The Privateersman (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 1) (11 page)

Satterthwaite had had three sons, two of them
midshipmen, both lost to storms when their small ships had foundered off the
New England coast, the third commissioned into the militia and then exchanged
into the regular army by the ordinary route of bringing in his own company of
volunteers – he had gone to America and had died there of a camp fever before
ever seeing the battlefield. Two daughters and their children remained, but he
had a regard for any young man who had survived that appalling country and had
had sense enough to return to the motherland. There was no need, he felt, to
mention any of this to Mr Andrews, his personal life was not a matter for
public delectation, let him just assume that it was all part of his
professional services; he wondered, in passing, just how Mr Andrews had come by
his scarred face – perhaps it partly explained why he was the last of his
family, poor young man!

“One house or two, Joe?”

“One large, one small, next to each other, if it’s
possible, Tom – newly-weds should have privacy!”

They gave their instructions to Satterthwaite’s
clerk, were driven out by him in his gig three days later a couple of miles
down the road towards Manchester, into open countryside, then another mile up
the hills to an area of small farms and moorland on the road to Billinge. He
stopped at a small country house, seven or eight bedrooms at a glance, not
particularly distinguished architecturally, constructed of the local yellow
stone by an unimaginative builder of half a century before, square and dour,
but solid. A drive of a couple of hundred yards led down from the road and a
lodge cottage. There were large ornamental gardens beside the drive inside a
wall surrounding six or seven acres in all.

“Smallpox was rife last year, Mr Andrews. In the way
of disease, sir, some escaped untouched, some families lost one or two, a few
were wiped out. Old Mr Keighley and his son and his wife and their three
children – all gone in the space of a week. Probate has just been granted to a
nephew who has no wish to leave his own house for one as unfortunate to his
family as this. Seven acres, at twenty pounds; the lodge cottage at eighty; the
big house and stables at the back, four hundred and twenty. Six hundred and
forty pounds his asking price, sir.”

Tom had made enquiries of house prices in the
locality, had a fair idea of what was normal. Twenty pounds an acre for the
gardens was steep, the cottage was fairly priced, the house was a hundred
pounds less than might have been expected in the area. Of course, the house was
unlucky, would not be well thought of amongst the local people – it might be
very difficult to find a purchaser.

Tom nodded noncommittally, let the clerk unlock the
front door and usher him inside. Hallway, stairs, reception rooms, kitchen and
pantries, a pair of cellars; eight bedrooms, two of them of a good size and
with dressing-rooms, on the first floor; attics with rooms for six staff
reached by a back stair. A block of six boxes and a small carriage house at the
rear, groom’s quarters above. Tom had seen houses like it near his old home in
Dorset, had never expected to have one like them of his own. They walked over
to the lodge, found it to be somewhat larger than it seemed from the front,
with four bedrooms and three big receptions.

“It served as a Dower House, sir, a generation or so
back, was extended then.”

Tom caught Joseph’s eye, questioningly, received a
nod.

“Five hundred guineas, gold?”

Five hundred and twenty five pounds and the premium
of gold on paper, at least ten per centum, brought the offer close to six
hundreds, in cash immediately to hand – no loans, no Bills, no time to pay – it
was a good offer.

“I will take your proposal to Mr Satterthwaite, sir,
and he will wish to take instructions. I would expect at least a week before
any answer can be forthcoming, sir.”

A man with five hundred golden guineas in his pocket
was worth a ‘sir’ in every sentence, it would seem.

The offer was accepted within four days and a
tentative date for exchange of contracts was arranged for the following month,
the gold coins lodged for the meanwhile in Satterthwaite’s safe, token of Tom’s
probity. They met young Mr Clapperley on the next morning, he evidently having
been given the word that there was real money in Tom’s pocket and bank account,
not just hot air.

Clapperley was a nasty little man, was Tom’s first
reaction, not perhaps especially under-sized but hunched up into himself, secretive
and sly, closed away, as it were. He met them, shook hands and leered
ingratiatingly; Tom realised it was in fact a courteous smile of greeting, as
well as he could manage such.

“Mr Andrews and Mr Star! A pleasure to meet you,
gentlemen! My good friend Satterthwaite tells me that you wish to become
established in business in this locality?”

No courtesy title for Satterthwaite, trying to imply
that they were close associates and boon companions, which seemed somewhat
unlikely.

“Yes, Mr Clapperley, that is our intention. Possibly
to set up new for ourselves, perhaps to buy into an existing firm as partners,
maybe even to buy out a gentleman seeking to retire.”

“Buying into an existing concern it is many ways the
best course, in my opinion, gentlemen. Money is short, and I know of three
firms in the iron trade, for example, who could benefit from an injection of
cash, and there are several cotton factors who are hand-to-mouth at the
moment.”

Tom stopped him in mid-flow, before he could get to
the proposition he was evidently about to make.

“’Cotton factors’, Mr Clapperley? Not a term
familiar to me.”

Clapperley smiled, changed tack – Andrews was not to
be rushed, it seemed.

“The Putting-out system, Mr Andrews, the old way
that has done good service for many years. Cotton must be washed and carded and
spun and then woven before going to be dyed and worked into dress lengths or
whatever. Weaving is done on the hand looms, by the men in their cottages,
sometimes in a shed attached, at most three or four looms together where there
are adult sons or sometimes younger unmarried brothers in the family. Spinning
is sometimes done in factories using water-frames powered off the mill-wheel,
more commonly at home on a spinning wheel – the old distaff is almost never to
be seen nowadays; often the weavers’ womenfolk are the spinners. The weavers
and cottage spinners in the nature of things have very little money – they
could never afford to go to the auctions and buy bales of raw cotton off the
ships, hence the factors. The factor buys part or all of a shipload of cotton,
stores it in his warehouse and breaks bulk and then sells raw cotton to the
spinners; they sell thread and yarns back to him the next week or fortnight,
and he then sells on to the weavers, who sell their cloths back to him and then
on to the dyers and finally to the tailors and cutters and dressmakers and
haberdashers and whoever wants cloth to work.”

