TESSA CLAIBORNE

TESSA CLAIBORNE

A

Novel

by Smcallis

This is a work of fiction. No similarities between any person living or dead is intended, and any such similarity is purely coincidental. All characters © 2007 by Smcallis.

Chapter 5

HENRY and HENRY

THE NEXT DAY WAS SUNDAY; I resolved to take Sally to a proper tea. We greeted Sunday with a certain measure of joy, as Sunday represented a brief respite from factory work. Being good Anglican Christians, even the soulless management of WSPFS did not require us to work on Sunday. Sunday was ostensibly a day of rest. Aside from morning prayers, on Sunday, we were free for the most part to do as we pleased. Of course, since there wasn’t any factory work, Sundays included numerous domestic chores like sweeping the barracks, airing out of the dormitory and laundry. If one worked diligently, sometimes there was time in the late afternoon to pursue leisure.

It wasn’t as if we were exactly prisoners of the London Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory. In theory, slavery was abolished in Great Britain in 1770 much to the haughty superior and forward thinking House of Lords, who looked down upon their neighbors across the pond. These same legislative superiors never hesitated one instant to profit from an institution that required our English-speaking cousins to fight a bloody civil war to accomplish the same legislative achievement.

I should probably explain that even though I worked some sixty-eight hours a week, I never saw any money. I was never paid so much as a brass farthing; I was in fact in debt. I owed my wages to the company. Each month I received a bill detailing the cost of my housing, found and upkeep. The long and the short of the argument was, despite any haughty notion of emancipation by act of Parliament in 1770, we were for practical purposes slaves of the London Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory. First, there was nowhere to go; secondly, we were all destitute. I owed my soul to the company store. Some of us were so in debt that even if we worked five-hundred hours a week we could never be free. This was the harsh reality of the mercantile system of the nineteenth century.

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 such leisure, money in my pocket. This was a new experience. We scrubbed our faces and put on what amounted to our best clothes and rode the lift down to the Greene street exit. Sally and I set out on the streets of London to have a proper tea. 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.

We were summarily turned away from the first establishment. The proprietor turned his nose up at us.

"We don't serve your kind here!"

I looked at Sally, and looked down at my own grey smock. It was worn but clean, our faces and hands were scrubbed bright, we had on fresh crisp aprons and our best poke bonnets. Even though I had a shilling in my pocket, it seemed as though we were second class-citizens. The second place we tried we had more luck, it wasn't so fancy as homey. It was run by an elderly couple, they fussed over us. It was such a lovely tea, with crisp cucumber sandwiches, lemon curd, and strawberry tarts. We had two full pots of tea, lemon, sugar. It was the loveliest experience of my life. It cost eight pence, but I was glad to pay.

After our tea, Sally and I walked in the warm afternoon sun to Wilmington Square, where the streets converged there was a park, a pleasant place where families gathered under the shade of noble oaks. In the center was a great statue of King George III, and his court of noisey, hungry pigeons. This is the place where Sally and I came to sit that afternoon, this is where I met Domino. This is how I met my two life-brothers, Henry and Henry. I already had eight brothers, who could have thought I needed two more?

Domino, he was so friendly, he came up to us at once, tail wagging. Sally said she didn’t much care for dogs, but I couldn’t resist. Domino was a beautiful black and white spotted Dalmatian. Growing up in the Welsh countryside, I had never seen a Dalmatian and he seemed most exotic. I think it was mostly that I missed my own dog Jack. That Domino instantly stole my heart. Domino, that was his name, even though I didn’t know it at the time. I alternated between calling him “Dog” and “Boy” before finally settling on “Wacky” for White and black and because he was so silly and full of fun. Domino he was a prince. He was the grandest and most wonderful dog I had ever met. We played in the park until we were silly.

Domino, he was so much fun that was I was caught quite by surprise when the gong of the fire bell sounded.

“WACKY! COME BACK!”

People think that the Dalmatian firehouse dog is a tradition, just a mascot. Dalmatians it seems get along exceptionally well with horses. In the age of the steamer, horses and fire runs, nothing could be further from the truth. It was the job of the firehouse dog, to clear the way, to clear the street for the thundering steeds as they exited the firehouse.

Domino he knew he was important. He was a coach dog; he took off like an electric charge. Before I knew it, Domino was gone across the street racing for the firehouse. All pandemonium broke loose. It was organized chaos of the first order. The horses, they knew what to do, the jangle of the alarm bells; they left their stalls and fell into line behind the fire pumper. Domino, he charged into the fray like a sergeant, barking orders as the horses, the firefighters spilled down this long shinny steel pole. With in three minutes the horses were hitched and great gouts of black smoke poured from the steam boiler. Only then, did the Fire Captain lash the team, the fire bell clanged, the company thundered from the firehouse. I watched as Domino charged fearlessly, under the flashing hooves of the horses. It was the most thrilling experience of my life.

