Authors: Jae
What she needs is to find new work
, Rika thought.
The
stuffy, lint-filled weave room made even the healthiest women cough. But, like
Rika, Jo didn't have much choice. With no husband and no family to take care of
her, the cotton mill was her only means of support.
"No," Rika said. The first horsecar of the day
clattered up the hill, and Rika raised her voice so Jo would hear her over the
stamping of hooves. "I won't leave you here alone."
Another cough prevented Jo from answering.
Rika's throat constricted. She handed Jo a handkerchief and
wished she could do more. But what? Maybe if she gave her this week's pay, Jo
would agree to see a doctor.
"Come on." Rika took hold of Jo's arm. "If
we're late..."
Just yesterday, an Irish girl had stumbled from Mr.
Macauley's office, crying and pressing a ripped sleeve against her bleeding
lip.
"That's for letting my looms sit idle after the five
o'clock bell!" William Macauley had shouted after her.
No one said a word. No one dared to.
One arm still around Jo, Rika hurried along rows of elms
that bent beneath the harsh wind.
They struggled across a small bridge. Rika sucked in a
breath as the wind's icy fingertips drove a spray of water through her worn
skirt. "Careful," Rika said. "Don't slip."
Finally, the flickering streetlamps revealed the mill's
four-story brick building. The tall chimney already leaked sooty smoke into the
dark sky, blotting out the stars.
The shrill ringing of a bell shattered the silence.
"Run!" Rika shouted.
A girl, no older than thirteen, pushed past them and hurried
up the steps, probably on her way to the spinning room on the first floor.
The bell rang a second time, and they raced through the
doors of the cotton mill. Beneath the soles of Rika's worn boots, the floor
vibrated. Even the walls, though made of brick, seemed to quiver.
Darn!
Rika dug her nails into her palm.
The overseer had already pulled a cord, setting the gigantic
waterwheel in motion.
She slipped into the weave room, hoping to get her looms
going before the foreman climbed onto his high stool and found her missing.
What's this?
She squinted through the lint-filled
air.
Jo's looms were already moving, the shuttles hissing back
and forth. One of the women winked at Jo.
Lord bless them. They covered for us.
Rika squeezed
Jo's hand and hurried to her own workplace.
Her steps faltered when she saw her looms — three unmoving
objects in a sea of bustling activity. Rika's smile waned. No one had set her
looms in motion. No one had even noticed her missing.
No one but William Macauley.
He towered over Rika's looms, a golden pocket watch in his
hand, and tapped the faceplate with a chubby finger. Thick lips blew cigar
smoke into her face. "You are late, Miss..."
Rika struggled not to cough. "Aaldenberg," she
said, knowing he never remembered the names of his employees. "I'm so
sorry, Mr. Macauley. It won't happen again."
"Damn right, it won't." He snapped his watch shut.
"I don't need lazy gals running my looms."
Rika trembled. Was he about to fire her?
Think! Say something!
She pressed her palms together
as if praying. "I swear I left the boarding house on time, but um... I
had... um... female problems and had to visit the outhouse."
Rika held her breath. The lump in her stomach rose to her
throat. It wasn't a lie, just a creative interpretation of what had happened.
After all, a female had made her late.
Mr. Macauley's plump cheeks flushed, and he bit down on his
cigar. He stabbed his finger at the rows of looms rattling and whirring around
them. "Then how come all the other womenfolk started work right on
time?"
Because they didn't care enough to stop and help Jo.
Rika
understood. She didn't want to lose her job any more than they did. But telling
the truth would get Jo fired. Once, a girl had fainted in the weave room's
humid heat. The overseer had told her, "We've got no place for a sickly
girl," before putting her out on the streets.
Rika bowed her head. "It won't happen again, Mr.
Macauley. I promise."
His cheeks still flushed, the old goat grunted but seemed to
accept the apology.
Ha!
Rika clamped her teeth onto her lower lip to hide
a triumphant smile. She knew he wouldn't be eager to discuss the particulars of
"female problems."
"I'll take the delay you caused out of your
wages." Mr. Macauley puffed on his cigar and blew smoke into Rika's face.
"I'm sure you agree one week without pay is fair."
One week? Rika coughed and bit the inside of her cheek. She
would have to dig into her savings to pay for her room and board. How would she
ever save enough to make it out of the mill if things continued like this?
Worse, she wouldn't be able to give Jo money so she could finally see a doctor.
She clenched her fist behind her back. For a moment, she thought about arguing,
trying to offer him one day's wages, but she knew any protest would anger Mr.
Macauley even more. "Of course," she mumbled, gaze lowered to the floor.
Mr. Macauley brushed lint off his cravat. "I'm warning
you, girl. I'll have the overseer keep an eye on you. If you're late
again," he stabbed his hand forward and cigar ash rained down on Rika,
"you'll be out of a job." He pocketed his gold watch and strode into
the whirl and hiss of the looms.
