, their initial concern was the lateness of their mid-afternoon tea. Mr. Smith even had the brass bollocks to act as if the fire were nothing more than a trifling inconvenience. “What goes on here? What’s all this commotion about?”  I think Mr. Smith pulled in his horns right quick, as there was already an angry crowd assembled who were jolly ready to tar, feather and run him,  Peirce, Fenner, and Squeers out of London on a rail.  

A few people from the mid-level floors were the object of heroic rescue.  The crowd cheered, their enthusiasm was rapidly dampened by the continued cascade of further falling Thud-deads. The vast majority; those on the upper floors found themselves  doomed, either cut down by smoke and flame or succumbed to the inevitable and jumped to their death.  I, for whatever reason, luck, fate or providence, was the only soul who made it off the eleventh-floor alive. Not due to any great cleverness on my part, I had the means and the opportunity; it was my own stupidity that thrust me further into the path of mortal danger.

“HENRRRY!”

There was no possible way my Henry could hear my small voice over the calamitous din, confusion, the cacophony that was the fire.  The inferno roared  as if it were some evil all-consuming entity, in many ways it was,  the sound was like thunder. Henry, he was on the North side of the building, the Greene street side, shoveling coal at a furious pace. The needle on steam pressure gauge surged, quavered, shook in the red-zone. The reciprocating piston surged back and forth in its relentless effort to do work. The governor whirled, the two steel balls, spun,  driven apart by sheer centrifugal force, on occasion, pure physics caused them to reaching their maximum zenith.  There was  this sudden hiss,  the boiler belched and dangerous excess steam pressure was released—James Watts designed it so.  The water pressure on the fire-hoses dropped, the engine slowed down.  Henry continued poured on more coal, the governor spun, the engine chugged, then hissed and slowed,  this is how a steam engine works. 

Henry continued in his relentless pursuit to shovel coal.  It was  while he was in mid-shovel fling he experienced a most horrible thump. It was a body, a body of a young woman, she fell squashed next to him; Thud-dead. She missed the rig by less than six feet .  .  . Henry looked up, the flames from the furnace flushed his face, he paused only long enough to examine the crumpled corpse. The soot covered face was a girl, maybe fifteen, it was not me. Henry found himself over come with a desperate sense of relief and guilt. He was an experienced firefighter, he knew very well what fire was capable of, and he knew very well that even if I was not yet dead, he knew the grim reality of what fate awaited me. Tessa’s up there somewhere dying. The flames from the furnace burned hot in Henry’s face, he continued to shovel coal as if it made any difference.

“Tessa, I love you.”

“Tie it down, tie it down, DAMN YOU! More pressure!” The fire-hoses were trained on the fire, but the water stream only reached to the sixth floor. The monstrous entity that was fire, burst from every seam and orifice of the Asch building, Henry Jr. was desperate. It was then; my Henry did exactly what his brother told him to do. With a loop from a belt strap, he tied down the governor. Like a pressure cooker without the little diddler to rattle, the steam pressure surged. Precious water poured on the fire.

In all this cacophony of confusion, it was then that word passed that a girl—There was a girl on the far side of the building, dangling in mid-air from a drain spout. My loyal Domino, he already knew this, he  circled the fire-wagon adamantly, he barked, tugged with such furry, with such devotion and determination that he could not be ignored.  Henry, my Henry, made the fateful decision to abandon his post, and follow Domino.  A split-second, gut-felt decision that undoubtedly saved my life, but tragically cost the lives of others.  “Tessa, where’s Tessa?  Good boy Domino! Take me to Tessa!”  Domino, he needed no further encouragement, the dalmatian took off on a dead run, turning around only long enough to make certain Henry was following. 

*     *     *

FIRE, REMEMBER THE FIRE?  In an odd twist of metaphysics, alchemy and fate—In order to put out fire, firefighters conversely use fire, or more specifically steam and the power of the reciprocating steam engine. The steam engine—That most marvelous of inventions, the genesis, indeed the crown jewel of the industrial revolution.  The steam engine  in its relentless ability to do work, is both slave and master. It is an unrelenting beast, it cannot be tamed or trusted, it can never be left unattended. A steam engine, like fire, has a limitless capacity to do work, it can do the work of 100 men, and yet in a scant second, the same relentless furry which drives it forward, possesses the infinite capacity to destroy, maim or kill. One does not shovel forty pounds of pure black Cardiff coal into a boiler, tie down the governor and leave the fire to burn unattended. What a foolish thing my Henry did. In his defense, I will say, Henry did not abandon his post because he was incompetent, stupid or  lazy; neither was my Henry a coward.  Henry abandoned his post for perhaps the most altruists of all motives: Love. Henry loved his brother, he worshiped his brother, he  did exactly what his brother ordered him to do; he tied down the governor.  Then  in a momentary fatal lapse of judgment, he abandoned his post, Domino tugging on his heels, Henry followed  in the quixotic hope of saving me.

I always like to think, that if there was any blame, and belive me, there was plenty of blame to go around. My poor Henry,  he fell victim to his own  goodness. Henry was truly the most honest, noble, and bravest person I have ever known. I should think Henry abandoned his post because he had witnessed a girl fall to her death, not more than six feet in front of him. He was compelled, he was determined not to allow this tragedy to happen again. The fact that it was ME he came to rescue—My Henry could not have known that at this time.

Domino barked, he charged, nipped, tugged, growled and whined. Domino bowed, circled and barked again.  He was relentless; he lured my Henry away with his selfless devotion, and a “dog’s” dogged determination. Domino, he knew it was I; he led  my Henry straight to me. Domino, he was a clever dog but he didn’t understand boilers, pressure, the dangers of falling bricks and such. He only knew that I was in danger, he knew only that  my Henry could save me. Henry, although, he should have known better, we talked a lot about this later. As second assistant to the boiler engineer, he knew better than to leave a boiler unattended. He did this for me, how can I fault the man I love? Henry, he saved my life; in doing so, he changed his life, he changed my life, and cost the lives of others. 

Henry called to his mates, the boy’s from Ladder co. 39. He called for them to follow him, to bring their safety net. Henry, Domino, and the boys from Ladder co. 39 charged round the corner. There they were met with the spectacle that was I, dangling in mid-space, some seventy-five feet above the ground.There was no doubt I was in fear of falling. I was going to fall. Two seconds from now, I was destined to fall. I along with the whole rotten structure, any second, me included, in the next two half-breaths, I was going to come crashing down to earth. “Thud-dead.” 

“TESSA, JUMP!” I didn’t need any further encouragement.  I let go, I aimed for the red  bulls-eye of the safety-net, I think some copper pipe tumbled down after me, it was that close. 

In that very same second—In that that very same instant—I think it is safe to say I was still in mid-air. From the far side of the building, on the Greene street side, the boiler on Pumper no. 99 exploded.  The boiler  exploded with the most fantastic thunderous roar, a noise made even more extraordinary that made itself heard over the already din of fire and confusion. A noise so thunderously loud, so devastating, that it made you stop, take notice and say, “What the hell was that?”  Henry knew.

I  landed with a thump, I bounced, I looked over at Henry, a little bit scared, a little bit triumphant.   Henry, his face held no joy, he was ashen, he knew what he had done. In the very same second I went “Thump” into the safety-net, there was a thunderous roar, the unmistakable sound of a boiler explosion. Henry knew in that same second he had killed his brother.  George, Bill-Bob and Clyde they were all killed outright. Henry Jr. was thrown some two-hundred feet, his broken body smashed and scalded beyond recognition. He died, two days later at Saint Mary’s Our Mother of Mercy Hospital; he never regained consciousness. 