I always felt a little bit guilty, poor Sally, I think I paid more attention that afternoon to Domino than I did my friend Sally. He must have made an impression on me, because next Sunday, early, despite Sally's protests, I was ensconced like a schoolgirl in the park across from the Wilmington Street firehouse, I waited for Domino, I waited for the fire bell to ring.

In the summer of 1878, I had very little hope to occupy my life. 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 strawberry blonde. 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 hideous.

I always thought it unfair how God could have given me such beautiful hair and such an awful body. I was so boyish and gangly; I was nothing really to look at. I was worked to the bone; any hint of puberty was stunted by malnutrition. My boobs, such as they were, my burgeoning womanly shape may have eventually precluded me from crawling under machinery, but I never thought my breast were such as to be attractive to men. Clad in my factory smock, I was a drab little barefoot creature; a was a penniless, destitute, skinny, malnourished girl with no hope, no prospects, no family and no future.

Domino, he didn’t care, he didn’t know . . . He didn't know I was a hideous little gamine. He came up to me without judgment, with joy in his heart. We played in front of the Wilmington square firehouse. One shilling, remember the shilling? Twelve pence, I still had four pence left. I found out for two pence I could buy some nice scraps of meat from the butcher. I ended up spending the rest of the shilling on treats for Domino. Domino he wolfed them down. Sally disapproved; she said it was a sin to waste money on feeding a dog. I said it was my money and I could do as I pleased. Domino was happy to oblige.

Domino, he didn’t much care, he didn’t know I was a scrawny little nothing. He came to me with joy in his heart. I had some kidneys wrapped in brown paper. Domino was hungry as usual. We played in front of the statue of King George. It was here, in Wilmington Square on a Sunday afternoon that I met Henry. Sally, she was always jealous of me. Even though we had our understanding, she always liked me more than I wanted to like her. When I met Henry, when Henry became important in my life, Sally and I had our big falling out.

Why Henry ever noticed me, to this day, I will never know. I always thought Sally was so much better looking, she was taller, more mature, and her boobs were bigger than mine.

“Oy, Mate, that’s my dog!”

'Oy yourself, and I'm not your Mate."

"Sorry, but that's my dog."

I looked up, it was man, a boy really, he had a ruddy cheerful face, sandy blonde hair. He was trying to grow a mustache. Domino he was such a sport, he broke the ice and got us over our awkward moment. Domino wolfed the kidneys greedily.

"My name is Henry . . . this is Domino."

Henry and Henry were two brothers, second-generation fire fighters at the Wilmington Square Pumper Co. 99 Firehouse. Their father, Henry Sr. was Captain of the firehouse until his death in 1876. Firefighting it seemed was both a dangerous and a family business. His son, Henry Jr. was twenty-eight. Henry Jr. was born sickly and not expected to live. Therefore, when his younger brother was born, he also was named Henry. In the firehouse, this never seemed to cause any confusion. Henry Jr. was the acting Fire Captain. His younger brother, Henry III, my Henry, was seventeen; he was the second assistant engineer.

Henry’s older brother, Henry Jr. was the senior Fireman, the boiler engineer, and acting Fire Captain. He was very serious in regards to the care and service of his fire wagon. There was no foolishness with Henry Jr. He kept a constant low fire in boiler number two. The horses were trained, ready and groomed. Domino he knew what to do. If the telegraph alarm sounded a mere couple of shovels of coal and Henry Jr. could have full head of steam, in the same amount of time it took his men to slide down the pole and harness the horses, they could be off. This was a source of great pride, and great importance to Henry Jr.

Henry and I hit it off from the start.

"Are you a real fireman?" I ask.

"Second assistance to the boiler engineer." Henry said proudly, "That's my brother Henry Jr., he's the engineer on Pumper no. 99."

"You brother's name is Henry?" I was confused.

"My Father's name is Henry too." Henry laughed, "Henry Sr. he was the Captain of the fire house, he got burnt to death last year, when part of a wall collapsed. Three other firemen were killed that day too." 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, some days it's bloody exciting. What say we pop 'round back and I'll show you the horses!"

Henry took us across the street to the firehouse, Henry showed us the horses, a white, "Hokey," a dapple-grey, "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 was a fire, a Bobby turned a key that sent a telegraph message to the fire house. If there was a fire anywhere in the city, they knew within minutes. 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 was fascinated with the fire pole.

"Wanna give it a go?"

"Oh, no I couldn't."

"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 raincoats and boots always at the ready. Henry took us to the edge of the black hole periced by a shinny steel pole.

