A Cry in the Night

By George Clarke

Georgian England, at the start of the Industrial Revolution, just four years after the Battle of Waterloo.
Two children, from poor families and in dire circumstances, each have good reason to run away and seek better life. Brought together by chance; staying together from loyalty and the need for human companionship.
Developing into loving young adults with strong sense of justice and humanity, the two are appalled by the plight of the common workers. It is August 1819, and they journey to Manchester to attend a meeting. There, at St Peters Field, the radical orator, Henry Hunt, is to address the crowd. A rude shock awaits them and not all return safely to their homes there is blood on the field.
A compelling love story set in the atmosphere of oppression, class division, hatred and violence that accompanied the Industrial Revolution in general, and the Peterloo Massacre in particular.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Apr 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483612096

George Clarke

George Clarke is an architect, writer, lecturer and TV presenter. George wanted to be an architect from the age of 12 and after studying architecture at university he started his own practice. He is also the founder of MOBIE, an educational charity.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The night came quickly, but for the passenger in the coach, it mattered not one jot. Wrapped up tight in the thick sheepskin cloak against the cold northerly wind he knew that the town of Waltham was but a mile away and so very soon he would be turning his back to feel the flames of a roaring log fire on his backside. He mumbled beneath the cloak as the coach rattled noisily along the potholed road seemingly hitting every hole and rock spread along its route. He could have been any one of the many travellers who used this route on their way to and from the great city of Manchester but one look at the crest on the door and even the footpads shied away from chancing their arm for this was the coach of Col. Sir William Waverley owner of the Waverley Weaving Shed in the town of Walton and a more powerful and cruel man could not be found throughout the whole of the shire. His grim influence was widespread and knew no bounds.

Once more he gave an oath as the coach dropped into a rut throwing him from one side to the other as it turned into the drive of Walton Manor. The coach came to an abrupt halt and the door was thrown open. He stepped down on to the gravel to be greeted by his housekeeper and manservant both of whom he kept standing in the bitter cold wind while he swathed in his great coat and stood looking up at the magnificent building in front of him. He could not seem to get used to the fact that this imposing building was his alone.

His driver climbed down and stood waiting. The colonel turned and growled at him.

‘You’ll be the death of me yet, Barton. You drive like we were charging the bloody ’eathens, you blasted dolt.’

Barton, his personal servant, whom he had brought home with him from India only sneered. It should have been a smile but a rebel spear had caught him in the face when fighting alongside the colonel in India, leaving him with a permanent sort of grin. The only thing that had saved him had been the colonel who had carved his assailant down. Jack Barton had been attached to him ever since.

Sir William pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders as the wind clawed at the astrakhan collar pulled well up to his ears, heedless of his servants shivering as they waited. The large house, with three floors and many bedrooms, stood stark even in the dimness of the dusk. He sneered at the size of it—some of the rooms he had not even started searching. His father had collected many artifacts on his many travels and the colonel gloated over the thought of them with a grim smile on his face ‘Mine now, Father,’ he muttered. ‘Got it all in the end, didn’t I? Well, I’m master now and things are changing, and God help any of the snivelling reprobates who laughed when you threw me out. If they’re still alive, that is, and if they are, I’ll make ’em wish they weren’t.’

He chuckled evilly to himself and snapped at his servant.

‘Right, Barton, shap’ yerself, get these idiots to put my stuff away while I defrosts me backside.’

Barton nodded and turned to unload the colonel’s bags. Not long now before he had a nip of something to warm his inside as well.

Since the death of his father, Sir James Waverley, some months ago, the house had been left with a housekeeper in his father’s employ, and it was just two months ago that the ‘colonel’ had returned from army service in India in order to carry on the family name and business, there being no one else to do so. The order book was full with the cottons and cloth for the army of Great Britain. Then there was his father’s fortune, not yet accounted for in the full amount. Money! That was the great draw that brought him home—money and power. At last he was home and they were all going to know who was master.

It had been many years since he had been bought into the army by a distraught father at his wit’s end to know just what to do with his wayward son, and the army had seemed to be the answer to his problems. He had hoped that it would instill some discipline into his only son’s wild life, and as the coach had bumped and clattered along the bad roads, the colonel had let his mind wander and fester as he remembered what had happened those many years ago and the rage overtook his thoughts at the recollection of his father sending him away.

