The Iron Masters
Volume 1 For the Love of Eira.
Copyright 2014 © Graham Watkins
The right of Graham Watkins to be identified as the Author
of the work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the Author.
Table of Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
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Introduction
In 1780 a young farm boy left home and walked to Merthyr Tydfil. It was the beginning of an adventure that would change his life and the history of the known world. Nye Vaughn didn't know it but he was destined for greatness. War was coming. A war that would engulf every continent. It was a golden age for some. For others a time of misery and hardship. Fortunes are made in wartime and Britain was going to war. It was an opportunity the iron masters of Merthyr Tydfil would seize with both hands to make their fortunes. Men like Richard Crawshay, Francis Homfray and Josiah Guest built huge iron foundries employing thousands of men. The foundries of Cyfarthfa, Dowlais, Penydarren and Abercynon roared like thunder as they fed the war machine with cannon. The iron masters built canals and railways to get their wares to market. They fought, tricked and connived together. Anything was possible and nothing stood in the way of these powerful men.
Thomas Carlyle visited Merthyr writing that the town was filled with such 'unguided, hard-worked, fierce, and miserable-looking sons of Adam I never saw before. Ah me! It is like a vision of Hell, and will never leave me, that of these poor creatures broiling, all in sweat and dirt, amid their furnaces, pits, and rolling mills.'
However, I get ahead of myself. The story begins in a humble country graveyard.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Nye Vaughn glanced down at the crude coffin. It looked smaller in the grave, too small to contain his mother’s body. ‘Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord,’ intoned the minister.
His mother’s death had been cruel. Consumption devouring her body and destroying her mind. Once, she had been a strong woman. Full of life. She had made a good home and kept it well. Nye had listened to her coughing and her cries as demons tormented her dreams. Nye’s father had deserted the marriage bed to spend the evenings in the alehouses of Llangadog, to forget his sick wife. The town was alive with drovers, gathering to walk animals to the profitable English markets. Every room was occupied. Drovers, unable to find a bed, slept in barns and outhouses. On the nights when Nye's father came home, he slept in a chair by the kitchen fire. The farm, too, was neglected. Hedges needed repairing. The barn roof had collapsed. The autumn nights were getting longer and there was no winter feed for the animals. Nye did his best to work the farm, more than anyone could expect of a boy of eighteen.
Nye looked across the grave at his father, hoping for a smile, a nod, a gesture of compassion, of shared grief but his father stood motionless, staring straight ahead. Father and son were never close. Nye imagined his mother's death would bring them together. He was wrong; a void existed, as big as the grave between them, that would never be bridged.
‘May she rest in peace,’ said the minister and threw a sod of earth into the grave. It landed on the coffin with a thud. Nye shuddered. His father put on his cap and strode out of the graveyard. The minister put his hand on Nye’s shoulder. ‘Your mother was a good woman. She isn’t down there, Nye. She’s with God now,’ said the minister and glanced up to the heavens. He closed his prayer book and followed Nye’s father from the graveyard. Nye watched the gravediggers shovel earth into the grave.
It was raining as Nye walked back to the farm, a soft cold rain that penetrated his coat and chilled his back. Nye changed out of his Sunday clothes and did his chores. The animals had to be seen to. Nye collected eggs, shut the hens in and filled the carthorse’s manger with hay. The cow, her udders heavy with milk, was waiting by the barn. He milked her and cleaned the cowshed. The rain grew heavier as he worked. The heavy muck barrow slid in the mud as he pushed it across the yard. When the jobs were finished, Nye lit the kitchen fire, dried himself and sat in his mother’s chair. Her shoes were by the grate, her knitting still in a bag on the floor. The hearth mat his mother had woven with strips, cut from old clothes, looked shabby. Nye remembered cutting the cloth for her and helping make the rag rug. It was threadbare and greasy; ready to be discarded.
‘I’ll clear everything out tomorrow,’ he said to himself. He focused on the burning logs. Shadows danced on the walls as flames illuminated the room.
Nye was dozing when the clock struck ten. He stirred. The fire had burned low and the kitchen was dark, except for a faint glow from the embers. Nye added sticks to the fire. There was a noise outside, voices and scuffling. Nye stood up, looked at the door and the loaded gun hung above it. The door opened and his father lurched into the kitchen, followed by a woman.
‘What a dirty night. Let’s get these wet things off,’ laughed his father and grabbed at the woman. She giggled as he pulled at her coat. The woman noticed Nye and stopped laughing. Nye’s father turned and saw his son.
‘This is Jean. Jean, this is my boy, Nye,’ said his father, swaying as he spoke.
‘Mum’s not even cold in the ground and you bring a woman into her house,’ said Nye angrily.
There was silence as Nye's father digested what he said. Rain beat on the window. Drops of water came down the chimney. The fire hissed and spat a burning ember onto the rug. Nye’s father stepped forward and slapped his son across the face.
‘Your mother is gone. This is my house and you've insulted my friend,’ said his father. A trickle of blood ran down Nye’s face. ‘You’ll apologise to Jean.’
Nye pushed past his father, snatched his coat from behind the door and ran out, into the darkness.
‘Go after him,’ said Jean.
‘What for? He’s got nowhere to go. He’ll be back,’ replied Nye’s father.
The rug had begun to smoulder. Nye’s father carried it outside and threw it in the mud. Jean watched from the doorway. Nye’s father peered into the gloom, hoping to see his son but the farmyard was empty.
Table of Contents