"Have a go, it's easy, like falling off a log."

"That's the problem," I muttered under my breath. Henry leapt 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 leapt into space. Its 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 trys, I was sliding down that pole like a real fireman.

Henry laughed, "There now, Bob is 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.

I was up front with Henry from the start, I told him I had no money, I had no family. I was an indentured employee at the London 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.

“I think you’re beautiful.” Henry said, “When I get enough money saved, I’m going to come for you, I’m going to buy your contract, I'm going to take you away from all of this.”

I shook my head, it wasn't possible. "My contract is four pounds, nine shillings. How much money can you earn as a second assistant to the fireman?”

“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 baby.”

Henry’s promise gave me purpose in life. For the first time since being kidnapped, dragged from my home and sold into indenture-ship, 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; I could see Henry, and Domino.

FANNING SISTERS ARE KEEPERS

LOS ANGELES, CA.―According to Variety, New Line Cinema has set siblings Dakota and Elle Fanning to star with Cameron Diaz in "My Sister's Keeper," the Nick Cassavetes-directed adaptation of the Jodi Picoult novel. Production begins this March in Los Angeles.

     Elle Fanning will play a young girl who sues for emancipation from her parents. Mom and Dad conceived her as a genetic match with the hope she could prolong her cancer-ridden sister's life.
 

     Jeremy Leven wrote the script, and Mark Johnson will produce. Both teamed with Cassavetes and New Line on "The Notebook."
 

     Movie marks the first time that the girls will work in scenes together on a film; both appeared in "I Am Sam." The girls are younger than they were in Picoult's novel, but a decision was made to cast them younger because it was age-appropriate for Diaz.

     Dakota Fanning recently completed the ensemble drama "Winged Creatures" with Kate Beckinsale and Forest Whitaker and is in Hong Kong shooting "Push," a Paul McGuigan-directed drama with Chris Evans and Djimon Honsou. Elle Fanning recently completed "Benjamin Button" and the indie drama "Phoebe in Wonderland," and she just completed "Nutcracker: The Untold Story," in which she has the starring role.

―Michael Fleming

TESSA CLAIBORNE

TESSA CLAIBORNE

A
Novel
by Smcallis

This is a work of fiction. No similarities between any person living or dead is intended, and any such similarity is purely coincidental. All characters © 2007 by Smcallis.

Chapter 4

A SHILLING FOR DOMINO

BREAKFAST AT THE LONDON Quadrangle Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory was served each morning and precisely five-thirty, and fulfilled every expectation that one might imagine of drudgery. Eaten in absolute silence, it consisted of a chunk of weevily brown bread no bigger than your fist, and a pint of gruel. By the time breakfast came around, I was so hungry I wolfed it down. 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 lunch whistle blew, I had been at work for six hours, since my job consisted primarily of worming my way under the machinery; I invariably was covered in grease and filth. My stomach was so hollow by that time nothing mattered; I think I could have eaten a boiled shoe if it had been offered up to me. No such luck, lunch was always the same, a pint and a half of thin vegetable stew. At lunch, there was never any bread. Supper amounted to more bread, a pint of soup and a chunk of cheese, sometimes if you got lucky there was a piece of salt-pork floating in the greasy gravy. Once a week our rations were fortified with an apple, this didn't amount to so much generosity on the part of WSPFS, as it was a necessity to ward off scurvy. I remember at Christmas time we were given an orange, which seemed like a luxury.

The Christmas orange turned out was a mistake, never to be repeated by the management of Wallace Squeers, Pierce, Fenner and Smith. It certainly caused more trouble than it was worth, as there were knockdown, drag-out-fights as the older girls scrambled to take the oranges of the younger girls. Nobody fucked with me, since by this time I had earned a reputation as a scraper (more on that later). I remember sitting in the corner, in perfect oblivious solitude, sucking on that orange. I sucked and chewed the pulp then ate it, rind and all; it was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted.

The sexes were strictly segregated on the factory floor. The Women and girls were relegated to the ninth, tenth and elevenths floors. The men, the roustabouts who fed the raw cotton up to the looms and the sewing rooms labored on the lower floors. We almost never saw a real man, other than Mr. Fenner or Mr. Smith who hardly counted . . . as real men. This led to such a mythology to the extent that any actual sighting of a man caused quite a commotion, and an endless source of squabbles and gossip. Fraternization between the sexes was strictly forbidden.

We slept in dormitories on the tenth floor. The only actual furniture apart from an occasional stool or a bench was a barrack style rack of beds stacked four high. A straw tick fulfilled the role of mattress and a coarse woolen blanket was provided. Pillows were considered an unnecessary luxury, I had none. Everyone shared a bed, and my bed partner was Sally Fullam. Even though Sally said she liked girls, and this turned out to be our first disagreement, we remained good friends. At the end of the workday, I will tell you, one of my few real comforts in life was to get into bed with Sally; it was warm, our flesh touched, but there was never anything between us, Sally and I, we slept back to back.

