Calliope, Colluden & Mary Anne

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“We have a sick man on our hands, the eminent politician lies on his death bed and I am come to negotiate in his stead”. Lord Palmerston coughs nervously, it cannot be easy for him to appear relaxed in the presence of men as grim faced as these are,”and so we must come to some arrangement”. The Union Rep squats on the window sill, pipe in his mouth and Carbine in his hand,”Oh must we?” he quietly replies, leaning the Carbine against the sill and taking the pipe in his hand. His eyes flicker briefly down towards the butt of the Carbine on which lies engraved on a small brass plate the name of the manufacturers of the gun. Lord Palmerston’s eyes also flicker towards the brassplate for a brief minute and then, startled, dart just as quickly back to the bemused face of the Union Rep. Neither man says a word for a moment, though both know why settling the silk mill workers’ dispute has suddenly become an issue of the utmost importance.

“You know our terms, indeed you knew them ere we was imprisoned and transported!”. The men that surround him more grim faced than he, wave their guns and sticks of gelignite in the air. Lord Palmerston feels decidely nervous and the Union Rep would not have him otherwise.”Eight hour days, serious negotiations over pay and working conditions. The immediate release from prison of all as took part in the strike and riots and the pardoning of all as are due to be hanged”.

Whispering briefly into the ear of the indomitable Mr Bass, M’Lord Palmerston inclines his head.”You do know of course that two of Lord Monataperti’s factories have been all but burned to the ground and, that Lord Grid-Iron is missing? It is believed his life was most wickedly taken by an as yet unidentified rioter. In light of these unfortunate facst it is unlikely that any of your conditions will be met”. Snorting derisively the Union Rep casts a meaningful glance at the Carbine and then at a certain dapper looking, bewhiskered young man.”Lord Grid-Iron is missing you say?” he casts a glance round his men all of whose eyes gleam with malevolence at the very mention of the rapscallion’s name.”Well, we only have your word for it!” he inclines his head towards the bewhiskered young man. “I am told by this gentleman,that Lord Aberdeen may yet have cause to regret his venture into the Crimean. I am told by others that the Battle of Balaclava did not go well, and that a wealth of fathers, brothers and sons, of good men, may ne’er return from the battlefield”.

Lord Palmerston’s face pales, his small, hard eyes glitter and for an instant he looks like a cornered rat might,”T’is always darkest they say before the dawn and the conflict may yet turn in our favour” he replies smoothly. The Union Rep feels inclined to agree with him,”It might. It would be less than patriotic to say otherwise, but it might not. All the journalists and their War Photographers have said as much”. Now Lord Palmerston’s face starts to take on a most sickly hue,”War Photographers you say?” smiling wickedly the Union Rep nods.”I am told that once one secures a good vantage point amongst English sharpshooters, one may photograph almost anything. As I’ve said our workers are willing to lay down their arms and return to work, for an eight hour day and serious negotiations over pay and improved working conditions.  We will also require the immediate release from prison of all as took part in the strike and riots and the pardoning of all as are due to be hanged”.

M’lord Palmerston is dismayed but Mr Bass is confused, to be sure he had anticipated a struggle of wills betwixt his Lordship and the tradesman. But this? This was instant capitulation to a bunch of gnarl fingered, iniquitous felons who had incited their own kith and kin to attempt several acts of arson. One darest not bargain with fanatics such as these!”I shall take your demands to Lord Aberdeen who doubtless, once he is in possession of all the facts” he glared coldly at the young man who scrupulously refused to acknowledge his presence,”will grant all you have requested”.