It seemed that everything happened in that very same second. The boiler exploded, I went thump, and God, in his infinite wisdom chose cruelty over mercy. The whole East side of the Asch building collapsed in one thunderous cataclysmic roar.  For four days,  after the funerals, after the newspapers, amidst the still smoldering rubble, we searched in vain for Domino’s body. We never found Domino.

Henry, and I were penniless and destitute, without so much as a brass-farthing between us. We were flung out on the street, villainized by the press, ostracized by Henry’s family.  We shared our sorrow,  I begged Henry to go back to the firehouse, gather his things, at least there we could get something to eat. Henry refused, his shame was too great. We spent that night hungry,  sleeping in the park, the same park where Domino and I used to play.  It was the longest sorriest night of my life. I will admit, I was crazy, insane, off-my trolley, but at that point I didn’t care.  I was desperate, something had to be done, we had to do something, we couldn’t go on like this.    I was the one who first spied the recruitment poster for the twenty-fourth regiment of foot .  .  . 

Chapter 9 

NEW SHOES FOR THOMAS 

DURING MY BRIEF THIRTEEN YEARS, going on fourteen-year-life, I thought I’d experienced every imagined suffering in the scope of human tragedy. I guess I shouldn’t have  been so complacent and satisfied that the extent of my misery was complete. I soon discovered that things could always get worse—much worse. Worse even than being kidnapped, dragged from my home at the young age of ten-years, sold into indentured-servitude for the sum of four pound nine shillings, transported to a far off foreign city and forced to work twelve hours a day six-day a week for no money and little food, having been beaten to within a breath of one’s life. These things, none of which represented the height, width and depth to which my own personal tragedy—Indeed, all human catastrophe can descend.

On that fateful June day, the day of the fire, I witnessed human catastrophe on an unimaginable scale. One hundred and forty-nine people, co-workers, friends, I knew all their faces, if not their names. Women, girls and a few men, either burnt to death or plunged eleven storeys to the pavement, thud-dead. Such an all-consuming event as the Quadrangle factory fire leaves an indelible mark on your soul. As I sit here and write this, I can tell you in confidence, I am not the same person I was before that dreadful day. I grew up a lot as the result of those terrible events. Whilst my own personal pain was great, I cannot imagine the grief and depth of despair experienced by my poor Henry. He held himself personally responsible for the death of his brother. Indeed the official board of inquiry, the London Times, even public opinion agreed. All sighted irrefutable damning evidence that Henry B. Hawkins, second assistant to the Boiler Engineer was in dereliction of his duty. Henry left his post, he left his post to rescue me, but none of that mattered. The effect on Henry was devastating. I found myself, powerless to console his grief. 

Henry, cried himself to sleep every night. We huddled together, we cried, we talked, I tried to console him. He was utterly destroyed as a person; I could no longer even pretend to empathize with him, such was the depth of his personal purgatory. While I remained faithfully beside my Henry and did, what I could, at this point, out of sheer necessity I began to think more of myself, and of my own problems. In the summer of 1878, the tragedy of my life was profound, and so equally incomprehensible that I caught myself thinking it unfair that Henry continuously expected me to subjugate myself to his misery. 

There was nothing left for me in London. Every one I ever knew or even hated was dead. I couldn’t go back home to Wales, they were starving there themselves. At this point, I hadn’t really known Henry long enough to gain acceptance by his family as girlfriend, friend or anything else. The Hawkins family pretty much gave me the cold shoulder referring to me disdainfully as “That Girl.”  The families of the other dead firefighters were outright hostile; they regarded me as something of a succubus. I was this wicked little coquette, with my siren’s song I’d lasciviously  lured the otherwise stalwart dependable Henry to dash upon the rocks. I was to blame, it was entirely my fault. I think they outright faulted me for not having the common decency to plunge to my death like all the other nameless-faceless “Thud-deads.”  

I’d resigned myself to my fate, if only I had leaped from that eleventh storey window and  become just another crumpled corpse on the pavement, all of Henry’s problems would be solved.  None of this tragedy would have ever happened. Instead, I chose to make a spectacle of myself by dangling seventy-five feet above the pavement, necessitating poor hapless Henry to choose between leaving his post and rescuing me. The London Times picked-up on this hapless lover-tragedy angle, “She’s only thirteen . . .”  Was the  hue-and-cry in London’s hight society, it was all quite the scandal.  Fortunately, for me, my picture never appeared in the Times, so I still enjoyed a comfortable level of anonymity. The worst part about being branded a Jezebel and a harlot was that I and especially Henry was entirely innocent of any impropriety. Apart from some harmless cuddling and innocuous kissing, there was never anything between us. Henry,  much to my chagrin, was too much a gentleman to have ever taken advantage of me. 

In the days, the weeks, that followed the fire, I pretty much lived hand to mouth. I did what odd jobs I found. Life after WSPFS was more difficult than I ever imagined. I was thoroughly institutionalized, a domesticated beast, set free for the first time. I spent several cold frightening nights in the streets of London, before I even found the wherewithal to meet my most basic needs. I did end up stealing a bit, I stole an apple, and I stole a piece of cheese. While I regret my theft, in my own defense, there wasn’t a whole lot a thirteen-year-old girl could do to earn a penny on the streets of London. I resolved not to do the one thing I could have done. I was determined, even if I starved to death; my body was not for sale. In the end, I begged a little, I cajoled, borrowed and stole, all this  just to keep from starving.

All during those hard times, none of my naysayers or detractors ever offered me so much as a brass farthing to relieve my plight. It’s all very well and good to sit there fat and say, “She should do this, she should do that.” But when you’re penniless, starving, down-on-your-luck all the hoity-toity advice in the world isn’t worth tuppence.  It doesn’t do a thing to put supper on the table. I was caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.  I had no skills—I didn’t sing or dance. (Well, I could sing a bit .  .  . I’ve been told later that I sing beautifully,  by Her Majesty Queen Victoria no less—At the time, I didn’t know no better, I didn’t think I sang so good.) When times are hard, which was more often than not, I did the only thing I knew how to do.   I dared to ventured into public houses and sing for my supper.   I sang mostly tradition Welsh songs, songs my Papa taught me.  I sang in my best high-clear soprano.   The words go something like this:.

♫ Ni bu ferch erioed cyn laned
Hob y deri dando,
Ni bu ferch erioed cyn wyned
Dyna ganu eto;
Ni bu neb o ferched dynion
Tessa fwyn Tessa
Nes na hon i dori ’nghalon 

Never was there maiden sweeter,
Hopb y deri dano
More alluring, livelier, neater
Hob y deri dando
Nor one to my fancy nearer 
Tessa, sweet Tessa
There is no one I love dearer 

Tessa  fwyn tyrd i’r llwyn,
Seiniwn glod i Siani fach fwyn:
Tessa fwyn tyrd i’r llwyn, 
Seiniwn glod i Siani fach fwyn 

Tessa, run down the lane,
There in the grove we’ll kiss again
Tessa, run down the lane,
There in the grove we’ll kiss again ♫

In the days the followed, I discovered that the 24^th Regiment-of-Foot, my Father’s regiment at Balaclava, a Welsh Regiment, was recruiting at Charring Cross Road. I knew I was hungry, I was starving, and I knew in the Army, you at least got three meals a day and a clean place to sleep. Henry said I was a bloody tosser. I told him I wasn’t so much crazy as I was desperate. The Army represented a way out, a way from all of this. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, how in the bloody ‘ell do you expect to get into the army? You’z don’t even look sixteen.” 

“They take boys .  .  .” My voice quavered, I remained adamant.  I knew this was true. 

“You’re not a fucking boy! You’re a bloody girl, for Christ sakes! Tessa, you’ve got tits!” 