Our clothing consisted of a woman’s shapeless waistless dress, which reached to the ankles, and knee length drawers. The ill-fitting cardboard shoes offered to us had two left feet and were uncomfortable to say the least. I preferred to go barefoot even in the wintertime. As one of the shuttlecocks, I seldom wore anything at all except knickers and a slathering of axle-grease. It was better that way.

The incident that changed my life happened on a Saturday I should think, somewhere near the middle of the morning shift. The work had been hard that morning, hectic, the Foreman pushed us constantly to go faster; a switch waited the back of any girl who dawdled or shirked. I was working under the no. 64 Cartwright, a thunderous hulking machine that spewed out fully woven cotton broad cloth at a prodigious rate. These machines were steam driven, with power take-offs from a complicated set of belts and overhead drive shafts, ultimately driven by a great steam engine that churned relentlessly in the powerhouse. The steam engine never needed rest; it did not tire or slack. As long as coal filled the furnace, the looms turned, twenty-four hours a day, six days a week. Thus, the worker became just a human cog in the great machine that was the industrial revolution of the nineteenth century.

The no. 64 was a troublesome machine, prone to jamming and always throwing a belt or clogging a gear. It was our job to get under the machine, worm our way into the most impossible places and reset the thrown belt or clear the jam. All this while the loom continued to thunder overhead. Cotton fiber rained down upon us, choked our lungs, stuck to our bodies. I was working with another girl, Lilly, she was older than I was, and stronger. She held a spanner, I shinned the torch. We were trying to reset a belt that had jumped the pulley. The machine was in the stop position when someone, we will never know who, engaged the mechanism. In one catastrophic awful second, Lilly was literally sucked into the whirling clockworks, I was spattered with bone and blood.


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

I stayed under the machine, held her head, and 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 a 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 then, but there was more dying in my future. To feel a man’s blood pulse hot over your hands, to pull cold steel from his belly, to know you are the cause, they are dead; this is war, up close and personal. Of all this, I had know idea

It took them three hours to get her out.

Mr. Smith came on the factory floor to oversee the extraction. He came straight from his Greene street office, paced the floor, checked his pocket watch every five minutes, and studied the production roster.

I mostly just stood there; I think I was in shock. The floor supervisors, the plant manager, the workman summoned all acted as if I was invisible. Hate welled up inside me and choked my throat, they looked right past me and spoke about me in the third person as if I had no feelings at all, at least none they needed to trouble themselves, it was if I didn't even exist.

"I don't suppose the child needs to go to the infirmary?"

"Well, look at her."

"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!"

One of the floor supervisors got down in my face and shouted like I was deaf and stupid, "Are you hurt child?"

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

I know what you’re thinking, that when I said this was the incident that changed my life that I must be referring to poor Lilly’s death. That is not entirely true. While holding Lilly in my arms, feeling her life’s force slip away affected me deeply, this was not what changed my life. No, it was something far more mundane, it was the casual checking of the pocket watch. Mr. Smith’s cold calculated preoccupation with time his constant retrieval of his pocket watch that changed my life. You see every time he checked his watch he pulled it from his waist coat pocket. During one of those numerous ritual removals, he inadvertently dropped a shilling.

One 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 saw nothing, neither did any of the mechanics summoned to disassemble no. 64 so that the orderlies could carry away poor Lilly’s mangled corpse. No one seemed to notice, no one at all.

I surreptitiously kicked a clump of cotton fiber over it to conceal it. I did not dare retrieve it now. Such was considered theft, and punished by a night in the chokey. We were sent straight back to work; there was no pause, no loss of production could be tolerated. All day long, I worked, and all day long, I thought of nothing but Lilly's white face, Mr. Smith's mean face, and where that shilling lay. I resolved before last whistle to retrieve it.

All this happened in the long hot summer of 1878, two months after my twelfth birthday, and the mangling death of poor Lilly, the pocket watch, the day I found the shilling, the summer I met Domino.