‘You’d not like me now, Father,’ he mused to himself. ‘Not one little bit! I hated you for getting rid of me, but I’m back now and your money is going to be my power. I’m not as soft as you were an’ some of ’em are goin’ tuh jump.’

As a young man he had run with a crowd whose depravity and authority had overflowed at everyone else’s expense. They knew no rules or ethics except to create mayhem and trouble wherever they went. They were feared for cruelty, he more than most. Once he was drunk, which was most of the time, he would often charge straight through the marketplace knocking stalls and produce every which way, just for the hell of it. With his father away on business, he had been a terror of the district at large.

His father, the late Sir James Waverley, had been the district magistrate when he had been at home, but being mostly away in the city, his only son had been left to his own devices and caring for the mill had been left in the hands of the mill foreman. Sir James had been a reasonable man, but with his acumen for business, it meant that much of his time had been spent away from his home and responsibilities, his son being left much to his own devises. He had been very rich and powerful but feared as well, mainly for his inability to control his son whom he had doted on.

William, on the other hand, had been a hothead and with other sons of the rich and powerful did almost anything he wanted; anyone getting in his way or raising a grumble was horsewhipped on the spot, until one day in a drunken rage he whipped a man to death. There was a hue and cry but nothing proved although there were more than twenty people who had witnessed it.

When Sir James heard of his son’s brutality, he had been horrified, but William was his only son, and though he lay down the law to him, William was unrepentant. Sir James could think of only one recourse and that was the army. William was appalled and ranted against his father’s decision to the extent that his father threatened to have him written out of his will. At this William calmed down. Surely his father would not do that, but one look at Sir James’s distraught face he had realised that he would not change his father’s mind.

Sir James had been shocked at the tales of his only son’s crazy escapades and blamed himself for his debauchery. He was shamed. He knew that perhaps William needed some discipline in his life and he had let his son down but no more. Though it broke his heart, he knew that William had to go.

Although Sir James had been shaken to the very core, he could not disown William nor could he throw him out without a penny, so he bought him a lieutenancy in the Hussars with the hope that army life would be the right place for all his extrovert tendencies. He had made him a good allowance, and William left some weeks later still in a rage and totally unrepentant, vowing never to speak another word to his father.

He settled into the army quickly but was excluded from many of the usual official society gatherings due to his demeanour which eliminated anyone who opposed him, and within weeks he found himself bound for India. His gambling soon found him mixing with a crowd of social misfits, but his luck at the tables more than covered his losses.

Once ensconced in his regimentals, he seemed to fit into the life of the hot climate of the Indian Station, but even there he was soon regarded with suspicion over his cruelty with the natives. The only man who seemed to take to him and looked after him was Private Jack Barton. Why he liked him no one could fathom out except that the colonel had saved his life and from then on Jack had followed him everywhere; eventually the colonel took him on as his bat-man or personal servant and there he stayed.

For all his cruel streak William was no coward and soon won for himself a grudging admiration for his fearless charges against the insurgents. He led and others followed. Soon he rose in rank either by buying or bravery until he acquired the rank of colonel which he held when his father was killed. His grief was short-lived for he had never forgiven his father for throwing him out, but he had to return home as a stipulation of his father’s will and take up the reins of the family business or there would be no further income forthcoming. His mother had died when he was a child, so he was now the owner of Waverley Weaving Shed and the town was terrified.

Though he had been a hellcat in his younger days he had somehow managed to soak up some of the workings of his father’s business. As it turned out, he had a good head on his shoulders. He knew just what he wanted and how to get it. He chuckled to himself—his time was now and payment was due! The colonel was still smiling at the thoughts as he made his way to his bed; tomorrow was the day for the buyers. He had not been home long but he had met some of them, whom he despised. He disliked them all, but they were coming to buy his cloth, and that meant that anything they wanted, they got, if he could provide it and, knowing the buyers, he knew he could provide.

The next morning he was up early as usual, and after a good breakfast that would have fed any of his workers for a week, he walked down to the mill. He gloried in the feeling of the power he wielded so they had better watch out this morning; the buyers would be here at ten and he would be ready. The entertainment was planned for them in the warehouse but before that he would fuel their fires with drinks from his well-stocked bar. His foreman and toady Fred Taylor had pointed out a particular young girl of about fourteen who fitted the bill perfectly. Her family needed the money, so he would have no comebacks, of this he was sure.