I cast a downward glance at my hereto-inadequate womanly figure.  Up to this point in my life, me tits, proved wholly unspectacular, unsatisfactory. Unlike Sally, who possessed a massive pair, for my age, I certainly wasn’t what you might call “well-endowed.”   Now, all of a sudden it seemed my chest, as pathetic as it was, had suddenly become this fatal liability.  As if to demonstrate, in my usual aptitude for the dramatic, I pulled up my smock.  “See, they’re not that big.”   I stood in front of my Henry, unashamed, bare-chested in all my paltry thirteen-year-old glory.  My chest heaved; I think that was the first time Henry ever saw me naked.  

“I’ll cut my hair; I’ll bind my chest. I’ve got a good strong Welsh nose .  .  .” I did have a big nose, probably too big to be considered pretty for a girl. I never thought of myself  as  what you might call beautiful.  I was forever skinny, gawky; I had this enormous split between my front teeth.  I used to have such beautiful hair.  I remember how Grandma used to brush it one-hundred times before bedtime until it shown like gold by the firelight.  Not any more, my hair was shabby, dull, unkempt, it hung in hanks.   ”Henry, please! All I need are some boy clothes, some real boy clothes. You still have mates. Lend me some boy clothes, Henry, let’s do this together.” 

Reluctantly, Henry came through; he borrowed some dusty, dirty boy clothes.  Henry, it turned out had a friend, Abigail who cut hair, he took me to her flat and she agreed to cut my hair. Abigail cut my hair, my beautiful hair fell away in hanks.  Now I had a  real boy hair cut. I looked in the mirror, the face that stared back was no longer my own. We used some of the clippings, and a bit of spirit gum to fashion a sparse mustache for me. I thought it made me look ridiculous, but Henry and Abigail assured me it was perfect. Abigail took me aside; she took off my shirt and wound cotton muslin tight around my chest. She rapped several turns around me. I felt all squished, it wasn’t that I was so big, but she said she needed to “flatten” me out. Then Abigail showed me how I could do it myself, how I could loosen it if I became too uncomfortable. I felt quite boyish in my new disguise. 

“Tessa love, we need to talk .  .  .” Abigail said. 

I guess you might say in those days I was abysmally ignorant. I was still very much just a girl.  Growing up in Wales with eight brothers and no sisters, Mama was  too busy with the wash’n, ironing,  just getting supper on the table was a chore.  With Wallace and Dewey killed in the mine, Papa dying of consumption, Mama had little time for her only daughter.  All I knew about was boys—I was always just one of the “boys” albeit without a willie. I had no clue.  Abigail’s frank discussion came as quite a shock. 

“You really didn’t know?” 

I shook my head, I started to cry, and I felt embarrassed and stupid. “Why .  .  .why, Abigail?  Why didn’t Mama or  Sally tell me?  Oh, no—I can’t do this!” 

“Yes you can, Tessa.” Abigail reassured me. I was grateful for Abigail’s friendship. We talked for a long time; so long, in fact Henry became impatient and banged on the door asking “What’n the bloody ‘ell” we wuz  doing? 

“Girl stuff! No boy’s allowed!” We laughed and giggled, Abigail and I fell in a heap on the bed, both of us laughing so hard we cried. What started out as frightening, became quite silly. After I left Abigail’s flat that afternoon, I felt my confidence renewed. I chose a new name for myself, Thomas Claiborne. 

In my new guise as a boy, I suddenly felt invincible. All those rough-and-tumble years, growing-up on a farm in Wales, with eight brothers and no sisters, just me, as the only girl were finally going to pay off. My life, as the littlest Claiborne with no Willy was going to come in handy. I strutted the streets of London, I spat, I cussed, I played ball. I did all of the boy things I’d always wanted to do, I’d seen my brothers do but never could because I was a girl. I was quite self-assured until I came up against the formidable and immovable object that was the Color Sergeant of the recruitment office of the 24^th Regiment-of-Foot. Suddenly I felt very small, inadequate and wholly ridiculous. 

Henry squeezed my hand. He slipped me a piece of paper, and told me to put it in my shoe, in square block letters plainly written was the number sixteen. When ask by the induction officer as to my age. I now could truthful answer, “I am over sixteen.”

The induction officer was a stern man, in his late-fifties, a huge handlebar mustachioed face, a little bit older than what Papa was. Color Sergeant Bourne peered at me over his spectacles skeptically; I should think his steel-blue eyes possessed the power to penetrate into my very soul. He was chary, as he was suspicious. He wasn’t the least bit convinced as to my age, as to my sex, I think if he’d even had the slightest inkling I was a girl, he would have tossed me out on my ear. A pure pencil pusher, he asked me my name. 

“Tes .  .  . a .  .  . T-Thomas Claiborne. Sir.” I answered. 

The Colour Sergeant eyed me up and down skeptically, he was suspicious, reluctant, finally with a certain air of diffidence, his pencil slowly scratched, “T .  .  . H .  .  . O .  .  . M .  .  . A .  .  . S. Just how old are you Mr. Claiborne?”  Color Sergeant Bourne eyed me critically. 

“I’m over sixteen, Sir.” I lied. 

“I don’t believe you, get out of my queue. NEXT!” 

I panicked. 

“Oh—please, please Sir!  You don’t understand; please don’t do this to me!” I threw myself full body across the recruitment desk; much to the Color Sergeant’s indignation.  I ended up nearly in the Sergeant Bourne’s lap. I think I might have spilled his inkwell. “You don’t understand, please Sir, I’m desperate! My father, he fought at Balaclava with this regiment, I just gotta git into the army! Don’t turn me away. Help me, Sir, please!” 

For the first time I noticed the Color Sergeant was a little bit older than most, he was just a bit older than what Papa was,  if he were still alive. His face was ragged; scared with shrapnel, his left hand, scared by a Russian saber slash.  I nodded to myself, this Sergeant has been places, and he has seen battle, smoke, fire and death. No, Color Sergeant Bourne hadn’t always been behind a desk. 

Lieutenant Fry poked his head out of his office door. “What’s going on out here! What’s all this disturbance?”  

“Lieutenant, Sir. Just a bit of confusion with the lads, Sir . . . nothing to worry about, Sir.” Lieutenant Fry seemed indifferent, like a hermit crab, he disappeared into his hole as quickly as he came. This once again left me as the sole object of Color Sargent Bourne’s scrutiny. 

“Easy there now lad, stand up straight, calm yourself, recruit.” The Color Sergeant adjusted his crumpled uniform.  “Tell me, lad, what was your father’s name?” 

I came to my best attention, a good thing Papa always taught us kids how to stand to attention, and salute like soldiers.  He called us his “little soldiers.” I took a deep breath and blurted out, “FIRST SERGEANT ROBERT CHARD CLAIBORNE, H COMPANY, 24^th REGIMENT-OF-FOOT, COLOR SERGEANT, SIR!” 

Color Sergeant Bourne smiled a long contemplative smile. “I knew your father, we fought together at Balaclava. He was there at the charge, he was a good man . . . I always thought he was killed. I’m glad to learn he went back to Wales, and raised fine sons.” 

“SIR.” 

“There were eight boys and one girl .  .  .” 

A wink and a nod later, an ink stamp, a couple of paper signings, I was in the Army. They didn’t even ask me to take my clothes off. A prospect of exposure to which I was mortified. I tell you joining the Queen’s Army was a whole lot easier than being sold down the river to Wallace Squeers, Pierce, Fenner and Smith Co. They were mostly interested if I could read an eye chart; the doctor looked at my two front teeth, a hold over from the days when a soldier had to bite off the end of a paper cartridge. On the basis of the examination, I guess

I shouldn’t have been concerned  as to  the quality of the dregs of humanity that filled the ranks of the British Army of 1878. There were criminals, debtors, derelicts and ner-to-do-wells, as well as your usual runaways like myself one tuppence away from the workhouse. I couldn’t concern myself with that. Here I was in August, enjoying the second train ride of my life. I found myself in an army barracks at Wiltshire, eight miles West of Salisbury, and nobody even suspected I was a girl. I was not yet fourteen-years-old. I’d received a hot meal, a bedroll; I had two new shoes with both a left and a right foot. A bunk assignment and in the morning, I was to receive my rifle. I was a soldier in the Queen’s army.