* * *

FOR A LONG TIME I SAT alone in the darkness on the cold hard red brick floor of the women’s latrine. I sat and listened to the water drip, then trickle and ultimately gurgle down the drain. I huddled and cried, not aloud, so anyone could hear, I was a big girl, thirteen-years-old, and it was shameful to cry. I smothered my face in my knees and let out little dry pathetic heaves. The dinner gong rang over an hour ago I had missed supper. I didn’t care. On this crucial point, my heart and my stomach were in disagreement; my stomach growled my heart ached. I cried for myself, I cried for poor mangled Lilly. I cried for Mr. Smith, his cold wicked heart, I didn’t think up to this point it was possible to hate anyone more 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 his pocket watch shut, the way he had Lilly Barnes carted off the factory floor like yesterday garbage. No, Mr. Smith made my list, he was going to burn in hell, I was sure of it. Now I was going to burn in hell, because now I was a thief. I thought of the shinny shilling and where I had secreted it. I knew in my heart it was his, I knew it was stealing and this made me feel wicked. The worst part of it was, I didn’t care.

“Tessa?”

I heard the lavatory door creek and bang shut.

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

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

“Sally . . . I, Why?”

“Shhh, Tessa, it wasn’t your fault . . . You did everything you could. 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 beside me, she was naked as well. Her fingers dug into the pannikin of soft brown soap, she gently soaped me all over, she scrubbed my back. The water from the bucket overhead 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 being so good to me? You know I can never be your friend, not like what you want.”

Sally continued to brush my hair, she brushed my hair ‘till it show with a luster. She helped me dress; one of the other girls lent her a clean nightshirt.

“You already are my friend, Tessa.” Sally smoothed my forehead. “Besides, I’m older than you; somebody has to look after you. Let’s go to bed, tomorrow is Sunday, we’ll talk about it in the morning.”

TESSA CLAIBORNE

TESSA CLAIBORNE

A

Novel

by Smcallis

This is a work of fiction. No similarities between any person living or dead is intended, and any such similarity is purely coincidental. All characters © 2007 by Smcallis.

Chapter 3

LOOMS, BROOMS and BOBBINS

THE QUADRANGLE MERCANTILE and SHIRTWAIST Company of London, owned and operated by Wallace Squeers, Pierce, Fenner and Smith occupied the top three floors of the eleven-story Asch building 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 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 buildings, arranged in sort of an obtuse triangle of which the Asch building formed the anchor of the scalene city block. By the time I arrived, the eleven-story Asch building was already seventy years old and in a state of decrepit decay. It looked more like a fortress, a prison than a place of commerce. It was there I took my very first ride in an elevator. 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 should say this first. Mrs. Mixer, matron, supervisor in charge of the women’s work detail, was no lady. She was a large woman, with tiny feet, and great flowing locks of white hair that cascaded down about making her appear like a graveyard apparition from one of my Grandmother's ghost stories. She always wore the same grey smock and white apron. An enormous ring of skeleton keys hung from her waist, and she carried a cane switch to chase after indolent girls. She resembled more a jailer than a factory floor supervisor, in many ways she was. Mrs. Mixer was a tyrant and despot, a mean dried-up old nanny goat. Interminably sour and bitter about sorry state of her own lot in life, she made it her life’s-quest to make sure that others suffered as she suffered. She particularly hated children and she regarded young 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 removed and carted off to the furnace. I stood there forlorn in a room with perhaps thirty other girls. I was left standing there stark-naked mortified beyond belief. It’s funny about being naked. I had been naked with my brothers hundreds of times. We bathed, played, we went swimming naked . . . I was just one of the boys (albeit without a willy). There was nothing immoral or unseemly about being naked. This was a different kind of naked. I felt violated, dirty, no better than a rack of meat hung on a butcher hook. I was the youngest girl there. At not-yet-eleven years old, I wasn’t so womanly, with my flat boyish chest, I was so skinny and pale. I felt like a stick figure standing there bare-skinned in front of all the older girls.

I was further mortified when a male doctor entered the room, in the accompaniment of a nurse. They set up this table, with stapler, ink and blotter. We were lined up for some kind of exam. I felt myself pushed forward under the weight of the queue; I stood there bewildered, clutching my chest.

“Name?” The nurse said, peering down at me sternly across the tops of her reading glasses, her pen poised to write.

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

“What is your name?” 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!” Mrs. Mixer didn’t wait for my response; she relished the chance to use the cane at the slightest provocation. The switch whirled and landed with a crack on my buttocks. I lurched half-a-step forward, my bottom stung under the assault of Mrs. Mixer’s lash.

“Tessa Claiborne.” I fidgeted, I finally found my voice and the words came spilling out like tea from a kettle. “My name is Tessa Claiborne, I’m from Glamorganshire, I'm not English, I'm Welsh! I was brought here against my will. Mr. Squeers paid my Mama four pounds and nine shillings. I want to go home!”

“THAT WILL BE ENOUGH!" Mrs. Mixer's fat face turned purple, the switch hissed and fell hard on my backside cutting 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 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, afraid 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 the chest, hands over my head, I was ask to squat, cough. The doctor appeared to be concerned with only two things, lice and tuberculosis.

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.

“Next!”

