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 nine

NEW SHOES FOR THOMAS

DURING MY BRIEF THIRTEEN YEARS, GOING ON FOURTEEN-LIFE TIME, I thought I had experienced every imaginable scope of human tragedy. I guess I should have not been so complacent and satisfied that my suffering was complete. I found out very soon after words, that things could always get worse. That being dragged from my home and sold into indentured-servitude for the sum of four pound nine shillings, forced to work twelve hours a day six days a week for no money and little food, being beaten to with in a breath of ones life. None of this represents the height, width and depth to which human catastrophe can descend.

On that fateful June day, 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 ten stories to the pavement. 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. 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 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 Henry and did, what I could, at this point, out of shear 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, 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. They pretty much referred to me as "That Girl." The families of the dead firefighters regarded me as something of a succubus. I was a wicked coquette, with my siren's song I lured otherwise dependable Henry astray. It was entirely my fault. If only I had had the decency to plunge to my death like all the other nameless-faceless "Thud-deads." If only I had resigned myself to my fate, become just another crumpled corpse on the pavement. 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 angle; it was quite the scandal.

"She's only thirteen . . ." was all the buzz in society London. Fortunately, my picture never appeared in the Times, so I still enjoyed a comfortable level of anonymity. The worst part about being branded a harlot, was Henry and I were entirely innocent. Apart from some harmless cuddling and innocuous kissing, there was never anything between us.

In the days, weeks following 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 before I even found the wherewithal to meet my most basic needs. I did end up stealing a bit. While I regret it to this very day, in my defense, there wasn't a whole lot a thirteen-year-old girl could do to earn a penny on the streets of London. None of my naysayers or detractors ever so much as offered a farthing to relieve my plight. I didn't sing or dance, 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 I did steal, all this just to keep from starving.

What I did find out was that the 24th 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 fucking crazy. 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 hell do you expect to get into the army? You don’t even look sixteen.”

“They take boys.” I knew this was true.

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

“They’re not that big,” I cast a downward glance at my here to inadequate womanly figure, up to this point my boobs proved wholly unspectacular, and now seemed a fatal liability. As if to demonstrate, in my usual aptitude for the dramatic, I pulled up my shirt. I stood in front of Henry bear chested in all my pathetic glory, my chest heaved; I think it was the first time Henry had ever seen me naked.

Henry turned away, “Put your clothes back on, Tessa.” He was ashamed. I think he liked looking at me naked, but he was too honorable to enjoy looking at me. I wasn’t ashamed I was pragmatic. I had boobs, the problem was, what to do about them.

“I’ll cut my hair; I’ll bind my chest. All I need are some boy clothes, real boy clothes. You've still got mates. Lend me some boy clothes, let’s do this together.”

Henry did come through; he got some dusty, dirty boy clothes. We cut my hair. Henry, it turned out had a friend Abigail who cut hair, he took me to her flat and she agreed to cut my hair. A real boy hair cut. 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. It wasn’t that I was so big, but she said she needed to “flatten” me out. She then 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 . . ."

I guess you might say I was abysmally ignorant in those days. I was still very much just a girl, Abigail's frank discussion came as quite a shock.

"You really didn't know?"

I shook my head, I started to cry, I felt embarrassed and stupid. “Why didn't Sally tell me? I can't do this."

"Yes you can." 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 the Bloody hell" were we doing.

"Girl stuff! No boy's allowed." Abigail and I fell in a heap on the bed, both of us laughed so hard we cried. What started out as frightening, became quite silly. As I left Abigail's flat that afternoon, I felt my confidence renewed.

In my new guise as a boy, I felt invincible. All those rough-and-tumble years, growing-up the only girl on a farm in Wales. Finally my life with eight brothers 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 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 of the recruitment office of the 24th 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.”

Colour Sergeant Bourne peered at me 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 . . . 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?”

“I’m over sixteen, Sir.” I lied.

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

I panicked.

“Oh―please Sir, don’t do this to me.” I threw myself across the desk; much to his indignation, I ended up nearly in the Colour Sergeant’s lap. I think I might have spilled his ink-well. “You don’t understand, please Sir, I’m desperate! My father, he fought at Balaclava with this regiment, don't turn me away. Help me, Sir, please.”