“So the factor is out on the roads as much as he is
in the warehouse, it would seem.”

“He is, sir. When I said ‘sell’, by the way, Mr
Andrews, there is not in fact a lot of cash involved – being poor folks almost
all is on credit – sell twenty pounds worth of cotton, buy back twenty one
pounds worth of yarns, one pound cash actually changing hands.”

Joseph was interested – he knew of cotton, they grew
a little of long-staple, the highest quality, on small farms in Antigua, and
was sure that he could talk sensibly to the spinners and weavers, make himself
a trusted business partner in a trade that must depend on mutual respect. He
questioned Clapperley a little further, particularly about the financial
aspects.

“Cotton is still essentially the province of the
little man, Mr Star, though that is changing. Two thousands would purchase a
half share, a full partnership, in any of half a dozen concerns I know of.
Ponies and traps or vans, a dray, even, a bulk purchase at auction, possibly
the buying of handlooms to set up half a dozen men on wages. I could make some
contacts for you, perhaps?”

“Possibly, Mr Clapperley, it is one of several lines
of enquiry at the moment.”

Tom nodded, took over the discussion.

“What of the iron trade, Mr Clapperley? I have heard
tell of iron works and foundries.”

“There are a number in this area – every coalfield
has some, though there are more to the south in Birmingham and in Yorkshire
around Sheffield. Coke firing for cast iron and steel making has enabled much
more to be made, though coke is still not so effective for the production of
good wrought iron, I understand, but even there we hear a whisper that a
gentleman named Cort is close to perfecting a new technique. Even though output
is rising, gentlemen, the demand for iron is climbing faster still.”

“Then the trade should be profitable, sir, should
not need too much of cash from new investors, one might think.”

“Normally, yes, Mr Andrews, but where a proprietor
has, for one reason or another, failed to keep on top of the job, then problems
arise that may lead to a need for more cash and a better organisation.”

Tom raised an eyebrow, attempted a complicitous
smile which his scarring turned into a menacing grimace; he noticed
Clapperley’s cringe, put it down to his general peculiarity – a very strange
little man!

“I should imagine that you will be able to put me in
contact with some local proprietor in cotton or iron, or coal perhaps, who
needs to sell all or part of his concern, Mr Clapperley?”

Clapperley was sure that he would be able to, at a
very reasonable price, he expected.

“Then Mr Star and I need to discuss our plans fully
and come to you with our final instructions, sir. Shall we say tomorrow
morning, at ten would be convenient?”

The rest of the day was committed to Bennet and
Amelia, promises having been made to take the two out to the new houses they
would be responsible for so that they could make plans for their housekeeping.
In reality Bennet would take charge of each at first, Amelia watching and,
hopefully, learning; the first need would be staff and for that Amelia had no
idea at all. It seemed to them all that it would be sensible for the wedding to
take place as early as was possible, so that they could move in immediately
after contracts were signed. Bennet had a feeling that there had to be Banns of
Marriage, she was sure such were needed these days, but she had no certain idea
of what they were. They sought out the parish church and the rector who
explained the formalities demanded by English law and was a little surprised at
their ignorance of them; long residence in America sufficed as explanation,
reference to Satterthwaite established their bona fides.

“The marriage of a minor, of course, demands the
consent of parent or guardian, Mr Andrews.”

“I am guardian, appointed by her father at his
death, sir.”

A guardian had to be of age, and the rector was not
entirely sure that Tom was twenty-one; he was, however, more than six feet
tall, built like a bruiser and heavily scarred on his face and the reverend was
a man of peace. The Banns would be called. Fees were paid, time and date
confirmed and they would be married within two days of the houses becoming
theirs; it was very convenient.

It occurred to Joseph, belatedly, that he had never
actually proposed to Amelia, but she brushed that aside as the merest
triviality, they both knew that they wanted to be wed, she said.

Observing, and saying nothing, Tom suspected very
strongly that young Miss Amelia wanted a husband and a house and a settled life
at least as much as she wanted Joseph; considering her father and his erratic
circumstances he could hardly blame her. Thinking on the matter, he would not
mind settling down himself, one day – but there was too much to do yet.

“You want to go for the cotton factoring, Joseph?”

“For a start, Tom. I think I want to look at the
chance of a spinning mill, though – like the little weasel talked about. I
don’t see moving the cotton from one place to another and paying for its
transport and letting it get dusty or muddy on these roads. There’s no sense to
it. Best would be just one big place with machines – but weaving’s all hand, he
says, so we have to keep with what the weavers will do. One day.”

“Two thousand, Clapperley said, that would leave a
fair bit in hand to build your mill. What I reckon is that we are partners, you
to have a quarter.”

“Partners? Working together, not employed by you?”

“Why not? Andrews and Star – we can get
Satterthwaite to register us, or whatever he needs to do. The houses separate,
our own property.”

“Why? Why give me this?”

“You did a lot of the work in New York, more than me
if truth be told. You fought beside me and you watched my back and I’d probably
be dead if you hadn’t. I’m boss, because I pinched the money, but with you
backing me still I reckon I’ll do better than I possibly could on my own. So
it’s only fair that you make money too. Anyway, we’re friends, not master and
man.”

“Thank you, Tom.” Joseph stretched out his hand, the
greeting of an equal, believing it for the first time.

“What are you going to do, Tom? Iron?”