I shouldn’t have been so flippant. There was an assembly line of white smocked grim faced matrons waiting for me in the next room. They seized me and cut off my hair. My beautiful blonde hair, shaved to the scalp, if I hadn’t resembled a boy before, I certainly did now. They then plunged me into a bath of water so cold it burned like fire. They scrubbed me down with course hog’s hair bristle brush in a vicious solution of carbolic and lye soap. I later learned this was to remove lice. I was offered a most ill fitting smock and led into a room with long benches along with the other freshly processed chattel.

It was there we had our first meal. Gruel really, oatmeal, maybe with a bit of meat dragged through it, a chunk of weevily barley bread. Even though I grew up in a poor family, starving, Mama never served us such food. I choked it down, knowing it might be the only food I got for a long time. Several of the other girls I could already tell were going to be trouble, especially at mealtime. I was the youngest girl there, they eyed me like a fish; they thought me small, an easy mark.

During the first several nights, we slept in these dormitories, stacked four high like chord 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. In reality, Mr. Squeers chased me in life. He hated me, even though I never saw him, he took special interest in making sure my life was miserable. All of the supervisors knew I was on the “list.” I was to be punished for the slightest infraction. Over the next two years there were beatings, my rations were cut, I was summarily sent to bed without supper, forced to stand all night out in the rain. No, I paid dearly for knocking Mr. Squeers up side the head. Given a second chance, I think I should have hit him harder.

The worst punishment, aside from being beaten to death (of which several girls did die from floggings) 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, a nineteenth century version of the Iron Maiden, a torture device straight out of the court of King Henry the VIII and the Tower of London. Once locked in the Chokey, you couldn’t sit, you couldn’t stand, you could only crouch in this impossible position. The punishment lasted all night, the slightest movement brought flesh in contact with an iron spike. If you urinated or made a mess, you were in for an additional beating. In the morning before first whistle, when they finally brought you out, they sent you strait to the looms, without breakfast.

My bunk mate was a girl from Warwickshire, Sally Fullam. She was two years older than I was, she had red hair and boobs. I guess you might say I learned the ropes from Sally; she was a veteran of the English poor system and grew up in the Workhouses, the White Chapel district East of Charing Cross. As hard as it may seem, work in a factory was a step up from the London poor house. Sally said she liked girls, in a way I had never heard of.

“They’re not any boys around here . . . I think we should be friends.”

I soon found out exactly what Sally meant by being friends. This was all an education for me. I told Sally I wanted to be her friend, but not in that way. She respected me after that.

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

The factory was noisy, poorly ventelated, sweltering in summer, freezing in winter. I worked the loom floor. First sweeping up cotton dust and chasing after loose bobbins. It was the work assigned to the smallest girls, of which I was one. It was my job to crawl on my hands and knees amidst the dirt and choking cotton dust and the ever constant danger of slashing mechanical machinery over head to retrieve the lost bobbins that fell down between the cracks of the production machinery. The noise was deafening, it was dangerous dirty work. Only the smallest and most nimble girls could do it, of which I was an expert.

I actually preferred crawling under thundering power looms compared to the sweeping-up work. At least I knew my job was secure, not every girl had the nerve to venture so close to a virtual hecatonchires of slashing moving parts, the danger of being snagged, of being sucked into the machine work was ever present. We rubbed our selves with tallow, lard or whatever grease was available and wormed our way under the whirling clockworks virtually naked. Any clothing at all risk being snagged. It was vile and dangerous work, this is what I did for the first year and a half.

Unfortunately, puberty has a way of taking its toll. Despite a near starvation diet. I eventually developed breasts, curves, hips; I became too large to crawl under the machinery. I was relegated to the main floor, to the looms. I hated it.

TESSA CLAIBORNE

TESSA CLAIBORNE

A

Novel

by Smcallis

This is a work of fiction. No similarities between any person living or dead is intended, and any such similarity is purely coincidental. All characters © 2007 by Smcallis.

Chapter 2



OF BARROWS AND WIGHTS

CELTIC ORAL TRADITION TELLS when a person in a village died, a woman came to sing a lament. I was now dead. Legend has it that, for the five great Gaelic families an airy woman sang this lament; having foresight, she would appear before the death and keen. I can still remember on late winter evenings, all the kids, the grown-ups, the cousins would gather around the crackling fire and tell scary stories. Sometimes there was a drop of beer or a scrape of cheese toast. I mostly remember the stories my Grandmother told, stories of old Celtic legends, what she called "Screams" stories to frighten young children before bedtime. We sat wide-eyed and white cheeked and listened to terrifying ghost stories, tales of long past recounting a woman, though called a ghost, she was more often a specific woman murdered in a most gruesome way or a woman who died in childbirth. This is the tale of the Banshee Wail―this was I, this was my revenge.