‘You’re mine, you sluts,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Just do as you are told and keep your mouth shut.’ They did that too. A few coppers made a big difference in any of their households.

In his office he sat behind his desk checking his morning’s work when Fred Taylor opened the door and rushed in. The colonel jumped to his feet, eyes blazing at the intrusion.

‘Who the hell told you that you could come into my office without knocking?’

Fred stood in the middle of the office, cap in hand, his eyes twitching nervously.

‘But, sir,’ he spluttered. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but she refused to come. Said she wouldn’t. Not fer anybody.’

‘What you whining at, man? Who said she wouldn’t come? Is she one of the tough little girls that you, my main charge-hand, cannot handle? If not then I’ll get one who can and you still haven’t given me an excuse not to thrash you, you impudent bugger, bursting in here like one of yer betters.’

Fred stood nervously. He was not any sort of coward, but this man could and would do anything he wanted for disobedience of any kind. He should have knocked, but this was rebellion and in his hurry he had forgot himself. Someone would have to pay for this total refusal of the colonel’s authority. He just hoped it would not be him.

‘Sorry, sir,’ he growled. ’Twern’t my fault an’ I thought it were so important, a slut refusing to come when you called ’er.’

The colonel glared at him. He would sort him out later.

‘Where did you lose her, you dolt?’ he snarled. ‘Find her or I’ll have yer tripes.’

Fred turned and fled, if he could only catch her he would be OK, but if not, he groaned.

After Fred had left, the colonel banged his fist angrily down on his desk.

‘Won’t come when I tell her, aye? Well, we’ll see about that. I’ll have the skin off her back, at least when they’ve finished with her.’

With that he stormed out of the office and across the yard to the noisy weaving shed. He all but yanked the door off its hinges in his anger.

He did not seem to notice the increase in the blast of sound as he opened the door. All he could see was his overlookers standing watching his bully boys trying to cut off a young girl who seemed to flit and run around and under the clapping looms in her panic to escape the grabbing hands of her pursuers.

‘So the slut thinks she can defy me, does she? Get her and bring her to me.’

Suddenly he caught sight of the girl flitting in and out of the chattering frames.

‘Stop the girl,’ he screamed, his voice sounding even above the roar of the chattering frames.

He was standing, feet apart, pointing at the lithe figure of the girl, his face glowing red with apoplectic emotion.

He was dressed ready for his buyers. Obviously rich and dressed in good-quality coat and pants, he held in his hands a silver-topped cane which he swished about with too much consternation. Beneath his coat showed a fearful fancy waistcoat which only set to emphasise his belly. His legs were encased in a pair of shiny black riding boots as befitted an ex-officer of Wellington’s army, while on his head he wore a fashionable curled wig of the period. His apoplectic be-whiskered face seemed to be ready to burst forth from the high-winged collar. Known to all as the master, he stood belligerently, brandishing his cane wildly. Though he had only been in charge for a short time, his reputation had gone before him and he was feared by all who came in contact with him. Such was his power that he was obeyed without question.

His bawling voice, though loud enough to sound a charge on the field of battle, was almost immediately swallowed up by the thunderous roar of the machinery, the girl in question being one Mary Anne Catlow. She stood about five-foot high in her clogs. She was slight of build but with an emerging beauty and figure that had been the cause of her being ‘noticed’.

Knowing, as she did, what happened to some of the girls who had been noticed by the overlookers and now the colonel, she had used all her ingenuity to hide her figure beneath her black dress which in itself was covered by her working brat, but it had all been in vain. Her urchin-like face was surrounded by a mop of unruly hair, which had been ruled to be kept beneath a mop cap but which now was swaying down her back and around her shoulders out of control as she ran swiftly down the alleyways, swerving to avoid her pursuers trying to cut her off. The clogs on her feet caused sparks, like so many mayflies, as they scratched the ironwork holding the looms.

Mary ran in a panic which drove her to dangerous extremes as she twisted and turned around beneath the clattering machinery. She stopped for a moment, her eyes flashing wildly, her head turning from side to side seeking a way out with the desperation of a hunted animal in her bid to escape the clutches of the furious mill owner.

For once she was glad of the dust which pervaded the dimness of the room, the cause of many chest complaints, but also knowing that she would be hard to see in the gloom. Once more her lithe figure flitted under the frames that clacked just inches above her head as she crawled and ran amongst them, then suddenly she stopped running as she realised that they could not see her. A plan formed in her head, a slim one but all that she had.

She waited, huddled down amongst the cotton waste, near one of the doors. The master had sent someone to block that door, but there was so much dust that it might just work. She had to give it a try. After a moment the door swung back and one of the women passed through taking the eyes of the bruisers of the door just for a moment. Mary moved quickly and then she was through and slipped behind a bale of cotton. She crouched, quivering with fear and excitement, waiting for a big hand to reach behind the bale and grab her. She waited. Nothing happened—he had not seen her.

‘O God, please help me,’ she prayed.

She snuggled further back into the stacked bales, a tear glistening in her eye. How could she get out? She knew quite well what the master had in store for her. It had happened to many before her. He was the law. There was no escape, this she knew. The master made all the rules. Fines were imposed for the flimsiest break in those rules, opening windows without permission, singing, whistling, talking, and many more. The authoritarian discipline was much feared and hated, but then this was the early nineteenth century where money was everything and a mill owner was God. His word was law, and only the most intrepid would flaunt them.

A whimper escaped her lips, and she clasped her hand over her mouth lest someone should hear her. She had known for a long time just what happened in the warehouse when girls were ordered to wait on the master and his friends where few came away unscathed. So far she had kept out of their ways, hiding her figure as best she could, all but succeeding. Today all her fears had come true and her heart raced once more as she realised that she was not out of the mill yet.

‘He won’t get me,’ she muttered. ‘Not if I’ve owt to do with it.’

She mouthed her defiance.

‘He won’t take me, he won’t! I’ll die first.’

Brave words from one so young but violent in their sincerity! She had dressed down to hide her figure, worn any old clothing or rags, keeping her eyes away from his cronies, and kept well out of their ways, but it had been to no avail—the master had spies everywhere and there was no escape. She had been ‘noticed’, and he had been informed; it was then just a matter of time before she was called. The word had come just before break and she had panicked. Then she wept. Why did certain people have such power that they could ruin people’s lives? Why?

The colonel was rich and had no scruples. He was back in the world of commerce which he considered was his right. His father had made the fortune, which he did not mind one bit. It was his to do with whatever he pleased, and his inclination and power was about to be displayed to his buyers in the form of their fancies. He turned once more to his foreman.

‘Is this the best you can do, man? Move yerself and find the slut or I’ll have the hide of your back.’

Fred Taylor shrank from his wrath, thinking how he could catch her. She was like a willow-the-wisp. He had looked everywhere he could think of in his eagerness to catch her, but it was no use—one minute she was there and the next she seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth.

In the warehouse Mary’s legs were aching from the crouched position she was in. It had been some time since she had heard anyone at all. Maybe they had forgotten about her.

That was wishful thinking on her part and she knew it. How she managed to escape from the shed she could hardly believe. She thought back, ‘What to do now?

If I go back now they’ll ’ave me, an’ I’ll get leathered an’ still ’ave to go to the shed.’

Once again her situation made her cringe.

Mary had worked at the mill for over a year now, and she had vowed that it would not happen to her, but times were hard and money scarce so many of the young girls were just used out of hand.

‘Oh, Maggie, I owe you,’ she whispered.

The Maggie in question, Maggie Harper, was a harridan of a woman, caustic with her tongue and hard to get to know. She knew all the angles in the mill and liked her Gin whenever she could get it, but for some reason she had taken to Mary when she had first entered the mill and it had been Maggie who had shielded her at the first shout. Pushing her down among the filth of cotton waste, she said, ‘Run, lass, don’t stop fer owt. Keep going no matter what. We’ll lead ’em off, if we con. They’ll not lay a finger on thee if I con ’elp it. Quick, get under theer.’

At Maggie’s word, Mary had wriggled under one of the frames, the vicious shuttles flashing only inches away from her face, the word of the young lad still wringing in her ears.