For the first time I noticed the Colour Sergeant was a little bit older than most, he was the same age as my father, if he were still alive. His face was ragged; scared with shrapnel, his left eye was milky white. I nodded to myself, this Sergeant has been places, he has seen battle, smoke, fire and death. No Colour 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. Which once again left me as the sole object of Colour Sargent Bourne's scrutiny.

“Easy there lad. Stand up straight, calm yourself, recruit." The Colour Sargent adjusted his uniform that I had crumpled. "Tell me, lad, what was your father’s name?”

I came to my best attention, Papa had always taught us kids how to stand to attention. "FIRST SARGENT ROBERT CHARD CLAIBORNE, COLOUR SARGENT SIR!”

Colour 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.”

An ink stamp later, 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 should have been concerned as to the quality of the dregs of humanity that was in the Army of 1878. 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 knew I was a girl. I was not quite fourteen. 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 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 strait 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 . . .

“Oy Mate, what the fuck’n-a you do’n?”

I was caught, in full squat, pee 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 basic difference between when 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. Marty, he was older than my Henry, maybe twenty. Never the sharpest knife in the drawer, even still, a decent fellow. On one occasion I had helped him with his uniform, how to tie his shoe laces, polish his boots and make his bed. We had practiced with our wooden rifles together; Marty it turned out had a great deal of trouble learning his right from his left. Actually, he and I up to this point were nominal mates.

In the end, I do believe this is what saved me, outside of the fact that Marty was a wholly decent honorable person. Marty only really wanted to know the truth.

“You’re a girl . . . aren’t you? What's a bleed'n girl doin' in the Army?”

I nodded the most apprehensive nod of my life, “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 won’t tell, Thomas, you’re me mate, you helped me polish my boots.”

“That I did Marty.” I said with a sigh of personal relief, after that, Marty and I were best mates. Marty always went to the latrines with me, and 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-Enfields.

I remember to this day, just two weeks before graduation, we all assembled on the parade ground. Lieutenant Fry came strutting out with the Ordinance officer 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.

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

“Yes you can, Marty, I will help you.”

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 forty 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, the bayonet. Known affectionatly as "The lunger," this eighteen-inch triangular steel piece of weaponry probably leveled more empires and is considered more lethal and more feared than any actual bullet issued from the bore of a rifle from the Brown Bess to the Martini-Henry included.

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 unit Commander, Major Dupont was very pleased.

“Recruit Claiborne, can you ride?”

I’d never ridden a horse in my life.

TESSA CLAIBORNE

TESSA CLAIBORNE

A

Novel

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

Chapter Eight

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 horror, of everyone who witnessed the carnage, the spectators, newspapermen, the fire-victims themselves who clung screaming from the upper floors. Most of all to the frustration of noble brave firefighters who responded, the high-rise ladders only reached to the sixth floor. The firefighters found themselves literally dodging the falling bodies that plunged "Thud-dead" from the upper floors of the doomed Asch building.

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-morning tea. Mr. Smith even had the audacity to inquire as to what all the commotion was about. A few people from the mid-level floors were the object of heroic rescue. The vast majority; those on the upper floors were either cut down by smoke and flame or succumbed to the inevitable and jumped to their death.

I, for whatever reason, luck, or providence, was the only one who made it off the tenth-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.

For my part, for the first ten or fifteen minutes of the initial outbreak of the fire, I was relatively safe from danger. The air was clear to breath; I clung there against the building, the fact I wasn't already dead, gave me a false sense of security, like I was some how above the fray, immune to the effects of the fire. It was my own failure to act, my grave miscalculation to take immediate advantage of my situation, this was my ultimate undoing.

What I didn’t realize was that every second I tarried, the iron lag bolts that held the copper fittings of the downspout that was my lifeline softened under the immense heat of the fire. I shimmied down a little bit, but evidently not enough.