“NO! I won’t go with you!”

Mr. Squeers was not so easily put off, least not anyways by a ten-year-old going-on-eleven snot nosed girl. I was now coin to him. He seized me by the back of my shirt and literally dragged me kicking and screaming out of my home. I cried, my piteous wails must have sounded exactly like that airy woman from one of my Grandmother's ghost stories. I screamed like a banshee.

My brothers looked on, a frightened huddled mass. I was dragged kicking and screaming out of the house, I thought for sure Jonathan, Daniel or Thomas might come to my rescue. They were my bestest brothers, we did everything together; they were my brothers, and my friends. In their defense, I think at least Thomas and Jonathan were numb with shock; Daniel may have still been too young to comprehend what was happening. I think on some level, it must have been a primordial base reaction, with Papa gone; Wallace and Dewey both killed in a mine cave-in, Mama took in what washing she could, we kids worked from dawn to dusk, none of that seemed to make one whit of difference. There was no money, and by the fall of 1875 the family found itself on the virtual edge of starvation. I was one less mouth to feed; I was four pounds nine shillings. “Better her than me . . .”

I was a lamb led to the slaughter. I was alone; my plight was absolute, I was utterly sold down the river. Mr. Squeers, he seized me by the arm and wrestled me to the ground. I was strong and Mr. Squeers, soon found out just how strong I was. His long boney fingers grasp at my hair, he dragged me across the dust and dirt towards his shinny black lacquered buggy.

So violent was my abduction, my shirt, my hand-me-down shirt, Thomas’ shirt made a tearing sound to the extent my blouse ripped open exposing my modesty. Not that at ten-years-old going-on-eleven, I had all that much womanly voluptuousness to expose. I was pretty much a girl with a boy’s dirty face. Even still, a girl, even a rough and tumble tomboy girl like myself, does like to maintain an air of dignity. At that point, in my life, I had come to the realization that I was a girl, and the difference between boys and girls is: That girls don’t go around flaunting their naked chest.

None of this seemed to make one whit of difference to Mr. Squeers, I was no more significant than a stick of furniture. He dragged me across the yard kicking and screaming, so intent was he on procuring me, he stuffed me into the buggy like a prized Christmas turkey. That he had ripped off my clothes, that I was naked, he didn't care. I didn't care.

"Mama, don’t make me go!” I pleaded.

My Mother said nothing; I will never know the anguish of her soul. She stood in the doorway of the three room wooden shack that had been my home for eleven years. I will tell you, the level of betrayal knows no bound. Mama stood there, grim faced, in stoic silence, not a tear in her eye, a silent accomplice to her only daughter's sale into indentured servitude. The four-pound note and the nine shillings I was worth spoke louder than my pleas.

“You will go! You are bought and sold!” Mr. Squeers slapped me across the face, pulled my hair and forced me, torn and disheveled in to the buggy.

Jack charged.

I think back to that day, out of everyone in my family, Jack was the only one who knew what was happening and tried to stop it. I think if Jack had not been tied to the porch, he might have killed Mr. Squeers. I sometimes wished he had. Jack charged, Jack charged so hard he nearly throttled himself. It was then I saw Mr. Squeers had a pepperbox, a kind of pistol that gentlemen carried, except that Mr. Squeers was no gentleman.

“Call off your dog!”

I screamed.

“No Jack! Go back!” Poor Jack, he didn’t know what to do. Jack growled, he whined, he pulled on the rope. He didn’t understand why I was being taken; he was such a good dog. I never saw Jack again.

It was then that Mr. Squeers forced me into the buggy, into the seat next to him. He produced a pair of cruel manacles and chained me to the floor. He grabbed me by the cheeks and squeezed so hard my face resembled a fish gasping for breath.

“You've caused me a great deal of trouble you miserable little brat, you will stay here and do as you’re told!”

There I sat, disheveled, forlorn, my clothing torn ripped, practically naked, a manacled prisoner of Mr. Squeers. Squeers, he wiped his brow, the physical exertion of my abduction seemed to have taken its toll. He took an aperitif from a silver flask, then lashed the horses with his cruel whip. He lashed those beautiful brown horses with exactly the same contempt and cruelty of which he had treated me. He cracked his whip and drove away. Four pounds and nine shillings, I had never known I was worth so much.

I sat in sullen silence, clutched my rags to my naked chest all through out the fifteen-mile ride to Cardiff. Mr. Squeers, he said nothing, he drank whiskey and smoked cigars. When I told him I had to pee, 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. Before he allowed me to climb out, he tied a noose around my neck only then did he allow me to venture into the bushes. I shot a quick glance back to make sure he wasn't watching. Even still, the rope was so short and Mr. Squeers so close, as I squatted to pee, I was sure he could hear as I spattered on the ground.