She had felt the pull at her skirt, and on turning, her heart had leapt—the young lad who ran all the errands was standing there, a big grin on his face.

‘’e wants yuh. The master wants yuh. Said tuh come quick tu’t bale room, said tuh come quick ’cause ’es got some gentry wi’ ’im.’

He looked at her for a moment, and giving a giggle he ran off. Even at six years old, they knew what went on in the warehouse. Mary’s face had paled. She was only fourteen, but she knew all about men and young girls and the fettlin’ that went on in the dark corridors of this mill.

‘Oh, Maggie,’ she cried. ‘I can’t. I won’t.’

Tears had coursed down her face as she realised the futility of her position. She spoke through gritted teeth.

‘They can’t force me. They can’t.’

She remembered gripping a spindle so tightly that it had splintered, and then with a cry of anguish she had been off and here she was, hunted.

Her thoughts returned to her best friend Luce Cartwright when she had heard of what had happened to one of the other girls the previous week.

‘If they ever call me, Luce, I won’t go. I know he’s the master, but I’m not like that. When I get married, I’ll be fit an’ ready for my husband without ’avin’ been ravished by a group of giggling jennies. I promise you, Luce, I’ll fight until they kill me afore I lets them take me for their pleasure.’

She had bitten her lip until it bled thinking of the shame if they caught her. How could she go on with a child at her hip? Being pregnant and unmarried was a condition looked down on by most people of the town, even though they knew how some of the pregnancies came about, but none would speak out. It was more than their job or in some cases their lives were worth. Though they lived in hard days, her parents, especially her mother, were God-fearing people. What they would say or do if she were to be used in the warehouse Mary could only fear.

The world that Mary lived in was to say the least grossly unfair. The year was 1815, with soldiers returning from the wars with the French only a few months earlier. Some injured or unfit for work were being discarded now that the war had been won at a place called Waterloo. They wandered from town to town begging or stealing their food, being moved on by the Watch. If lucky, some of them would have learnt to play instruments and could join groups of wandering players playing in alehouses or such; some even had a trade before falling foul of the evil of drink and then having been prey to the words of a recruiting sergeant with his offer of a shilling a day and the call of the drum, only to be thrown on the scrap heap of life should they survive the blood and thunder of battle.

Mary moved her position to ease her aching limbs. Her breathing was becoming easier as she got her breath back. She cowered down behind the bales with the knowledge that it was here that she had been ordered to report. She had hoped that this was the last place they would expect to find her. That had been the plan, and so far it was working. The point was: Would it carry on working?

Suddenly she heard a door open, and her heart seemed to stop. Had they found her? A voice sounded, and she realised that it must be the master and his buyers.

‘O Lord, please don’t let them find me now!’ A tremor passed through her at the sound of his voice. She heard a voice whimpering. They must have found someone else. She tried not to move. A man’s voice sounded excited.

‘Right, girl, off with yer clouts now, don’t keep yer betters waitin’.’

She heard a smack and then a cry.

‘Stop yer snivellin’ an’ get on wi’h it, ain’t gonna hurt you. Might even enjoy it!’

There was loud laughter, and then another voice joined in.

‘Scrawny wench, ain’t she? Come on now, let’s have a good look at you.’

The child must have been petrified. Again Mary heard the sound of a smack and another cry of pain.

‘Gawd, not much meat on this ’un, Colonel.’

They all laughed.

‘Come on, girl, don’t have time to waste waiting for you, get ’em off.’

After a while the sound of grunting and the whimpering of the girl told Mary they were using the girl some way, and by the sound of her cries, she did not like it. Mary peeped round the side of the bale to see them grouped round a small weeping figure, her threadbare dress round her ankles. She was naked. Mary ducked down again as the colonel’s voice rang out.

‘Come on now, girl, you knows what to do you’ve been here afore.’

Again the sound of a smack.

‘Say this for you, Colonel, they’re a bit scrawny, but they do know how to get you outstanding, so to speak. Come to me, girl, and attend afore I lose me ardour`.’

The girl was silent now, but the gents were not so.

‘Well done, girl, yer not much but you knows what to do.’

Mary heard the colonel’s voice after what seemed an eternity.

‘Right, girl, get yer clouts on and get back to work.’

Another voice.