With one cataclysmic bang, the drown spout gave way. I jerked; I along with my here to secure perch, tore away from the side of the building like a zipper in one sudden catastrophic collapse. I fell screaming. I found myself three-quarters-of-a-second later, not dead as I imagined, but dangling in mid-space, legs flailing akimbo, the copper down spout now jutted out from the side Asch building at a ninety-degree angle, with me, on the furthest end, I looked down, I could see the pavement looming seventy-five feet below me.

"UGH! Oh God! I am stuffed!" My grip slipped a little.

The crowd below uttered an audible gasp, as I swung there in mid-space. After so many unsatisfying “thud-deads,” I unwittingly provided them with the drama they craved. At this point, any thought of lack of knickers was damned. I was terrified out of my mind. I clung for dear life, flailed about and screamed for my Henry.


“HENRY!”

My Henry had no possible way to hear me. He was on the North side of the building, the Greene street side. Shoveling coal, for all he was worth, the needle on steam pressure gauge surged. The reciprocating piston chugged back and forth in its relentless effort to do work. The governor whirled, the two steel balls, spun, driven out by shear centrifugal force. Occasionally pure physics caused them to reaching their maximum zenith, it was then the engine belched and hissed as excess steam pressure released. The water pressure on the fire-hoses dropped, the engine slowed down. This is how a steam engine works. Still Henry poured on more coal, the governor spun, the engine hissed and slowed.

Henry continued to shovel coal. It was then 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 sqaushed 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. Yet 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 what fate awaited me.

It was then that Henry Jr., the Fire-Captain called for more pressure.

“MORE PRESSURE!” Henry Jr. screamed through his megaphone.

“She’s at 160 pounds; it won’t take any more turns!”

“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.

In all this cacophony of confusion, it was then that word was past that a girl, on the far side of the building, was dangling in mid-air. Domino, 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. A split-second, gut-felt decision that undoubtedly saved my life, but inevitably cost the lives of others, how could he have known?

FIRE, remember fire? In an odd twist of physics, alchemy and fate, in order to put out a fire, firefighters used fire, or more specifically steam and the reciprocating steam engine. The steam engine, in its relentless ability to do work, is both slave and master. It cannot be trusted, can never be left 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. This is what my Henry did. Henry did not abandoned his post because he was incompetent or a lazy person. Neither was my Henry a coward.

I always like to think, that if there was any blame to be laid at Henry’s doorstep, it was 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, Henry could not have known that at this time.

Domino barked, he charged, nipped, tugged, growled and whined. Domino led my Henry away. Domino, he knew it was I; he led 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 my Henry could save me.

Henry, on the other hand, he should have known better, we talked a lot about this later. As second assistant to the boiler engineer, he knew better. 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 let go, I aimed for the 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 very same instant, I think it is safe to say I was still in mid-air. From on the other side of the building, on the Greene street side, the boiler on Pumper no. 99 exploded. It was the most fantastic thunderous roar, a noise that made itself heard over the already din of fire and confusion. A noise so loud, so devastating, that it made you stop, take notice and say, "What the hell was that?" Henry knew, I landed, I bounced, I looked over at Henry, a little bit scared, a little bit triumphant, Henry, his face was ashen, in the very same second I went "Thump" into the safety-net, Henry knew, he had killed his brother.

George, Bill-Bob and Clyde were killed outright. Henry Jr. was thrown some two-hundred feet, 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.

Four days later, after the funerals, after the newspapers, amidst the still smoldering rubble, we searched for Domino’s body, we never found Domino.

The day's death was done; Henry and I, we clung to each other, we cried, we consoled each other, Sally, Henry Jr., Domino, even Mr. Crowley. I prayed for my Henry, I prayed for his poor departed brother and I prayed for my dog. The pain, scope of the tragedy seemed too great to bear. There was an outpouring of grief, outrage, indignation; there was a board of inquiry, speeches were made in Parliament calling for better fire protection. All the city of London turned out for Henry Jr.’s funeral. The Union Jack was dutifully folded and presented to Henry's Mother, Mrs. Hawkins. In the end, when it was all over, nothing seemed to matter. Henry and I found ourselves alone, on the streets, I for the most part was free. Mr. Wallace Squeers, Pierce, Fenner and Smith were far too busy answering law-suits and skirting the questions of the official board of inquiry to concern themselves with four pounds and nine shillings that represented the likes of me.