* * *

ALL DURING THE LONG RIDE TO CARDIFF, my brain worked at a feverish pitch. I conspired to figure out what made Mr. Squeers tick. He liked money; that much I figured out. I represented labor, but not really that much money. Four pounds and nine shillings was really but a pittance. Mr. Squeers stood to make a great deal more money. Now if he could force me, and hundreds of plightless souls like myself to work for little or no wages in his factories. Now that could add up to a great deal of money. This was the direct results of mercantilism. Import cheap raw material; add to the equation cheap if not free labor, equals high profit manufactured goods, sold back to the very same people who sold you the raw material in the first place. This was mercantilism, a cruel system to which I represented the cheap labor in the equation. That much I had figured out. Food, found, a few occasional shillings to the families. If you multiply the labor of thousands of young women like I, twelve-hour days, six day weeks. No, I was worth a great deal more to Mr. Squeers than four pounds nine shillings.

Mr. Squeers, he thought himself so clever, a consummate businessman. Well, I will tell you there was nothing short of highway robbery about his business practice. Any idiot could make money-doing business the Wallace Squeers way. If I could sell you milk without actually delivering the milk; I could make a small fortune, and call myself clever. No, there was nothing so clever, moral or upstanding about Mr. Squeers, he amounted to nothing more than a thief and a robber, a high society bandit, above the board, robber criminal. He extorted money from those who were most vulnerable, the helpless and destitute. He was the worst kind of criminal. Therefore, I concluded that Mr. Squeers loved money. What I wasn’t sure, was, to what extent he was willing to pursue it.

I told you I was going to speak about Barrows and Wights. A barrows is a Neolithic term for a burial mound, and wights are the supposed restless spirits of the long dead warriors buried in them. Half way to Tresimwn, I decided to strike up a conversation with sour old Mr. Squeers, not really so much a conversation, as a travelogue. I pointed out different points of interest, various Roman roads, pubs, inns and establishments of gentlemanly pursuits. Mr. Squeers, he seemed oblivious, disinterested in me as if I were a mere cricket chirping. It wasn’t until I mentioned the barrows, and that my brothers and I had explored the ancient iron-age burial mounds. For the first time, Mr. Squeers showed the slightness bit of interest.

“What kind of caves?”

“All kinds of caves, dead people, mostly.” I lied.

The buggy slowed. It came to a halt.

“You’ve been to these caves?” For the first time I knew his interest was piqued.

“Hundreds of times.”

Mr. Squeers, his piercing black eyes sized me up and down as if to penetrate the few remaining scraps of cloth I had clutched to my chest.

"If this is a trick you lying wench, I will thrash you to with in an inch of your life!"

"No, honest, it is true." I brushed my blonde hair out of my eyes, "Over there, just beyond that thicket."

He checked his pocket watch; there were still five hours before the London train from Cardiff. His tongue clicked, the horses gait picked up. The buggy turned around. I reeled him in like a fish on a line.

We pulled in front of a particularly impressive burial mound. Squeers by this time was thoroughly infatuated with the notion of pre-iron age gold and relics. He mumbled something about an Earl he knew, one of the Carnarvons who paid good money for ancient relics. It took little further convincing to cause him to venture into the depth. We made our way, by flickering candle light, into the dark creepy depth of the barrow. I thought of death, and my Grandmother’s warnings of wights, the spirits who inhabited such mounds. Mr. Squeers pushed me forward; 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 planning to shoot me, here in the depth of a burial mound?

Mr. Squeers and I descended deeper into the depth of the burial mound. There was a glint by candle light; it could have been gold.

“Look! Over there.”

“Where?”

Mr. Squeers turned to look. I seized my opportunity and crashed him on the head with a rock. I fished in his coat pockets and found his pocket-watch, his purse. Eighty-nine pounds and thirty shillings, I danced a little jig, I had never dreamed of so much money in my entire life! I was a bloody millionaire! I found the key to the manacles. I released myself, tossed the pepperbox down a dark hole and made my escape. I left Mr. Squeers and the money behind, all save four pounds and nine shillings. I figured that was what I was worth . . . he owed me as much. I was not a thief.

I unhitched those beautiful chestnut horses and slapped them hard on the rump. I didn't go home; with four pounds nine shillings in my pocket, I resolved to make my own way in the world. This was a stupid decision on my part, I was still very naive. The crushers picked me up in Cardiff, four days later. There were no murder charges. Apparently, Mr. Squeers survived. I found myself summarily delivered without due process to London station, into the custody of a Mrs. Mixer, matron, supervisor, of the women's work detail of London Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory.