The Iron Masters -Volume 1 For the Love of Eira. Read online

  Chapter 3

  The track led him over a mountain pass and through a valley dotted with small farmsteads. Curious dogs approached, barking defiantly. Others were friendlier and came forward nervously, with their wagging tails between their legs and their heads down. Nye drank greedily at a waterfall, bathed his foot and continued on. He reached a milestone, ‘Merthyr Tydfil 3 miles - Brecon 24 miles.’ The track continued down the mountain and became a muddy lane, rutted and choked with overgrown hedges. He reached a row of cottages. A woman, beating a rug by her front door, smiled awkwardly. Barefoot children, playing noisily in a stream, ignored him. A tethered pony, grazing beside the lane, looked up briefly.

  Nye came to a tavern. It was a shabby building with a faded star, hanging drunkenly, above the door. A man emerged from the tavern and hurried away. Nye ran his hands through his hair and entered. The bar was gloomy. Stale smoke hung in the air. A customer was laughing with a woman behind the counter. Drinkers, huddled by the fire, watched silently as Nye crossed the room. The landlady, a plump woman in her 40s, greeted her new customer with a smile.

  ‘What can I get you?’ she asked.

  ‘Do you have any jobs that need doing?’ replied Nye. The smile vanished.

  ‘Jobs, what jobs?’ She turned to the man at the bar, ‘Do you hear that Will. He’s looking for work.’

  ‘I’ll do anything, wash dishes, cut firewood, fetch coal,’ offered Nye.

  ‘Where are you from?’ asked the landlady.

  ‘Llangadog.’

  ‘That’s a long way off. How did you get here?’

  ‘I walked,’ answered Nye. The landlady’s expression softened. There was something about him she liked and there were jobs a stout lad could do. She fetched some ham and a jug of beer.

  ‘I don’t have any money’ said Nye.

  ‘You can sleep in the outhouse behind the inn. Tomorrow, you will work,’ answered the Landlady. ‘My name is Meir,’ she added, ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘Nye Vaughn,’ he replied.

  The following morning Nye woke early and Meir gave him his orders.

  ‘You can start by feeding the pig and when you've done that, muck her out,’ said Meir and handed Nye a bucket of slops. ‘Mouldy bread and stale beer, she loves it. Watch her, she’s ready to farrow and can be nasty,’ she added. The sow reared up with her trotters on the gate when Nye approached the pig pen. She was a large animal and her head was level with Nye’s face. Nye advanced slowly, talking quietly,

  ‘You’re a big girl. Are we going to be friends?’ The pig grunted. It smelt the food and was hungry. Nye filled the trough. Nye talked softly to the pig while she ate and, after eating, the sow allowed him to stroke her back. She had accepted Nye and a contented familiarity was established. Nye mucked out the pigsty, chopped wood, filled the coal scuttles, cleaned the grates, laid a fire in the bar, moved barrels in the cellar and was as useful as possible. That evening, Meir introduced Nye to Will Jones, the customer Meir had been talking with the previous evening.

  ‘If you’re looking for work there might be a chance of some labouring at Thomas’ foundry,’ suggested Will. ‘I’m a pattern maker there, ask for Mr. Thomas.’

  ‘What’s a pattern maker?’ asked Nye.

  ‘I make the wooden patterns used for casting iron,’ replied Will Jones.

  The following morning, Nye walked to Thomas’ foundry. In the yard, men were loading a wagon with iron cooking pots.

  ‘Who do I see about a job?’ asked Nye. One of the workmen pointed to the office,

  ‘You need Mr. Thomas. He’s in there.’ Nye knocked on the door and entered. Two men were bent over a table, studying a drawing. One was elderly with white hair. The other had similar features but was younger. A young woman was at a desk writing in a ledger. All were well dressed.

  ‘Do you really believe we can cast something this large?’ asked the older man.

  ‘I’m sure of it, father. It’s a new method I’ve read about, invented by Henry Cort, an iron producer in Hampshire. His system of puddling the iron removes more impurities. The castings are stronger with less flaws and weaknesses,’ replied the younger man. ‘Imagine, Thomas ovens and cooking ranges. This would open up new markets for us,’ he added enthusiastically.

  ‘Yes?’ asked the young woman looking at Nye.

  ‘I’m looking for work,’ answered Nye, removing his cap.

  ‘We aren’t hiring,’ snapped the younger man, without looking up from the drawing.

  ‘Isaac, if we’re expanding we’ll need more labour,’ said the older man. ‘I’m Mr. Thomas, this is my son, Isaac and my daughter Eira. What’s your name?’ asked Mr. Thomas.

  ‘Nye Vaughn, sir,’ replied Nye.

  ‘Have you ever worked in a foundry, Vaughn?’ asked Mr. Thomas.

  ‘We don’t need any more men,’ said Isaac, testily.

  ‘No sir but I’m strong and a quick learner,’ answered Nye.

  ‘Very well, you can start as a labourer 6 o’clock tomorrow morning. The wage is seven shillings a week. Eira, Vaughn will make his mark in the pay ledger.’ Eira watched Nye slowly write his name.

  ‘Your signature is neat Mr. Vaughn,’ she said.

  ‘My mother taught me letters and numbers. She made me practice every night,’ replied Nye.

  Nye returned to the Star Tavern to tell Meir his news. She was pleased and offered Nye the spare room above the bar.

  ‘It will be good to have a paying lodger and you can lend a hand,’ she explained.

  ‘You’re very kind, Meir,’ said Nye.

  ‘Am I?’ she said and handed him the slop bucket.

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