Henry, and I were penniless and destitute. We were flung out on the street, hungry, without so much as a brass-farthing between us. 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 sleeping in the park, the same park where Domino and I used to play.

I will admit, I was the one who first spied the recruitment poster for the twenty-fourth regiment of foot.

"HOUNDDOG" Final edit finished

LOS ANGELES, CA―(BUSINESS WIRE) The Motion Picture Group, Inc. (Pink Sheets: MPRG), a film and entertainment financing and production company, announced today that it has completed the final edit of the feature film “HOUNDDOG” and is ready to screen it for distributors with the intention of completing a sale.

Director, Deborah Kampmeier, stated, “The making of this film has been an extraordinary journey and I am grateful to The Motion Picture Group for putting their full support behind me. Having the opportunity and time to properly finish the film, without the pressure and rush of festival deadlines, has led to the ultimate reward. Our new cut is stunning. We are proud to be bringing our best work out into the world.”

Scott Franklin, Executive Producer of the film and CEO of The Motion Picture Group, added, “It has been a long and arduous process getting the film to a place where we are all so extremely happy with it. We are confident in its potential and now look forward to taking it to the market for distribution.”

About the Film:

 

“HOUNDDOG," a drama set in the 1950s American South, is about a troubled 12-year old girl (Dakota Fanning) who finds solace from an abusive life in the music of Elvis Presley. Presley’s music is placed strategically throughout the film, creating a mural of a melancholy life that finds its release and healing through singing the Blues.

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 7

FIRE RUN

FIRE IS THE ABSOLUTE BASEST and most primordial fear of all humankind; representing the apogee of human invention, fire’s 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 single 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. Fire alone in its infinite capacity; represent the single most catastrophic of all human calamities.

June, the summer of 1878, a Saturday, was just one more day, a day like any other, a little hotter than most, a little more humid. By mid afternoon, I expect every one was flagging a bit, watching the clock, anxious for the shift to end.

It was six days since Sunday, six days since I had laid on the cot a long side my Henry. Six days since I told Henry "I loved him." In those days, that was how I measured time then. Each waking moment only served me to draw me closer to Sunday, the day I could see my Henry. I still had two pence in my pocket, two pence saved from the extra shifts I worked. 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, tomorrow was Sunday! How could I have possibly imagined that with in a space of a few hours my concept of time was to compress from days to instants to half-breaths . . .

A single cigarette―Cigarettes were still considered quite a novelty in late nineteenth century London. The blame, if you could call it that, lay mostly with the Ottoman Turks and the Crimean war. Cigarettes made their way rapidly from the Caliphs 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, it seemed were catching on fast.

On a clear warm Saturday morning, a single cigarette, a single cigarette, tossed carelessly into a dustbin of cotton scraps. That was what it took. Looking back, it doesn’t seem possible that an innocuous thing as a cigarette is capable of causing such calamity, catastrophic death and tragedy. It is safe to say that my life was forever changed first by a shilling, and then by a cigarette.

This was the very same week that Mr. Squeers ordered the factory doors locked. He ordered the downstairs exits chained as well. The only other exit, the iron fire escape was long since blocked with stacks of bailed cotton scraps. In 1878, any notion of fire safety was dismissed as frivolous useless liberal prattle.

The only real effective exit on that particular Saturday from the Asch building was the same way we came in, the steam powered Otis lift. That could only effectively handle thirty workers every six minutes. We dutifully queued up every morning in lots of thirty, as sheep led to the slaughter and rode the lift to our assigned floors. The fire that morning, took less than six minutes to spread from a single smoldering cigarette tossed carelessly in a dustbin to an inferno. As luck would have it I was assigned the no. 64 Cartwright. Actually, the no. 64 and I had made peace; it had calmed down a lot in the last year since it sucked up poor Lilly and spat her out as so much ground hamburger. The no. 64 had become a dependable mill.

I worked the no. 64 Cartwright, hummed to myself and counted the hours until I could be with my Henry. I wasn’t the first one to smell smoke. The fire actually started two floors below us. The first real sign of trouble was when someone threw the action break. This brought production to a screeching halt. The overhead drive shafts stopped, everything stopped. The sudden cessation of noise was absolutely deafening. Everyone stopped and looked at everyone else. No one knew what to think.

