Page 10 of Cinders and Smoke

Dixon had left the doctor to his own devices and busied herself in the small kitchen below the master’s room. She shuttled hot tea and coffee onto a small table between Margaret’s divan and the two men’s chairs.

As the conversation died down, the question of the Irish remained.

Higgins was worried that the newly arrived workers, if abandoned to the streets of Milton, would be so desperate that they would instantly cross other picket lines.

He addressed Margaret with an eye on Thornton. “The Paddies are a problem. I canna see how ye can keep any of ’em, let alone a portion. I am no fool. Ye canna pay two workforces.”

Margaret’s aura, a halo of compassion, enveloped John and led him through the cracks in his prejudices. Thornton squared his jaw, determined to demonstrate his bedrock convictions, now altered by her example. “The idea that I would throw men and their families into utter privation makes me ill.

“True, in the past, I would have waved liberalism’s flag and allowed they should find employment at other mills or simply move on to another town. Yet I know that Hamper and Slick—I have contrary hopes for my soon-to-be brother, Watson—would take advantage of their dire straits.

“I could pay their fare back to Ireland. Of course, that would be false compassion, as I would be sending them home to starve like so many others. Other men's consciences might rest easy in not having to watch grieving parents as they lower tiny blanket-wrapped bodies into the ground.

“I brought them to Milton. Thus, I must find a solution.”

John looked hopefully at his partners. Higgins shrugged. He had no suggestions.

However, Miss Hale used her intuition. “Might you put on a second shift? Is it not the case that between eight o’clock in the evening and six o’clock the following morning, the mill shuts down except for maintenance? Could you absorb some of the Irish in this manner—making cloth to fill your orders in less time?”

Both Higgins and Thornton smiled at one another, surprised at Miss Hale’s naïveté about the nature of the textile industry. Their amusement lasted a few moments, swiftly disappearing when she continued. “I understand that Marlborough’s order book is bulging—for now. However, cancellations will stop that, especially as customers, fearing the strike will be long-lived, consider other sources, especially in Manchester.

“However, this is a problem faced by every single Milton facility. They cannot fill the orders they have on their books. But they do have orders, ones they will lose if they do not find a way to deliver.

“I recall hearing a merchant captain with the Gardiner line, a Captain Keith, who dined at the Parsonage when he passed through Helstone a few years ago. He was Canon Benton’s friend. Papa was Mr. Benton’s student at Oxford back in the twenties.[6]

“Over dinner, the captain explained how the India and China trade works through factoring, where one merchant in India may close a deal with another in London to deliver a certain amount of porcelain. That merchant might not have any china in his warehouse.

“But the order itself is a commodity just like the tableware. Another tradesman could purchase that order at a discount, then undertake to deliver the goods at the India Dock and collect the total amount originally agreed upon. The customer wants the goods and does not care who fulfills the contract.

“That, Captain Keith told us, is factoring.”

Expanding her thinking, her eyes wandered toward the ceiling. “You could increase your utilization if you offer to purchase, to factor, unfilled orders from the other owners. I imagine they would take between 40 and 50 percent of the value of their moribund orders, rather than getting nothing but a worthless cancellation. Maybe Mr. Bell could offer some financial guarantees.[7]

“This would provide two advantages.

“First, you would make a small profit, but a profit nonetheless, while utilizing your second-shift capacity and keeping the Irish workers employed.

“And second, the customers would be indebted to you for honoring the original terms of their deals and preserving their margins. Marlborough would be far ahead even if you only converted five or six of these from Hamper, Slick, or Watson customers.

“Only one mill needs to crack. Perhaps Mr. Watson, as he has designs on your sister, may be willing to repave his bank account with an influx of Marlborough cash.”

Thornton and Higgins were astonished at her sophisticated analysis. They scrambled for pencils and paper to run the figures. After two or three minutes, a second shift found life. However, even the most generous calculations accounted for only a bit more than half of the imported hands. The Council of Three agreed that this was unsatisfactory.

∞∞∞

Thornton wandered to his desk, pondering what to do with the surplus. Something nagged in the back of his mind. Then it was no longer hidden.

A chance meeting at the Lambton station, when Thornton was changing to the London train, raced through his mind.

Thornton had been a little the worse for wear because the Milton line offered indifferent service at best. He had been delayed and had already missed two southbound trains.

He stood on the platform waiting to climb into his carriage when an elegantly dressed couple strolled up. Perhaps the dark-eyed lady took pity on his weariness. Perhaps the well-tailored gentleman recognized something in Thornton that he himself possessed. Whatever the roots of the exchange, the three engaged in polite conversation while they waited for a private car to couple to the back of the train.

Soon enough, though, all was in order, and farewells began. Thornton and the older man exchanged cards. The couple moved off and boarded their exclusive sleeper, the Oakham Mount. Thornton was impressed and curious but did not consider the gentleman’s calling card until he settled on the second-class bench.

The words were potent then. They were even more so now.

Thomas C. Johnson