*      *      * 

WE DIDN’T EXACTLY RECEIVE OUR RIFLES the next morning. This turned out to be more verbose braggadocio on the part of our drill Sergeant. My particular drill instructor was in fact not a Sergeant at all, he was Corporal Boggs. Corporal Boggs thought himself quite important and made sure we, the new recruits felt quite unimportant. I guess that was the job of a drill instructor, but I thought at least he should be honest. 

Basic training was well, basic. The physical aspects of being in the Queen’s Army were if anything, not very difficult. I could run, climb, and stand at attention as well as any of the other recruits. Despite the neglect of WSPFS and Co., despite some months on the street, I remained for the most part relatively physically fit. After a few days of decent Army chow (some of the recruits complained, but I had never eaten so well in all my life), my energy level improved and I excelled at all the physical training. I could run the quarter mile, do chin-ups, push-ups whatever was required of me. I was at the top of my class; I actually ended up the scorn of most of my fellow recruits. 

Conversely, things that were very easy for the average male recruit, I found very difficult. Colour Sergeant Bourne was very lenient when he enlisted me. It is a fact that I was significantly smaller and a slighter build than any other recruit in my unit. The rucksack, the standard issue combat load, spade, blanket, tent all the essential gear that I was expected to carry was quite heavy, some forty pounds of equipment. We had only been issued wooden facsimile rifles but already I was struggling. 

I suppose it would be disingenuous if I didn’t say the worst part about being a girl in the Queen’s Army was going to the toilet. Henry did what he could for me at first, but we were split up straight away and assigned different platoons. I was left alone to fend for myself. I spent a couple of frightening days. I would sneak away in the dead of night after bugle call, “lights out” to relieve myself. I eventually learned to take advantage of any bush or twig and to pee quick and on the fly.

It was during one of those clandestine pees .  .  . 

“Oi, M-m-mate, what the fuck’n-A you tinks you a d-do’n?” 

I was caught, in plain view, in full squat, piss streaming from my cunny, what the fuck was I supposed to do? I wet myself, I jerked up my pants, it was too late. This was the worst possible situation; there are certain situation in life from which there is no possibility of recovery. Predicaments from which are so excessively obvious from which there is simply no possible explanation other than the facts. One of those life situations is the fundamental basic difference between how a boy pees and when a girl pees. 

I stood up; I wet my pants.  I confronted my accoster. He was a new recruit like me. Martin Crawford, he was older than what my Henry was, maybe twenty. Not what you might call the sharpest knife in the drawer, the rumor was Marty was kicked in the head by a mule when he was twelve.   Marty was slow, everything came hard to Marty.  I’d recognized this straight away; it made me mad when recruits like Burlingham took advantage of him, poked fun at him, pranked him in the mess line.   I rather took Marty under my wing, on more than one occasion, I’d helped Marty straighten his uniform, shown him how to tie his shoelaces, polish his boots, make his bed, and make his kit look smart. We’d practiced with our wooden rifles together; Marty it turned out had a great deal of trouble learning his right from his left. He was forever fumbling when the drill Sergeant ordered,”PRESENT ARMS.”  We worked long hours on this until Marty could do it perfectly.  Actually, up to this point Marty and I were nominal mates.  In the end, I do believe this is what saved me, outside of the fact that Marty was what you call a decent bloke, with a kind gentle nature.  Marty only really wanted to know the truth. 

“You’re a g-g-girl . . . aren’t you? W-w-wat’s the b-bleed’n ’ell is a g-g-girl doin’ in the army?” 

I nodded the most apprehensive nod of my life, “Yes, I’m a girl . . . Marty, please, please don’t tell, be a mate, they’ll Court martial me for sure!” I wasn’t exactly sure what it was I might have to do at this point to secure his cooperation, but I think I might have done enough. 

Marty smiled a genuine, honest, non-judgmental smile. “I w-won’t tell Thomas, you’re me m-mate, you ‘elped m-me polish m-me boots.” 

“That I did Marty.” I said with a sigh of personal relief, after that, Marty and I were inseparable, we were best mates. Marty always went to the latrines with me, and kept look out, he made sure no one followed. 

After that day, Marty and I did everything together. Marty was stronger than I was, so he often agreed to carry my extra gear. We were pup-tent mates; each one of us carried half a tent, a complete tent made what’s called a “Shebang.” When you put the two halves together, hence the term, “The whole Shebang.” Marty, for all his good intentions, I discovered couldn’t read very well, he didn’t know his right from his left, and anything mechanical befuddled him. We spent long hours working together to master assembling and disassembling our rifles; these were the old conversion rifles, the .577 Snider-Enfield. 

I remember to this day, just two weeks before graduation, we all assembled on the parade ground. Lieutenant Fry came strutting out with the Regimental Commander a Colonel Carlton. The announcement was made that the Regiment was to turn in their old Snider-Enfields; the entire Regiment was to be re-equipped with the new Martini-Henry rifle. Lieutenant Fry made it sound like quite a momentous occasion; all I can remember is the stark look of terror and bewilderment on Marty’s face. 

“T-T-Thomas, w-what am I going to d-do? I c-c-can’t d-do this. I d-didn’t d-do so good w-w-wit the Snider, now dey w-w-wants m-me t-to learn a new rifle? Thomas, I c-c-can’t d-do this,” 

“Yes you can, Marty—I will help you.”  Marty smiled weakly, I don’t think he was at all reassured by my confidence.

The Martini-Henry was a bit heavier than the Snider; coming in at a little over nine pounds and at 52 inches it was a bit more unwieldy. It fired the modern rolled brass .455 cartridge, and even with a clean bore, kicked like a newly shod mule. A full load of ammunition was seventy rounds dispersed in two separate cartridge pouches was enough to load down any soldier. I felt so heavy that I feared if I fell in a pond, I’d go straight to the bottom!  The Martini-Henry was a fully modern, rolling block, single-shot, lever-action rifle. The very same lever-action patented in 1850 by B. Tyler Henry, and later more famously translated into the most iconic of all American rifles, the Winchester. 

We were all issued the new Martini-Henry rifle. The Martini-Henry came equipped with that most lethal and ubiquitous of all military instruments, a twenty-one inch triangular bayonet. Known affectionately as “The lunger,” this ubiquitous singular piece of iron mongery possessed a reputation for vileness, viciousness, an unrivaled intimidation factor, the lunger is probably credited with leveling more empires, and is considered more lethal and more feared than any actual bullet ever discharged from the bore of a British rifle from the Brown Bess to the Martini-Henry. 

As with most things military, as long as it didn’t involve weight or feats of strength, I was actually quite good. I earned the medal “Expert Shooter” with the Enfield-Snider, and I did the very same thing with the M-Henry. Two days later, on the second day’s trial, I qualified as “Sharp Shooter.” My Company Commander, Major Steele was very pleased. 

“Recruit Claiborne, can you ride?” 

“Yes Sir!” 

What was I thinking? I’d never ridden a horse in my life.