Clambering to his feet and grasping Lord Palmerston’s gloved hand the Union Rep shook it heartily, as did all the men who were with him (once they had lain their guns and gelignite to one side). Escorting the gentleman and their entourage (two terrified Bow Street officers and one bemused Hussar) to the Newgate Prison gates was a lengthy process. For there were many hands to be shook, smiles to be returned and, back slaps to be endured as the party of politicians and guards made their way toward the relative safety of street and Brougham Carriage. “Well, and what was that?” inquired the Right Honourable Mr Bass once they were safely away from the prison. For, it seemed to him, that the Union Rep had more insight into the obscure workings of government than he did. “Don’t ask!” cried Lord Palmerston shrilly. Climbing into the plushly upholstered carriage he screeched “Driver! Montpelier House please, we must pay a visit to Lord Tennyson!”.

“Well and what was that?!” asked Nathan watching the carriage shoot down the road and careen left into Greville Street. It had been his experience that in any skirmish with the bosses the workers always came off worst. “That?” said the Union Rep with a twinkle in his eye “That is the end of our starvation and ill-paid slavery!” .

 

 

 

 

On The Subject Of Chimney Sweeps

“How long d’you think it’ll take them?” asked Bert,

“Oooh..not long” replied Boodoo, “Not long at all, the workers was already up in arms and what with that explosion, I wouldn’t fancy Lord Grid-Irons chances at all, he should have hiked it to the countryside but then there’s nowt so naive as the aristocracy” squinting off into the distance he could barely make out the orangey, pulsating, glow of the conflagration that had been St-Martin-In-The-Fields, dense grey-black smoke hovered above the spot. Boodoo felt exultant, with a little help from the Chimney- Sweeps this had been his best conflagration yet. And the fun wouldn’t end there, oh no, by this day’s end he would see the down fall of the one man who had parted him from his beloved sister, Emily LeFevre.

“Fancy a pickled bloater?”

“Nah”

“How about some fried tripe?”

“Nah”

“Well what about a roast potato pickled in turkey twizzler dripping? You can’t go wrong with some turkey twizzler dripping”

“Bloody hell Bert! Don’t you think bout nothing but food?”

“Oi oi! Here they come!”

Now, dear reader, envisage the scene at Grid-Iron square, the sombre and austere silence of three hundred smartly clad policemen, spiked helmets clutched tightly by grim hands, manning the barriers pop-eyed and expectant, and four dozen of her Majesty’s Huzzars, fresh out of the Crimean, sharpening the edge of their swords briskly, their eyes alight with unbridled glee, blood-shed was certain.

“Oi oi! Here they come!” Bert said once again and Boodoo, perched alongside Bert on the roof of Lord Grid-Irons town house simply smiled, “Ere Bert” he said serenely, “Toss us a Turkey Twizzler” munching speculatively on the cold and spicy meat they gazed out over the roof tops and down toward the preparations that were a-foot in Grid-Iron square. Overhead a pall of grey-black smoke hovered and undulated it’s way towards them from St-Martin-In-The-Fields, whilst on the ground all had come to a halt and the air was thick with expectant dread.

“There heeeeere” Bert declared shrilly, for not even his world weary gaze could quite take in the sheer enormity of the mob that had swarmed down from St-Martin-In-The-Fields and now seemed intent upon over-running Grid-Iron Square and tearing it apart, he thanked St. Gove he was perched firmly a-top a roof. And oh my dears! What a terrible sight! What a nightmarish spectacle for young eyes had they the wit to be terrified!

“Aieeeeeee! Aieeeee!” screamed the little chimney sweeps as they bore down like a roaring tide upon the hapless police officers,”Aieeeee! Aieeeee!” that shrill heart-stopping cry was as nothing next to the sound of the chimney scrapers they wielded, like a roaring tide of locusts devouring a cornfield, the chimney sweeps swept over the officers-of-the-law throwing themselves upon the Hussars. Then came the onslaught of the silk mill workers, who upon seeing their children joined in hand to hand combat with the Hussars, went to work themselves mopping up the leavings so to speak.

“Ere what Boodoo I didn’t know ‘erbert Wilkins was capable?”