It was then in the sudden cacophony of silence that someone yelled, "FIRE!" A second later, the screams started.

I looked to Sally; already choking smoke had begun to work its way up through the floorboards of the one hundred-year-old mill. There was no plan, no plan for escape. Some of the girls ran towards the exits, these were blocked, chained shut. Already I could feel the heat, the inferno raged on the floor beneath me, it radiated hot, and scorched my bear feet.

In those final moments, I saw Mrs. Mixer, take charge; her flowing white hair swirled amidst the smoke and confusion. Mrs. Mixer, 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, it 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 amazing modern telegraph. I knew even then that the brass bell in the Wilmington Firehouse had sounded, that Domino, was barking his commands. Hokey, Pokey and Smokey were falling in to line to be harnessed. That coal, great shovels of coal even now were being stoked into the boiler. That any second, the Wilmington Square Fire Company no. 99 was tearing out of the firehouse. Henry, my Henry, was coming to save us.

What I didn’t know, what I couldn’t possibly have known was about the wise and fiscally conservative city selectmen of their budget cuts and inadequate allocations of funds. Of all these things, of Ladder co. 35., about the previous town council meetings, about the warnings of fire in the new 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. There were 149 women and girls, trapped, 11 floors up in the Asch building.

I screamed for Sally to follow, 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 got close to 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 to come to my rescue, I also knew if I was going to live even for the next ten minutes, it was up to me to affect my own rescue. I climbed out onto the ledge and grasp the safety of the drainpipe.

It was there 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, dispatched as if riders from the apocalypse from the very bowels of hell sent to obliterate and eradicate every crime and injustice ever committed by Wallace Squeers and his management of Pierce, Fenner and Smith. If all this resulted in the deaths of a few proletarians, the fire in its cleansing fury seemed justified.

I watched in horror as flames licked the sides of the Asch building. The over-loaded fire escape, teeming with desperate screaming humanity, 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 new sound, a sound more horrible than any description can picture.

“Thud-dead, thud-dead, thud-dead, thud-dead . . .“

I looked up after the first two “thud-deads.” This shocked me. I saw scores of girls, young women at the windows. The flames from the floors below were beating their faces, I knew them all. As I clung to the drainpipe, I watched one girl fall. Waving her arms, trying to keep her body upright until the very instant she struck the pavement, she was trying to balance herself. Then came the thud-dead, then a silent unmoving pile of clothing and twisted, broken limbs.

As I looked up, I saw what amounted to a love affair in the midst of all the horror. A man helped a girl to the windowsill, 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 onto a streetcar instead of into eternity.

Then came the flames. The man, he brought another 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 Mr. Crowley, it all suddenly made so much sense, the special privileges, the extra food. Sally was shagging Mr. Crowely. He held her out into space and dropped her. 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.

He was a real man. Mr. Crowley, he had done his best.

By this time, the intense heat of the fire had softened the steel lag bolts that secured the drainpipe to the side of the building. The whole structure was in danger of crashing to the ground, with 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 and 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 building, transfixed in horror at the 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 ten-stories up, calamity and death swirled around me and the only thing I was worried about was that the people below me could see my fanny . . . My predicament was far worse than 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 bear feet and threatened to knock me from my perch. Still I 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 big for any one single person to witness. Some of these stories I heard third hand, other were 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 were Percherons, strongest and most noble of all French horses.

"Percherons were once the horses of Kings, the noble steeds of knights, Agincourt, Crécy, all that rot. 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." Henry said with a wry grin, he continued to curry the horses.

“Hokey” a white three-year-old mare, was fierce and brave. “Pokey” a dapple-grey 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 five-years-old, spirited as he was gentle, a powerful fire-horse afraid of nothing. Together the three horses, 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 day off. 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 had a long illustrious tradition as “coach dogs.” In nineteenth century London, the coach dog was indispensable to the team. The dog ran in front of the horses, clearing the way, serving the exact same functions that one might ascribe to a modern day notion of a siren. Domino he knew he was important. His devotion to the team to the firehouse never flagged. That was except until the day he met me.