Chapter 10 

BIVOUAC   

I WAS IN THE ARMY NOW, in 1^st  Battalion, H Company, the 24^th  Regiment-of-Foot.    My squad, my mess, consists of six soldiers, Ferrier, Parker, Crawford, Smythe, Jonsey and me. Two squads make a platoon, and Corporal Boggs commanded. My particular platoon had no Sergeant, apparently there was a shortage of qualified NCOs. I had no  idea how this acute shortage of officers  was to change my life. Lieutenant Fry was the line-officer in command of my platoon. It’s often said that  a soldier’s mess is the tightest most cohesive unit in the Army and I believe that to be true. Me messmates was more like my brothers back home in Wales than soldiers. You have no secrets; you do everything together (except for latrine, I did have one secret) .  .  . I,  for whatever reason, fate, providence, or just plain good luck had the five best messmates in the entire 24^th  Regiment-of-Foot. I was the youngest, and smallest and to some people’s way of thinking the weakest of my five mess mates. To their credit, those five lads never held it against me. Mostly because of my size,   I was relegated to the unenviable role of “boy” in the squad.   I never complained, I always did my best. We was a team. 

Marty and me, we kinda hit it off straight away, I think we were both misfits, we felt under siege from Burlingham’s constant harassment.  Lucky for me we had each other because Marty and me, we  became best mates. We ate together, trained, marched suffered together. We slept within the confines of a pup tent, you get to know a person really well in such close confines, our flesh touched. It was inevitable, long after, even after Marty knew my secret, that I was a girl, I lay beside him; I waited with morbid trepidation.  Marty, he was such a gent, he never once touched me or made any sexual advances towards me. Marty knew I was a girl to the point that he became an active participant in my conspiracy. In the morning, within the privacy of our pup tent, he helped me bind my chest; he daubed spirit gum on my upper lip and fixed my mustache. Marty was my best mate. 

I made up for it in other ways. I always made sure the lads had a fire, that morning tea was hot and ready. I was a scrupulous “mother-hen” when in came to the mess rations. Army rations were issued by mess, a typical day’s mess consisted of a pound of tea, a couple of quarts of peas or beans, flour, sugar, salt, ship biscuits, sometimes we were issued cornmeal. Meat consisted of slab bacon, salt pork or canned “horse” meat. Occasionally there were pickles or dried apples. That was mess. Most of the boy’s were clueless as to what to do with this confusing stack of food. I observed other messmates, forlornly eating cold horsemeat out of a tin. I, fortunately, after years of cooking for eight brothers, knew a thing or two about how to cook. I earned quite a reputation in my squad, and then I ended up cooking for the entire platoon. On Friday nights, when we had collected enough bacon fat, I mixed dough of corn meal. Each soldier took a ball of dough and wound it into a snake around his bayonet, and toasted it over an open fire. That was called ”Sloosh.” It was a favorite in my mess. Corporal Boggs wrote in his report that I was the best cook in the army. The problem was I didn’t want to be a cook. I wanted to ride horses, I wanted one of those smart blue uniforms; I wanted a Martini-Henry carbine. 

In the morning, after assembly, Lieutenant Fry announced that we were to deploy on a twenty-five-mile exercise that was to include an overnight bivouac. Full packs, full combat gear. We set out and it was already raining. It rained in our faces, it rained down the back of our necks, in rained until our boots squished. Still we marched on; our destination was the Grovely Woods. A military and strategic target of monumental proportions I am sure. The worst part was the scuttlebutt was that Colonel Carlton was to meet us there. He wanted to see how the new M-Henry performed under “adverse” circumstances. 

A Twenty-five-mile march in soggy conditions was every bit as unpleasant as I could have imagined. Aside from the physical ordeal of marching in full pack, in inclement weather, the prospect of cold, a wet camp and that Colonel Carlton wanted us upon our arrival to assume a firing line; it was almost too much to contemplate. As we marched, we sang a traditional soldier’s marching tune.  It was quite the dirty little ditty, but fun to sing.  I liked to sing, and all the lads, they followed my lead. 

♫ I don’t want the Sergeant’s shilling,
I don’t want to be shot down;
I’m really much more willing
To make myself a killing,
Living off the pickings of the Ladies of the Town;
Don’t want a bullet up my bumhole,
Don’t want my cobblers minced with ball;
For if I have to lose ‘em
Then let it be with Susan
Or Meg or Peg or any whore at all, 

Gorblimey! 

On Monday I touched her on the ankle,
On Tuesday I touched her on the knee;
On Wednesday such caresses
As I got inside her dresses,
On Thursday she was moaning sweetly;
On Friday I had my fingers in it,
On Saturday she gave my balls a wrench;
And on Sunday after supper,
I had the fucker up her,
And now she’s got me up before the Bench, 

Gorblimey! ♫ 

We marched for so long and so hard that I don’t think it was possible that I could have attributed any special wetness in my knickers to anything but rainwater. As we trudged, mile after mile, I felt a weird feeling welled up deep inside my gut. I stuck my hand in my pants, it came out wet, and sticky, it wasn’t rainwater. 

“Oh—No! Oh gawd, it’s started.” 

I was in so much trouble—Why now of all times? I signaled to Corporal Boggs for permission to fall out of line. I headed strait for the bushes, I pulled down my trousers, dug into my knickers and cried. There was no time to squat there feeling sorry for myself. I cleaned myself up best I could with water from my canteen bottle. I stuffed my cunny like Abigail showed me, hoping beyond hope to staunch the flow. I pulled up my trousers on closer inspection; it didn’t seem like I had made too big a mess of myself. I hefted my rifle, and hustled to resume my place in the march. 

This was a bivouac. We pitched our tents and crawled into the sanctity inside, I blurted out my troubles. 

 ”Marty, I got troubles .  .  .”   

Marty, I couldn’t have asked for a better mate. Once he got over the shock as to exactly the extent of my problem, it seemed poor Marty knew even less about “girl” troubles than I did. I told him to start a fire; we ended up boiling my trousers and knickers in lye soap. We hung them up to dry. That took care of the stain. Nobody said nothing. It seems that boiling ones britches immediately after a twenty-five-mile march in a rainstorm a was perfectly mundane activity, of which no one of any note took any particular notice. It seems my secret was secure.

The next morning, Marty drew sentry duty. I fussed over him; I made sure he had clean dry socks. I packed his lunch of fresh biscuits and ham; I made sure he had a clean handkerchief and a full flask of cold tea in his Harvard sack. Colonel Carlton it seemed was still back in Wiltshire HQ. Evidently, the weather was too inclement, too wet for the pompous personage of the Colonel to venture forth. There was to be no line fire demonstration today. The weather had cleared, except for the serious business of picket duty; the camp took on a carnival atmosphere. Which pretty much left us to our own devices. 

The Grovely woods, was exactly that, a still pristine, dense packed English forest. Devoid of the coveted oak or spruce, the Grovely woods were home to a vast forest menagerie of wildlife and woodland creatures. Including wild pigs and the “King’s Deer” of Robin Hood fame. It was one of these deer thrashing in a thicket that caused the commotion. Colonel Carlton was still scheduled to come to the camp before nightfall, and Lieutenant Fry took it into his head, that he might impress the Colonel with some fresh venison roast. 

“Private Claiborne! Private Burlingham!” 

“Sir.” We mustered before Captain Fredrickson and came to our best attention. He called us Private, even though we had not actually graduated and were technically still recruits. 

“Private Claiborne, see if you can’t bag us that deer, you are point.  Take Private Burlingham with you.” Fredrickson was direct.

“Aw, beg’n your pardon Capt’n  Sir, do I ‘afta go wif  ’im Sir. ‘Ees nothing but a bleed’n fairy boy! A wee leetle todger, Sir.” Burlingham complained bitterly. 

“That’s quite enough Burlingham! Claiborne is the best shot in H Company! Claiborne has point.”  Those were Fredrickson’s orders. 