Boodoo chortled, “E’s capable alright! Caught him trying his hand at badgering once, ‘ad to warn him smart” they both watched as little Herbert, a scarlet coloured band tied around his head, grabbed hold of a horse’s reins pulling himself up into the saddle behind the terrified Hussar. Plunging his fingers into the Hussars glossy locks he pulled hard, jerking the rider back, and causing the horse to rear, until all crumpled down into the ferocious millieux that would in time be known as the battle of Grid-Iron Square.

The two arsonists watched avidly, as wild looking women dipped beneath their skirts to remove their garters and then proceeded to use them as sling shots with which to aim and shoot bits of sharp edged debris at the enemies of promise. Here and there could be seen  police officers staggering under the weight of an enraged child, Hussars galloped to and fro caught in clear panic as chimney sweep after chimney sweep bit their noses, swung from their sword scabbards and gripped them fiercely by the hair. “A-ha!” shouted one Crimea Veteran triumphantly, ” I have you now!” as he gripped a child firmly by his soot-covered throat, ” Oh no you ruddy haven’t!” screamed another child as he flicked him aggressively in the forehead with the flat of his triangular shaped chimney scraper.

The sunset set at its usual pace as the workers and the forces of law and order grappled with each other, until at last only the workers (as well as those injured and near-comatose) remained. Those Hussars and police officers who could, had fled, and quite frankly who could blame them? For they had families to consider, “Its gone quiet for a bit” said Boodoo, “Pass me a spicy bloater” chewing speculatively on the meat his eyes passed over the crowd to a lady clad in a scarlet dress with a tri-cornered hat squarely a-top her head. Madame Guacamoley! It couldn’t be no other! He licked his lips with relish as the lady cantered briskly over the battlefield with the shrewd eyed union rep at her side,

“Comrades!” she roared, here eyes a-blaze with righteous indignation, “Our work is not over!Look around you! Does Lord Grid-Iron lie bleeding on the groud beneath your feet? Is it his loud groans you hear? Whilst your young ‘uns eat dried turkey twizzler mince, he dines on roast goose! Whilst you and yours warm yourselves by hearths heated by a single piece of coal, his face flushes with the warmth of a blazing log fueled fire! Comrades on your feet! Our work is not yet done! To Grid-Iron Manor!”

“To Grid-Iron Manor!” the workers roared their minds a-flame with thoughts of long hours and short wages “Avaunt thee Grid-Iron!” bonfires had been lit hither and thither by the workers who had tossed the various Hussar and Police officer’s uniforms upon them, in the midst of those alternately crimson, scarlet and amber coloured flames it seemed as though the workers had become the very denizens of hell, “Blimey!” said Bert as he prepared to dig into his fifth dried Turkey Twizzler, “They ain’t done yet!”

Of Wild Roses & Narrow Vestibules

Lady Grid-Iron was tired, she was tired of reading the bible day in, and day out (and of trying to look demure whilst doing it).Tobias had developed an abiding fascination with the book of Exodus, particularly where it pertained to the sacking of Egypt, indeed he had memorised the entire chapter and never tired of reciting it to both her and the servants. She was tired of crocheting purses and sewing ribbons on bonnets, the common pass time of women born high and low throughout the realm, supposedly,(when in tarnation would she get the time to clean her Winchester rifle?), most of all she was tired of London (give me the prairies any goddamn day of the week!). But she dared not let the irritation show, for one thing, she was married to the honourable Lord Grid-Iron, and that required a degree of ladylike finesse, a degree of turning out, she had hitherto not much required.

And then, of course, there was Francis, her negro page boy, why his eyes became liquid, unfathomable pools, if he stood in Lord Grid-Iron’s presence for longer than thirty minutes, and what was worst she knew what he was thinking. He loved a good hunt, in fact he had a gift for it having been born, raised and enslaved in the Sudan (by Arab Militia men). He had been sold to a plantation owner in the Americas and subsequently freed by the underground railway. The potential consequences of his patent and potent distaste for Lord Grid-Iron might have terrified her, had he not been recruited by the Pinkerton Detective Agency and then assigned to her by Allan Pinkerton himself. “Mah-dear” she cooed, smiling sweetly at the big, old, galoot she had married, “Ah-m tired”

“Tired m’dear? Damn it! I’ve invited Lord Montaperti to brunch! Who’ll entertain him?”