I should think that Domino loved his job, he loved his horses. For the first time Domino found his soul mate, his devotion to duty was tested. Domino loved his horses, but it was always a source of special pride, Domino loved me more. Domino was a good dog. I tell you this because, Dogs in an unexplainable way, do understand the notion of time. Some how, without clock or calendar, Domino knew what day it was, he knew the time of day, and he knew the day of the week. He knew that this day was Sunday, and on Sunday, that this was the day that I came to the park. Sunday, every Sunday like winter follows spring, Domino waited in for me in front of Wilmington Station. Domino waited for his friend Tessa. On this day, on this particular Saturday; Domino went about his business. The men had just cleared away breakfast dishes. Henry, not my Henry, but Henry Jr. had just sat down to challenge George to a match of draughts. It was a typical Saturday morning like any other.

That was until the great brass bell in the firehouse sounded. The brass bell, connected to a complicated series of clockworks that in turn connected to a telegraph 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 went into action. The brass gong sounded and the Edison ticker tape chattered, information spat out on a long thin paper tape told the Fire-Captain the exact location of the fire. Domino, he knew what to do. Domino took charge he barked his orders. The horses they fell into line, ready for the teamster to harness them. The second assistant to the boiler engineer, he knew what to do. Henry, my Henry, threw the damper on boiler no. 2. As fast as he could, he began to shovel coal, the fire roared, and the steam pressure built with each shovel. It was a Five Alarm fire, a fire like no other. Henry shoveled coal. 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 gnash and chomped at the bit. Domino barked. Henry Jr. the Fire-Captain climbed on to the front seat. George lashed the team, looked to Henry for his orders.

It was five bells, a major fire, every fire rig in all of East London was to respond.

“Asch building, corner of Greene and Wellington Place!”

The horses thundered out of Wilmington Station, Pumper co. 99 churned around the corner like some primordial entity belching smoke and flame. At absolutely the last second Henry, my Henry, caught a hold of the running gear, his coal shovel clattered to the ground and disappeared in the distance, as he was swept up his stomach left him, he vomited into the street.

"Tessa."

* * *

FOR THE FIRST TIME I felt a glimpse of hope. Far below on the street I saw my brave Domino, I saw the chugging, belching furry of Pumper no. 99 pull on line. I watched as hundreds of feet of fire hose payed 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, the horses, Hokey, Pokey, and Smokey were led some distance from the fire.

Thirteen thousand gallons an hour, that was what 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 was no better than pissing on a bonfire.

The days carnage was assured.

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 6

PRELUDE TO DISASTER

THE SUMMER OF 1878 brought many changes in my life, some good, some bad, some so utterly horrible that even to this day I still can’t bear to contemplate them. I was growing taller, that was a good thing I guess. The bad part was I was now too large to crawl into the small spaces under the machinery, and was summarily relegated to the loom floor. I hated it. I watched with a certain amount of reticent envy as the younger girls scuttled back and forth under my feet. They were at least free. There I stood, under the watchful eye of the Foreman, twelve hours a day, my work dictated by the relentless rhythm of the steam engine.

The loom floor was a cacophony of noise, clacking machinery and swirling cotton dust. It was always hot and suffocating; the summer of 1878 came early, and was unusually warm and humid. The loom floor became a stifling sort of hell. It was so hot; some girls even fainted on the factory floor. 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 may have been a prisoner of WSPFS, but they didn’t own me, they were not going to break my spirit.

On this particular shift, I had to go to the toilet. I signaled to the Foreman but he 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 thought my bladder was going to burst. I signaled to the Foreman again. Mr. Crowley, I think that was his name. This time he laughed at me, and sent a relief girl to the machine next to mine. I was so mad I stood there stock-legged, and watched with some satisfaction as the last of the thread wound off the bobbin. The loom ran dry. The machine continued to clack on maniacally, but with no cotton thread to feed it the fabric tore and the loom ground to a halt. I expect I ruined a couple of hundred yards of cloth.

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING GIRL!” Mr. Crowley descended upon me; his face was purple with rage.

At least I got his attention.

What happened next was an accident, but ended up a supreme act of defiance. I think if I had thought about it, I never could have summoned the courage. Nonetheless, it happened with dramatic effect. Before I could stop myself, right there in front of an infuriated Mr. Crowley, I pissed myself. He yelled at me to stop, he cursed me until I thought he was going to burst a vein. I looked him straight in the eye and continued to pee. I couldn't stop, even after Mr. Crowley’s switch hissed and struck hard against my flesh. I didn’t stop until there was a sizable puddle on the factory floor.

I never felt so satisfied in all my life. I wasn't sorry, not even after Mr. Crowley turned me over a sawhorse and thrashed me. He laid into me with such vengance, with such fury that the first cane switch broke under the onslaught. He called for a second and beat me so savagely that if the Plant manager had not intervened, I expect he might have killed me.

That night, when I crawled into bed next to Sally, I hurt so bad I groaned. I sobbed softy, while Sally gently rubbed tallow on my poor legs. I was covered with vicious welts from my calves to my bum. I smiled to myself. It was all worth it.

At the time, I thought it was all worth it. I was sorry later. The unexpected consequence of my incontinence came crashing down, when Sunday afternoon arrived and it came time for Sally and me to go see Henry and Domino. Mr. Crowley blocked the lift way door; he held an ugly wooden truncheon, not a common cane switch. I’d seen them use those truncheons only once before, they used it to beat the hapless girl to death.

“Just where do you think you're going?" Mr. Crowley leered; his face was cruel and full of hate.

"Out." I stammered, "Its Sunday . . ."

"Not for you it isn't." He prodded my chest with the truncheon. "You're a dirty little girl! I'll learn you not to make a mess on my factory floor!"

I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I squeezed Sally's hand to let her know it would be okay. To his credit, Mr. Crowley didn’t kill me, neither did he molest me. He put me to work cleaning the latrines. All that long Sunday afternoon, I cleaned up shit. My heart ached, I thought of my precious Henry and Domino.


That night, I resolved no matter what, Mr. Crowley could beat me to death I didn’t care. I was going to see Henry. I lay in bed and counted the hours as the clock struck eleven. I slipped out of bed, pulled up my knickers, and put on my smock.

“Tessa?” “Shhh, Sally. I’ll be back, don’t worry, work bell doesn’t strike until six―I’ll be back by then."

"Where do you think you’re going?”

“To see Henry.”

“Girl, you’re crazy . . .”

That I was.

There was a window in the dustbin, which was neither barred nor locked. I found this out while shoveling shit for Mr. Crowley. Out side, the window was a drainpipe that ran the full length of the building. I wasn’t what you would 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 drainpipe. It seemed solid enough; of course, I only weighed 94 lbs. ten storeys, the cobblestones loomed below me some 140 feet. I didn’t dare look down. I started to climb. I eventually found that I could sort of shimmy-slide down, almost like Henry had shown me on the fire pole. How I was ever going to get back up again, I didn’t know. I figured I’d solve that problem when the time came. If I was caught, if Mr. Crowley beat me, even if he killed me, it didn’t matter. I was determined to see Henry.

The streets of London were dark and scary by gas light. I had never seen the city after dark. The alleyways were full of unsavory personages, prostitutes, pickpockets, vagrants. I made my way quickly towards Wilmington Square Firehouse.

I was in luck. Henry was still awake. It was the midnight shift. As second assistant to the boiler engineer, it was Henry’s job to bank the coals and log the pressure on boiler no. 2.

“Pssst, Henry.”

Henry was so surprised he dropped the 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 quite a start! What on earth are you doing here? It’s past twelve O’clock.”

“I came to see you Henry," I threw my arms around him; he was so strong and powerful.

“How did you get here?”

“I ran away, I climbed down the drainpipe. I came to see you Henry. Aren't you glad to see me?”

Henry feigned a weak smile. “That you did Tessa. You are full of surprises.” Henry eyed me critically; I pulled my smock down lower, trying to hide the switch marks on my legs.