‘’ere girl, summat fer yer troubles.’

A clink of coins on the flag floor. Another laugh.

‘Yer keep a good ’ouse, Colonel.’

Mary heard the clink of empty bottles, and another voice said laughingly, ‘A good start to the working day, what!’

Mary heard the door open and close behind them as they all left, but she waited for a few seconds to make sure that all the men had left the shed. Cautiously, she peeped round the side of the bale and after a good look round she crept out of her hideaway and over to the weeping girl, who she recognised her immediately.

‘You OK, Elsie?’ she asked, knowing the answer almost before she asked. ‘Why didn’t you run like I did? They’d never ’ave catched you.’

The girl stopped snivelling and looked at her loathingly.

‘’Twas you they should’ve caught then, Mary Catlow, then I’d ’ave bin left alone. They caught me last month an’ I didn’t get knocked up this time, but they made me do other things. I bloody ’ate you an’ yer bloody purity, you stuck-up cow.’

She broke off and started to snivel again.

Mary tried to put her arm around the girl’s shoulder, but it was shrugged of violently as the weeping girl pulled her dress around her once again ‘They’ll catch you one though an’ then it’ll be no use yer tryin’ tuh keep yer and on yer a penny.’

Mary once again put her arm round the sobbing girl.

‘I’m sorry, Elsie, really I am, but I just couldn’t let them do those awful things to me, not for anything. I’d die first. I’m sorry they caught you instead of me, but when you saw what they were about, you should have gone an’ hidden.’

Elsie shrugged Mary’s hand off her shoulder.

‘I were too late.’ She sobbed. ‘Too bloody late! They ’ad me afore I could run.’

She stopped crying and wiped her eyes with the edge of her dress.

‘I ’opes they do get you one day, ’an I’ll bet you squeal blue murder when they does but I’ll bet you won’t even get paid fer keepin’ ’em ’appy, yuh wouldn’t know the first think what tuh do.’

With that she bent down and picked up the coins they had thrown on the floor.

‘See, six pennies, they won’t give you that much, I con tell you ’cause you know nowt.’

Mary turned away so that Elsie wouldn’t see her red face. She now knew that Elsie was not so badly hurt, not even her pride, but she did not know what to say to the girl.

She turned back to Elsie.

‘Once again, Elsie, I’m so sorry, honest I am, but I’ll have to go chance they find me.’

‘You run then, Mary Catlow, but they’ll catch you, you can’t get away.’ She sniggered. ‘An’ it’ll all ’ave been fer nowt. Serve you right, you snotty bitch.’

Mary tried to think of a snappy reply but thought better about it; after all it had been Elsie who had been made to ‘attend’ to the so-called gentlemen. With that she quietly left Elsie counting her pennies in the warehouse, and once again after all the hue and cry, she managed to slip back into the weaving shed, passing the knowing looks of the older women. They knew what happened in the warehouse, but what could they do? They had to stay in work to feed their families.

She crept back to where Maggie Harper was waiting, her face red with the shame of the thought of them knowing she had been in the warehouse with the master, even though he had not known she was there.

Lucy Cartwright came to her with tears in her eyes. Maggie stood in front to hide them.

‘Mary, are you OK?’ she asked. ‘Did they catch you?’

Mary shook her head.

‘No, they didn’t. I hid in the warehouse behind the bales and they didn’t even look.’

‘Oh, Mary, what’er you goin’t do? They’ll be on the lookout for you now.’

‘If you’ll help me get out tonight, Luce, I’ll be OK, but I’m not comin’ back tomorrow.’

She shuddered at the thought.

‘I have to get away.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know, but I’ll see what Mam says.’

Luce hugged her.

‘Good luck, Mary, I’ll not forget you. I have to stay fer now and try to keep out of ther’ way, but don’t forget me an’ let me know where you are.’

Mary promised and turned away hoping Luce would not see her tears. Wiping her eyes she set her face in defiance. She’d made her mind up, and weeping over very nearly spilt milk, as her mother called it, would not help one bit.

The time for leaving arrived and all the women crowded round Mary, shielding her from the bully-boys waiting for them all to pass out of the shed. Keeping her head well down in their midst, out into the night air and across the yard seemed to take forever, but at last the mill gates were behind her, and thanking them all she ran quickly down the street and into the backyard of her home.

She stood there panting with her back to the yard gate and listening, but there was no sound of anyone following her. At last she relaxed and very nearly swooned from all the pressure she had faced during the afternoon. She muttered a silent prayer of thanks to the other women without whose help she would never have got out unscathed and entered her house.

Chapter 2

The closing of the backyard door behind her brought home the enormity of what she had done that afternoon. She had defied the master, something that even the most fearless of his workers had dared not to do. Having and keeping a job, even on such low wages was foremost in everyone’s mind and defying the master was an invitation for disaster.

Entering the house Mary looked round at their one downstairs’ room. Their large table covered most of the room with her baby sister playing beneath it, her mother baking, and the large cooking pot on a swing hob over the fire forever bubbling with any leftovers from their previous evening’s meal. On the back wall a large set of drawers dominated that part of the room. Nothing changed, flag floors with nothing but a square of carpet before the fire.

Her mother hardly acknowledged Mary’s entrance.

‘See to Louisa, lass, it’s time for ’er bed.’

Mary hesitated.

‘Well, go on, lass, lads’ll be back fro’t pub soon an’ they’ll be ’ell tuh pay if’n ther foods not on’t table.’

‘Mam, I need tuh talk to yuh.’

‘In a minute, girl, can’t yuh see I’m busy?’

A tear fell from Mary’s eye, and quickly she blurted out what had happened that afternoon.

‘An I can’t go back, Mam, er they’ll have me.’

Her mother stopped her baking, her worried look taking in the tearful girl in front of her.

‘Aye, I ’eard. Lizzie Roberts told me just afore you come in. I know it’s bad ’an I don’t want thee knocked up, but how are we tuh do bowt them few coppers yuh brings in. Lads’ll not chip in any more of ther ale money. They needs that tuh tak away all that coal dust they swallows down in that damn pit. Sorry, lass, but tha’ll just ’ave tuh be quicker ’n them.’

Mary was shocked at her mother’s apparent callousness.

‘Mam, how can you say that?’ She wept. ‘They make the rules and we have to obey them or get chucked out, or even knocked up as you say. They can take me any time they want and there is no one going to stop them.’

Looking at her mother head down and back to her baking, Mary realised that she had no escape. Not that her mother did not care, she was caught in the same trap. If there was no money coming in, then they would have to go without food on the table. She wept and clenched her hands in exasperation, her terrorised look taking in the rest of the room. She was trapped, and there was very little she could do about it; this was 1815, and it seemed that no one cared about the ordinary people. The money men were in total charge, and as long as they were making a profit, then all was well with their world. Money was their god and nothing must stand in the way of their making it. The tears flowed down her face at the realisation of her position, and only one thing could save her now.

Wiping the tears from her cheeks Mary bent down and picked the child, who was eating something off the floor.

‘Dirty, Louisa, dirty,’ she said, automatically picking her up and carrying her to a washbasin in the corner of the room where she started to wash the child ready for bed. She dressed her in her nightdress and surveyed the smiling youngster.

‘There you are, nice and clean ready for bed.’ She carried the child up the rough stone steps to the bedroom where all the rest of the Catlow brood slept, including her brothers; her mother and father slept in the second bedroom. She put Louisa down on the mattress laid out on the floor, crooning to her as she did so, and within minutes Louisa was fast asleep.

Returning downstairs Mary ate her meal of bread and dripping at the table. As she ate she cringed at the memories of the beltings that had taken place in this room, round this very table. Girl or boy, it mattered not. If something displeased her father, it was pants or bloomers down and his leather belt across their bottoms. If her father was too drunk to administer the punishment then one of her malicious brothers would take over. This was not a very happy family. Her father did not care for the females of the family, and he showed it.

On his way home from the pit after a hard day’s work, he would be seen striding hurriedly to the Ale House to quench his thirst, and woe betide any youngster who got in his way.

‘Out of me way, you Devil’s brood’ was one of his favourite growls, his voice gritty with the intake of so much coal dust. His was a hard job deep down in the bowels of the earth with the constant threat of a roof fall. Men, women, and children, some as young as five years old, used to keep the fans going in an overheated atmosphere, women stripped to the waist working alongside their men in the darkness of a ‘Hell on Earth’ as it was called. The thought of what he would say and do when he eventually came home turned her legs to jelly, and once more the tears started to flow. She turned to her five-year-old sister Sally.

‘I can’t go back there tomorrow, Sal, I can’t. I won’t! I won’t!’

Sally did not reply, she never did. Nor did she smile, just played outside or up to bed. Mary cuddled her.

‘Sorry, love, but you’re the only one who’ll listen and you don’t understand anything I’m saying.’

She wept and clenched her fingers so hard that the blood crept between her fingers at the outrage and frustration she was feeling at her predicament.

Finishing her meal she gathered up her sister Sally, and with a sad goodnight to her mother they went to their bedroom, settling down beneath the thin blankets to try to get some sleep before her brothers arrived home.

It was not long before she was disturbed by the shouts and whistles coming from the house next-door where she realised that an illicit boxing match was taking place.

‘Crack ’im, Jed. Watch ’is left. Oh ’ell, I told you to watch ’is left. Come on, get up, you’re not ’urt that much.’

There was a clang of a bell and the shouting stopped as that round was finished, but she knew it would be only seconds before they were to tow the line again. She was well aware what went on with fists flying and not just among the fighters. It was barbaric to her mind, two grown men swinging hardened fists at one another until one of them could not tow the line after being knocked down. Sometimes it would be dog fighting or just anything they could bet on. Her brothers were just as bad. One of them, Jed, was standing on some stones looking over the apex of the inside roof where he could just see the fighters.

‘D’you realise, our Mary’, he said excitedly one night as they listened to the noise coming from the next door, ‘that were Billy Brothers fighting in there, just for an exhibition o’ course.’ It had been a silly question, but she had asked anyway.

‘Who’s Billy Brothers when he’s at home?’

Jed was very keen on the art of fisticuffs, as it was called and which was banned at that time and very nearly fell off the stones he was balancing on. This gave them all a laugh but left Jed spluttering with indignation.

‘Don’t ask daft questions,’ he growled. ‘Don’t girls know nowt? ’e’s on’y the champion o’ the north of England. He beat Tommy Johnson in the seventieth round tuh win the title. Must a been a great fight that, knocked his eye out in the sixty first round as well. Mary nearly fainted as he went on about other great fights as he called them, but he didn’t seem to notice. He just went on and on about more gruesome fights until she pulled the blanket over her head and covered her ears, falling asleep with him still prattling on about fighting.’

She woke suddenly, disregarding the snoring of the others in the bedroom, wild thoughts bedevilling her mind as the seriousness of what she was planning hit her, sending a cold shiver down her spine. That was it. She had to leave but how and what with? The only thing she was really certain of was that she could not return to the mill on the following day. It had to be now or never. It was madcap, but gritting her teeth she knew that this was all that was left to her.

Though only fourteen years of age, she was a fast-emerging beauty. Her learning had come from the back room of ‘Old Mother Bakers’ shop where, although Mother Baker could not read or write she had a niece that could do both, even if it was by writing in the sand. It had been hard to take everything in, but she had persevered. She couldn’t afford to waste her farthing and not learn. Her father was a tyrant and her mother weary and old before her time, but she loved them both just the same and the feeling of disloyalty coursed through her young mind. Her mind made up she crept out of bed and crept down the cold stone steps into the kitchen.

Her thoughts now calmed down, and she stopped to think. Taking a strip of her mother’s towling she bound her young breasts tightly and taking one of her brother’s dirty caps crammed her hair beneath it. Next she rubbed her hands in the coal bucket and smeared her face with it; she then pulled her one and only jacket tight and tied it with a piece of rope. Over one of the chairs was one of her brother’s pants, and putting them on, she giggled at them and the bagginess. It did not matter though, so she tucked the bottoms into her socks, pulled on her boots, and she was ready. Some of her mother’s baking was under a cover on the sideboard, and she put some of them into a small bag she found, and that with a bottle of water was her pack. On the mantelpiece was a jug where any coins were kept, and she found six pennies in there, and with a whimper at stealing them, she opened the back door and let herself out into the cold night. Shivering at the cold, something she had not taken into consideration, she scampered along the street, keeping to the shadows, chance the nightwatchman saw her. She stopped just once to look back at the only home she had