“Montaperti? Why? Such a strange little man. If I but once turn my back on him I catch him rubbing the silk of my gown between his fingers, like a common dressmaker!”

Lord Grid-Iron chortled, ” He is a common dressmaker my dear! He’s in textiles, yes! Quite common and very rich, and since we both have an uncommon fascination with the great unwashed he will lunch with us this morning!”

“And what of the mill worker’s strikes my love? Countess De Lacey tells me all sorts of terrible things about them. Is it true they’ve threatened to burn down the mills unless their working conditions improve and their wages are raised?”

“Not entirely my dear, they’ve threatened to dynamite them. You know, I sometimes wonder why we ever bothered improving the cost of living. Since Lord Aberdeen became Prime Minister we’ve cut the beer duty tax, introduced ‘the right to buy your own berth in the workhouse’ policy and introduced two further alms-giving days. We had much rather they kept their little ones in the industrial schools we’ve reformed, is it our fault they choose to put them to work? The proles are their own worst enemies”

“Ah-shall have cook send up a pot of Earl Grey and some of those pastries Mademoiselle Lefevre bakes, she really is the most delightful find”

“Most delightful” the great galoot replied with a lascivious twinkle in his eye, Kitty Grid-Iron feigned a yawn and fluttered her lashes watching his face grow flush beneath their influence, delicately discarding her embroidery, she lifted her satin skirts and minced over to him, pecking him most delicately on the cheek she sighed,

“Toby mah-dear I do so tire of these interminable brunches with interminably boring elevated tradesmen, promise me my love that this will be the last one…for a while” her large, brown, doe’s eyes met his watery blue ones and as ever he blushed and became a little flustered, “My dear” another delicate peck on his hirsute cheek and she was gone.

He gave no thought to regularly attending Parliament, though he had fought tooth and nail for his seat in the lower chamber, and certainly none as to how he should persuade the mill workers not to make good on their promise to blow up every Silk Mill in London. Kitty supposed the British government would have the infantry open fire as per usual (all the really big guns were stranded some place in the Crimea). And then of course there were the little boat trips to New South Wales, the judiciary had that down to a fine art; caught stealing a loaf of bread? New South Wales. Arrested for rioting against poor pay and conditions? New South Wales. Kitty supposed that sooner or later they’d run out of penal colonies and then where would they send them? The America’s were now independent.

“You sent for me m’aam” Maggie made a small curtsy, little Maggie, so neat and pristine in her prim little mob cap and prissy blue gown complete with frilly white apron, it made Lady Grid-Iron want to scream,”Did you sleep well Maggie? You look awful peaky this morning”

“Yes M’aam” said she, her eyes downcast, “I slept as well as might be expected, thank you m’aam”

“Lay out the primrose coloured water-silk and the satin slippers will you? And then you may run my bath”

Maggie curtsied,” Will you need me to fix your hair m’aam?” Kitty shook her head, “My hair’s fine, would that my contemplations were so”

“Contemplations m’aam?” Kitty smiled wryly, four years had been the most time she had ever spent on any operation in the United States of America. She’d been married seven years, widowed three, out on the hunt for secessonists in Alabama for four, and all of that had been a walk in the park next to being married to Lord Grid-Iron (two years and three and a half days,forty minutes and thirty seconds).”M’aam I couldn’t help but to notice the brooch you always wear, excuse me for asking but m’aam that lettering, what does it mean?”

Kitty’s eyes narrowed, she smiled brilliantly and in that moment she seemed most unlike her feminine, demure self, “Numquam Somni? It’s Latin child, it means, ‘I never sleep’, I’m a lot like you in that respect mah-dear” she said, hugging the child who was her maid very gently.