Davy Burlingham, what can I say about Davy Burlingham?  Burlingham was an uncouth, hulking youth from the slums of Liverpool.   He was a lanky bear of a man, probably 13 stones if an ounce,  I in way of contrasts probably only weighed 94 lbs. soaking wet.  Burlingham was loud, profane, he once boasted that he was a prizefighter and a bare-knuckle brawler, I never knew for sure if this was true or not because I never actually saw Burlingham fight a stand-up fight.  Well, that’s not exactly true, Burlingham was forever fighting.  The problem is,  he never fought fair. A true bully, Burlingham only picked on people smaller and weaker than himself.  He constantly made fun of recruit Crawford ‘ cuz he was simple and stammered. Me ‘ cuz I was small, and from Wales, he said I talked funny.  I don’t think any of the other lads liked him much. 

Burlingham was rude, crude, and a regular pain-in-the ass.  Burlingham had this way of taking over every situation. Worse yet, for no good reason, he seemed to harbor an intense hatred for me and I didn’t even know him! Burlingham had decided somehow that I was some kind of fairy boy.  I could already see this had the makings of a nasty relationship.  I was the best shot in Company H; Burlingham in turn was the best shot in Company F, this set up an intense rivalry between us. Growing up in Wales, I was quite accustomed to scraping with my brothers, I for one refused to be intimidated by him.

I gave my first order, “Burlingham, to me!” I hefted my rifle and ventured into the woods, followed by Burlingham’s hulking frame. This was an exercise in cunning not size; we foraged into the thicket looking for deer. I’m sure Burlingham didn’t much like the fact that he was in subordination to me. He kept trying to push ahead of me. I told him, clearly, Frederickson had appointed me point man, and I was the shooter.  Burlingham was to follow me .  .  . he was the “help.” Burlingham didn’t like it; He called me “a little todger,” I should think if he had known the truth that I was nothing but a girl—He might very well  have burst into flames! This thought gave me great satisfaction.

There was a sudden rustle in the thicket up a head. 

I drew down the lever on the Martini-Henry and inserted a shiny brass .455 cartridge into the receiver. I brought the weapon up to my shoulder and drew down on the sound. Clumsy as he was stupid, Burlingham stepped on a branch. The crack sounded like a rifle shot. At first I thought I had discharged my weapon. The deer, spooked, came charging out of the thicket straight at me. I was veritably bowled over; I came crashing out of the woods, I slipped on a mossy bank and went tumbling arse-over-tea-kettle. The deer leaped over me and ran into the clearing. Somehow, by pure dumb luck or training. I held on to the Henry rifle. I brought the weapon down, squeezed the trigger and *BANG* in a thunderous roar and a dense swirl of white smoke .  .  . (despite what layman might assume, black powder smoke is counter intuitively white).  I brought down the deer—shot through the lung and heart. It seemed Colonel Carlton was due his roast venison feast after all.  My gut felt woozy.  I told Burlingham to get the deer, take it back to camp. Giving orders was easy. I think that was the day I  learned something about myself.  I liked being in charge.  I liked giving orders.  

I couldn’t ditch Burlingham fast enough.  I  made my way towards a quiet pool. I was dirty, I needed to wash, to take care of myself. It was quite a lovely pool, deep and quiet, the ferns smelled earthy and good. The water was still, black and icy cold and pure, the river mud oozed between my bare feet. I lowered myself into its inky blackness and felt for the first time in weeks a cleansing wash, such a joyous ablution I had not even a memory to enjoy. A school of minnows came to join me they swirled about my body and tickled my bare toes. I had a bar of soap in my pack and I suds myself down, I washed my hair, and I doused my body in the fresh water. 

I swam, I played in that pool until I lost track of time. It was in the midst of this cleansing ecstasy that four recruits from F Company came jostling out of the woods.  It was recruit Burlingham standing at the water’s edge, backing him  up were his three best mates. They were loud, rude and boisterous. I saw a bottle, they were drunk as Lords. 

“Shit!” I was caught, naked as a jay bird; my only concealment was the black water of the pool that circled my neck. I treaded water in fearful trepidation. 

“OI! Claiborne, wats yous tinks yous do’n ya leetle todger! Why don’t ‘cha comes up ‘ere and makes dat shot again.” It was Burlingham, still seething from the morning shoot; he wasn’t finished with me yet. Burlingham was supposed to be the best shot in F Company.  I was in H Company, three companies made up a regiment. In this case F, G, and H. For whatever reason, F and H were considered bitter rivals. It didn’t help any that I was reputed to be the best shot in H Company.  To make matters worse, I had just shot a deer through the heart at four hundred yards. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was considered quite the money shot. Burlingham  didn’t like me showing him up. This was personal. Burlingham was a bully and a loud mouth, this time he brought along three of his mates to bolster his point. He was such a bully, four against one, and to make matters worse, I was naked! 

“Comes on  up outa der yous  leetle todger!  Outa dat water!  I says yous come ‘ere ‘n makes dat  shot again!”

“NO! I don’t want too.” I looked to my rifle. It was on the bank out of reach. 

“I knows yous—Yous nothing but a bleed’n fairy boy!” Burlingham jeered, he kicked my kit, my clothes scattered, my mess tin clattered against the rocks. “Oi!  Lads, wats say we ‘ave some fun wit dis leetle fairy boy, dis leetle bloke, eh?” Burlingham un-did the buttons on his fly and hefted out a substantial willy. “Whys don’ts yous comes up outa dat water ‘n suck on my John Thomas!”  He wagged his cock at me. ”Yous likes that, eh Claiborne?”   As if on cue, the other three mates on his crew pulled out their willies. They all began to urinate in the pool in unison. 

“YEAH!  Swim in piss yous soggy bink!” The boys in F Company laughed and taunted me uproariously.

“GO AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE!” I splashed water in their direction—A  lot of good that did! I felt like crying, I knew that was to get me nowhere. 

Now things really went tits-up. Burlingham suddenly slogged into the water after me, with the clear intent to drag me bodily out of the pond. The jig was up, eventually the four of them would over power me, drag me from the water, discover I was a girl. Then mongrel dogs would rape me. I was resigned to my fate. I was terrified. It was then, from behind, from overhead, came a rifle shot, a cloud of white smoke, the bullet “whizzed” overhead and thuded into a rotten tree with an authoritative smack.  Followed by the telltale ca-chink, of the glossy lever-action of a Martini-Henry, and the smooth insertion of fresh brass. 

It was Marty. 

“Clear out lads! L-L-Leave Thomas alone!” 

“Fuck’n A! Looksee, it’s yous leetle b-b-boyfriend comes ’ere to saves yous!” Burlingham mocked Marty’s stutter. 

Marty, brought the rifle to his shoulder and pointed the still smoking bore square in Burlingham’s face.  The Martini-Henry was an intimidating weapon,  the bayonet gleamed, then flicked. 

“Aye! Easy there lad!” Burlingham’s bravado vanished, the consummate bully, he now found himself cowed in the face of an angry Marty and a bayonet. 

“D-Don’t you t-t-talk t-t-that way t-to Thomas!” Marty, my gentle, kind Marty, I never saw such deadly earnest on his face.  I was terrified he might actually shoot someone. 

“MARTY, NO!” I screamed.

“OI!  Relax mate, don’ts goes ‘n gits yous knickers all in a twist . . . we wuz just ‘ave’n a bit ‘o fun wit the leetle fella.  Oi, be a mate!”  Burlingham hastily buttoned his fly.

“Okay, you’ve had your f-f-fun, now clear out. N-NOW!” Marty drew the rifle hammer back to full cock, he brought the Martini up to the ready; I do think he might have shot them. The boy’s from F Company obviously thought so, because they cleared out real fast. 