“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 bottom, there was nothing prurient about his inspection, it was more like parent and child, he examined the livid welts on my legs and backside. For the first time he knew the truth.

"That doesn't bloody look like nothing to me . . . Tessa; we’ve got to get you out of there.”

For the first time Henry used “We” I knew we were together.

"Well, you can't stay 'er.

I looked up, surprised, my face full of food. “Why not? I came all this way.”

“I got no where to put you."

"Henry, please . . . I can't go back, I just can't."

"*Sigh* I suppose, if you don’t mind sleeping down here with the horses, you can flop on this cot."


I nodded my head.

“I’ve got to get off to bed; I have a lot of work to do in the morning. You’ll be okay down here I expect. Domino will take care of you."

"Henry . . . can’t you stay with me, just a little while longer.” I’ll admit, I did whine.

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

“Henry?”

“Mmm.”

“The day Mr. Squeer’s dragged me away―the day I lay under the no. 64 Cartwright, the day Lilly died, I prayed. I prayed for Mr. Squeers, I prayed for Mr. Smith. I prayed for poor Lilly.” I lay on the cot beside Henry, I could feel his warmth as I laid my head on his chest, and I could smell the earthy smell of the clean hay and the horses’ breath.

“. . . but mostly I prayed for myself. That was the day I found the shilling. Henry, I think I love you.”

Henry, I expect didn’t know quite what to say, we were in fact in bed. Even though there was a blanket between us, there was no denying that, we were a couple. My head rested on his chest, while his arm held my shoulder, his other hand stroked my hair.

"Tessa, if there was more love in the world . . . I expect there’d probably be a whole lot less cruelty.”

“Then there can’t be anything wrong with making love either.”

“Tessa, we really haven’t known each other for very long, I think it’s best if we just practice loving before we think about the other.”

“Henry, if I practice loving for a little while longer, will you teach me the other? I’ll be fourteen in April.”

"Tessa, please . . . it’s not possible.”

"Will you teach me then?”

“No.”

"Why not?"

“Shhh, Tessa, listen to me, 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 took to get out of that factory, if that included 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 I’m seventeen, you’re just thirteen-years-old. That’s the problem; you’re still just a kid.”

Suddenly I felt wholly inadequate; any aspiration I might have ever had of attaining womanhood came crashing down upon me in the form of a stick-figured scrawny little girl, trying to seduce a grown man.

“It’s my boobs 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 flushed with rage and passion.

"It's because I don’t have big boobs like Sally. You like Sally better than me! I don’t understand, don’t you love me?”

Henry jerked his hand away as if my breasts were on fire. I knew then in that moment that he really did want me. “Tessa! Don’t ever do that again!” Then to emphasize the point, Henry pushed me off the cot. I landed unceremoniously, hard on the stable floor, I sat there quite surprised, not sure how to interpret Henry’s rejection. I scrunched up my face up and started to ball. Tears rolled down my cheeks like horse turds.

"Tessa, don't cry, please don't cry love." Henry realized how much his little prank had hurt my feelings. He dusted the straw off that clung to my bum. We sat together on the edge of the cot. "Tessa, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. If you only knew how much I love you. I love you more than life itself, that’s why I can't.”

"I don’t believe you. It isn’t fair." I sobbed and sniffed. "You do love me! Henry, please, why won’t you love 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, Tessa, what it means is, I want you to go to sleep. It means we’re still just mates.”

“Henry, are we really mates?”

“Go to sleep, Tessa."

* * *

ON THAT FATEFUL DAY, in June, in the summer of 1878, at the end of the shift, I saw Mr. Squeers again for the first time. Two years had past; he still had the same hunched over boney character, cloaked all in black, decked with a fashionable beaver top hat. 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, overhead shafts screeched and hissed the mill went silent. Mr. Squeers ordered the doors of the factory locked. He ordered the downstairs exits chained as well. It seemed workers were sneaking out and taking smoking breaks. This he was determined to put and end to such slovenly employee behavior. Before he left, Mr. Squeers seized a paintbrush. He wrote on a chunk of cardboard, in fat sloppy letters. Mr. Crowley scrambled to hang the sign in the main factory way:

WORK MAKES YOU FREE.