“Bog off Crawford! Yous retard! We wuz just ‘av’n a bit ‘o fun, can’ts yous takes a joke?” Burlingham jerked his head, a signal for his crew to  follow him. Before he left, he flipped Marty a back-wards “V,”  with that he and the boys  from Company F sauntered back to camp. 

I waited until long after, until I was sure that they were gone. Marty helped me out of the water, and toweled me off. As I got dressed, I was panic struck with the awfulness of what he had done. Marty was assigned guard duty, he was in desertion of his post. Poor, simple, Marty, was totally unaware of the consequences of his act.  In his loyalty to me, he was now a deserter.

“Marty, you got to git back. For fucks sake, Marty, you got to git, right now!” My face was ashen.  “ 

“It’s OK Thomas.” Gentle unassuming Marty did not yet grasp the consequences, the pure awfulness of his selfless sacrifice. To his way of thinking he was just helping out a mate. He may have just saved me, but in doing so,  his own fate was uncertain. If caught, dereliction of duty was a capital offence. 

“No, it’s not OK, Marty, that Colonel Carlton; he’ll line you up and shoot you for sport. Marty, git right now, maybe it’s not too late.” 

“Thomas?” 

“GO!  I’m tickety-boo, you go now. RUN!” Marty took off back towards his post. It was not OK. It was never OK.  My worst fears were realized, it was already too late. As I made my way back to camp, the fear and trepidation that welled in my heart was transformed into reality. I could already see the din of excitement, the commotion of a drum-head-court marshal in full proceedings. Lieutenant Fry he was in his glory, presiding with relish.  Captain Fredrickson was grim-faced, he was a fair man, but in light of the seriousness of the charges against Marty, his hands were tied.

Burlingham was a rat and a fink. In a final act of revenge—It seems that boys of  F Company made certain that recruit Martin Crawford was caught. Just two weeks from graduation, Marty found himself arrested, accused under Article 86 of the Military Code of Justice of Desertion of his Post, of Dereliction of Duty and of conduct unbecoming  a British soldier. Technically, I think the penalty was death by firing squad. However, because we were on maneuvers and in the field and because Marty was just a recruit, the court found room for leniency. The penalty handed down remained harsh, six-dozen lashes, 90 days stockade. Sentence to be carried out at sundown. 

The entire regiment was assembled to witness punishment. As further punishment, it fell to us, his squad, his messmates, to strip off his blouse, truss him up. I was the last to leave him. The look on Marty’s face burned  forever in my mind. This look of shock, confusion and desperation and a sort of bewildered terror, really. Lots of things in that single look. Marty he tried to be brave, he looked to me helplessly, even with a gag in his mouth, he managed the words, “Thomas, I love you.” 

“I know, Marty.” I whispered. “Be strong.” 

That was what I said. What I meant to say, what I should have said, what I didn’t have the courage or presence of mind to say was, “I love you.” I just couldn’t make the words come out, that’s all. In our last moment together, I was so cruel as to begrudge Marty the comfort of a simple “I love you.” I was torn between my feelings for Marty, and my sense of guilt and disloyalty inherit in telling two different men that I loved them. I think the truth was, I loved Marty, and I loved my Henry. How is that possible? To this day, I cannot explain my feelings. I do know my heart ached. 

The entire regiment turned out to witness punishment. We stood in ranks at perfect attention. It was then Colonel Archibald Carlton chose to make his grand appearance. He strode out on an enormous champing white charger, his medals weighed down his chest, his helmet, a veritable crown of glory, complete with tassels and all manner of military regalia, glinted in the failing sunlight of the parade ground. The commanding officer of the 24^th  Regiment-of-Foot deliberately, pompously  inspected his troops. 

We stood there stock still, I didn’t dare move, I hardly dared breathe. I was emotionally numb. I did steal a sideward glance over to G Company, to the ranks where I thought my Henry must be. I couldn’t pick his face out in sea of red tunics and white helmets. 

“REGIMENT ASSEMBLED, READY TO WITNESS PUNISHMENT, SIR!” Capitan Fredrickson said. 

Carlton’s mount stamped, champ at the bit.  Carlton held the reins with his impeccable white riding gloves. In a pompous gesture that summed up all that was Victorian and correct in military culture, he impassively saluted with his riding crop. 

“Commence!” 

“SERGEANT-OF-ARMS, DO YOUR DUTY!” 

The drums rolled like thunder. 

Six-dozen lashes. I closed my eyes. From a burlap poke, the burly Sergeant brought out the cat ‘o nine-tails, the proverbial ”cat” was out of the bag.   The cruel whip whirled and cracked, the lash fell hard against Marty’s bare flesh. Marty flinched, but he did not cry out. 

“ONE!”  I flinched. I watched in horror, I felt as if I were struck—My whole body quaked.  I was in shock, I wanted to vomit. “TWO!” The drum cadence continued on incessantly  throughout  punishment. “TWENTY-ONE  .  .  .  TWENTY-TWO .  .  .”

I felt every lash, I thought I was going to go crazy with pain, grief and guilt. Eternity is a long time, I expect. It must be equal to the number seventy-two. When punishment was over, We cut him down. Marty collapsed in a heap, unconscious.  He was lashed to ribbons. We carried him back to our bivouac on a stretcher. I laid him on his bedroll and washed his face with cool water.   I whispered next to his ear, “Marty, I love you . . . I love you.”  There, I said it—a desperate plea, as it was already too late.   Marty was beaten near death and couldn’t hear me.   Parker  summoned the Surgeon Reynolds. The Surgeon-Major came later that night and did what he could. He arranged for an ambulance to take Marty back to Wiltshire HQ in the morning. I laid next to Marty all night and prayed. Marty died sometime before sun up, his heart-broken, it just gave out. This was the second time in my life I had lain next to a person who died. I wept uncontrollably, there were not enough tears.  There was only a simple funeral. 

*      *       * 

GRADUATION DAY felt hollow and empty without Marty. We received our PFC stripes, our first military pay, and a pass for three days leave. Most importantly, I was reunited with my Henry. Henry and I had not seen each other in eight weeks as we were assigned to different Companies. The separation seemed like forever.  I wanted to kiss him, hug him, smother him. Of course I couldn’t, I didn’t. We could only shake hands. We were just two fellow blokes greeting each other. We walked off the train station platform in a stiff awkward silence. I finally broke the ice. 

“Henry, they killed Marty .  .  .  beat ‘im to death.” I hissed. 

“I know.” Henry, said matter-of-factly.  I think Henry was a tad bit jealous,  ‘cuz he didn’t say much, He had the right to be jealous, he knew Marty and me were close, best mates even.  “I was there, I heard he left his post .  .  .” 

“Henry! He saved my life! Marty came to save me. Burlingham, his mates from Liverpool, they were going to rape me, kill me.  Marty, he saved my life. At least be grateful to Marty for that!” Henry gave me a best mate’s hug, we walked along the boardwalk for a little ways. “Henry, I’ll be shipping out when we get back. Major Steele, he signed the papers, I am assigned to a Light-horse detachment. I’m going to learn to ride, I’m mounted infantry! Henry, I get one of those smart  horseman uniforms. I get a carbine!”

“That’s great news, Tessa, while you’re busy doing that, the rest of the 24^th  is shipping out to Port Durban, to bloody God forsaken Africa fer Christ sake! There’s some kind of trouble down there between the Dutch and the niggers. Its left to us Redcoats to straighten things out. The rumor is there’ll be shooting, Watkins, from my section said the blacks are on the march.”

“We’re coming too, the Light-horse is still part of the 24^th !  We’ll be there, we just  need a little more training, that’s all.  Just six more weeks, then we’ll catch up. Henry . . .  what’s the matter? Aren’t you happy for me?  I’m going to join the Light-horse!”

“I heard things  . . . I heard ’bout you and Marty ’bout how you was  all warm ‘n  close, like you was more than mates.” 

I felt my stomach go hollow. I never knew until the actual moment that I left Marty, trussed up against that tree, my true feelings,  that I loved him. Was I really so wrong? Now, confronted with the facts, Marty was dead. Denial seemed a reasonable alternative. 

“That’s not true! Marty and me, we was  just mates, I had feel’n for him, sure. Marty, he done good by me. There was never anything between us. Marty ‘n me we was  just regular mates.  Henry I love you!” 

“Shhh, Tes .  .  . Thomas.” Henry was still mad. Marty was dead, but the mere thought that Marty and I had lain next to each other in a pup tent and what might have transpired, what could have transpired, made him  crazy with jealousy. 

I Finally I tried a different approach. “Henry, there was never noth’n between me ‘n Marty. We was just mates. That’s all. Henry, you’ve got to belive me! I love you. You were my first love, you’re my only love. Please stop think’n these crazy thoughts. You’n me we gotta look out for one another. We got to look to our future. Listen, Henry, you ain’t got no one―me, I sure as bloody hell ain’t got no one. Henry, you and me, we is all we got. We ain’t just best mates, we’re like family.” 

Henry looked at me, “Yeah, Tess, we’re family.” 

“Henry? If we’re family, why can’t we be a family together?” I squeezed his hand. 

“What does that mean?”           

I think Henry was waiting for the other shoe to drop. I didn’t waste any time. I dropped a clodhopper .  .  . “Henry, I love you—You love me—why can’t we get married?  Henry, will you marry me? I want to get married.” 

*      *      * 

I SHOULD THINK A GIRL’S wedding night is the thing that dreams are made of. Every girl, woman, and dreams of the day she gives herself wholly over to her husband, the day they become one. A man and a woman, they are partners in life, joined for better or for worse, for richer, or in our case, we we’re poorer. My wedding, my wedding night was nothing like I ever imagined. The first Vicar we approached refused to marry us because Henry did not have my father’s permission, even after I explained that papa was dead, and I was abandoned. The Vicar still refused to marry us; he said, ”I was too young.”  “I’m old enough to know my own mind.”  We finally found a Vicar with a fondness for the bottle; I think he’d already uncorked a few that mornings. For a shilling, and a couple of parishioners for witnesses that I didn’t even know, the ceremony was certainly bare bones.  

“Do you or don’t you, will you or won’t you, I now pronounce you man and wife.” With that, Henry and I were married. I was now for better or worse, Mrs. Henry Hawkins.

I don’t want to make it sound like the whole affair was bereft of any customary trappings. Henry wore his full Private’s dress uniform, white gloves and I think he polished his boots black until he wore a hole. He was so nervous. I wore a white dress I found a beautiful dress in a second-hand-shop. It cost me a whole shilling, but I wanted it, it was so beautiful. The woman who owned the shop was very kind when she found out I planned to be married in the dress, she insisted I take a lovely hat for no additional charge. She made a veil for me in the shop. I found out later, she had a daughter exactly my age that had died of cholera. I was glad to have the hat; I was so ashamed Henry had to marry me with my boyish haircut.  

I held a modest bouquet of Lilly-of-the-valley; we bought on the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral from one of the many flower vendors there. I always loved the way they smelled, and they were my Mama’s favorite flower. I had made peace with my mother at this point in my life, and my only wish was that she could have been there. I wrote her a letter, and told her what I had done; I gave her my Army P.O. Mama never wrote me back. 

Our wedding cake amounted to some tea and biscuits at a small shop. Henry wanted to celebrate with a couple of pints of beer. I told him beer was two pennies a pint, what was I saying? I was already starting to sound like a nagging wife. We sat in the park, and drank our beer. We joked around and talked about how much fun we used to have. It was one of those uncomfortable situations where you talk about everything but the obvious. Our conversation lapsed into an awkward silence; we sat there not saying much. I missed Domino, and I knew Henry was thinking about his brother. 

I reached over and took Henry’s hand. 

“Henry, how much money do we have left?” 

“One bob, fifteen.” 

“Is that enough?” 

“Enough to find a place to sleep I expect. Our pass runs out tomorrow .  .  . We have to report to our units in the morning.”

“Henry, it’s our wedding night.” 

Henry was reticent. 

“Henry?” 

“It’s enough, Tessa, it’s enough, alright!” 

We found ourselves a flophouse, a room for fifteen pence, that left exactly one shilling, enough money for tea in the morning. The man, who ran the flophouse, wore one of those green visors; I never knew for sure exactly, what they were for, he was smoking a Turkish cigarette. I found myself nauseated, overcome with revulsion. I was filled with irrational inexplicable hate for this man and the dangling ash of his cigarette. I could not shake the horror caused in my life by the sight, the smell, the thought of a single cigarette smoldering in a dustbin. We could not have gotten our room soon enough; Henry, I will say for his part, did sign the registrar Mr. and Mrs. Henry Hawkins. 

The room was small and not very nice; there was a bed, a washstand, a lamp and not much else. Henry checked the bed first to make sure it wasn’t “ticky.” It was private, and we were alone and I was no longer a girl, I was his wife. I will tell you up front my wedding night was a whole lot less satisfying than what I imagined and much less than what I expected. It was in short a disappointment. By the next morning-I was still very much a girl. I was Mrs. Henry Hawkins in name only; my marriage to my Henry remained unconsummated. 

It wasn’t for lack of trying. I took off my clothes; I dutifully crawled into bed, I lay next to my husband, naked. My flesh next to my Henry .  .  . While I lay there, I couldn’t help myself. My body, my mind filled with yearning, my mind flashed back to the hundred of thousands of hours I had spent crawling under thunderous power looms, smeared in grease, my lungs choked with cotton dust, naked. I crawled under these monstrous Hecatonchires of machine-works that sought to grab my body and tear my flesh. I remembered poor Lilly; her body caught, crushed, mangled by a soulless clockwork mechanism that cared neither whether it chewed flesh or wove cotton fabric. Now, I lay naked, warm, cuddled next to the man I loved, my Henry, my husband. Naked for the first time in my life with the purpose for which nakedness was intended. I offered myself freely to my husband, my Henry. Henry didn’t even try. 

“Tessa, I love you, I really do love you.” He kissed my cheek, caressed my shoulder, he kissed me on the lips, and then he turned away, he shrugged, he pushed my hand away, as if to say it was time to go to sleep.

“I love you too Henry.” I said quietly,  I cuddled next to him. I was crying inside. 

We went to sleep, much to my chagrin, that was pretty much all we did do was sleep.  Belive me, I should know, I was there!   The next morning, we both got  dressed as if we were nothing more than a couple of regular bunkmates. While Henry went about shaving,  I dawdled.  I studied myself in the mirror I made a pout. I was small, me tits, for all the good they done me, were high and well proportioned, I was  really not such a bad-looking sort of  girl.  I mustered all my feminine wiles and tried once more  to seduce my husband. I, a naked girl, threw my arms around him and kissed his soapy cheek.  Henry, pushed me a way, “Get dressed, Tessa.”  He continued shaving.  I sighed, and dutifully bound my chest.  I daubed on my fake mustache. I put on my uniform. Henry checked to see that I was smart. This was an important day for me as I was to be accepted into the Light-horse brigade.

I laid out my wedding dress on the bed for the last time. 

“You know, you can’t take that with you.” Henry said.

“I know.” I smoothed the dress one more time. A tear fell on my cheek. “I just wanted to remember how beautiful it was .  .  .”