Rika pressed a hand to her stomach. Fear snuffed out her
momentary relief. She'd avoided disaster this time, but how much longer would
she be able to care for Jo and keep her job?
* * *
Hours later, Rika's ears were ringing. All around her,
water-powered wheels and leather belts whirred and two hundred looms clattered
as the harnesses lifted and lowered the warp threads. Her gaze flew left and
right, following the paths of the shuttles. After each pass of the shuttle, a comblike
bar hammered the woven threads into the cloth's web.
Darn! A broken thread!
Rika sprang into action.
She hit the lever. The loom shuddered to a halt. She reached
into the machine, fished out the broken ends, and, without looking, tied a
weaver's knot. It had taken her a long time to master the skill, and the
Macauleys weren't generous enough to let the women learn the technique during
work hours. Rika had practiced under Jo's tutelage by candlelight in their
room, tying knots until her fingers bled.
She shook off the memory and jammed the lever back into
place. The loom roared to life again. Rika glanced at her other two looms.
Sweat ran down her face, and she dabbed at her forehead with her apron. Her
damp bodice clung to her chest no matter how often she tugged it away from her
overheated skin. Despite the cold outside, steam wafted through the weave room.
It kept the cotton threads from drying out and ripping, so she didn't dare to
open a window.
Rika took a deep breath and then coughed when she inhaled a
lungful of floating lint. Dust and the lingering odor of sweat and oil burned
her nose.
Other women placed new bobbins of yarn in the shuttles or
started up stalled looms. They coughed too, adding to the deafening noise in
the weave room.
Hours later, the bell rang, announcing the end of their
workday.
Thank the Lord!
Rika signaled for the cloth boy to
gather the woven cloth and walked toward Jo, who still hurried from loom to
loom. "Jo!" she shouted.
Her friend kept on working. After three years in the mill,
the noise of the machines had affected Jo's hearing. Rika vowed to make it out
before the same happened to her.
"Johanna Bruggeman!"
"Oh!" Finally, Jo noticed the other women filing
out of the room. A tired smile flitted over her face when she turned to Rika.
"Let's get out of here. My feet are hurting something awful." Her
slouched stance told Rika that more than just Jo's feet were hurting. Damp
strands of normally white-blond hair, now darkened to the color of wheat, stuck
to her thin face.
When Rika opened the mill's heavy door, darkness had fallen.
Cold air hit her like a punch, and she shivered as the wind cut into her
sweat-dampened cheeks. After the weave room's humidity, the dry winter air
burned her lungs.
She tugged Jo against her side, hoping to protect her
friend's thin body from the wind, and they set off for home.
If you can call it that.
Rika slowed her steps to
adjust to Jo's shuffle. Like most mill girls, they were renting a room in the
crowded part of town east of Tremont Street.
"What did Mr. Macauley say to you this morning?"
Jo asked when they paused to let a beer wagon rumble past. "He didn't
catch you being late, did he?"
Rika lifted her skirt and stepped over a half-frozen puddle.
"Don't fret. He just gave me an earful, that's all." She didn't want
Jo to worry.
Candles flickering in the boarding house's narrow windows
beckoned Rika, promising rest, warmth, and food, at least for a few hours. But
when they crossed the street, half a dozen young women sat on the stairs or
perched on the banister, bundled up in their coats.
"What are you doing outside?" Rika asked.
"Don't tell me there's vermin again?" Her scalp itched at the memory
of last summer's lice, and the thought of again finding tiny teeth marks on her
brown bread made her stomach roil.
"No," one of the women answered, shivering.
"Too cold even for vermin. Betsy is inside, talking to her gentleman
friend. She's giving each of us a penny so that they can have the parlor to
themselves for an hour, and we don't want to be cooped up in our rooms."
While Rika longed for some fresh air too, she worried about
Jo catching a cold, so she led her inside and they climbed the creaking stairs.
Before they reached their third-story room, Rika heard
Mary-Ann shout, "It's my turn."
"But I got to it first," Erma answered.
Not again.
Rika was sick and tired of the old
argument. She opened the door. "Stop squabbling. Let Jo have the washbowl
first."
"That's all right." Jo sank onto the bed she
shared with Rika. The small room lacked other places to sit. "I think it's
your turn anyway."
Huffing, Erma retreated from the washbasin. "I'm going
down to write a letter home."
Rika folded her coat and apron and set them on the trunk
next to their bed. Without looking at Jo or Mary-Ann, she slipped out of her
bodice, skirt, and petticoat. Goose bumps pebbled her flesh in the chill air.
She stepped toward the washstand and ran a wet cloth over her pale skin.
After slipping into her only clean skirt, she shoved her
feet back into the worn shoes. They no longer seemed too large, as they had
this morning. When she had first started working in the mill, Jo had taken her
under her wing and taught her to buy shoes one size too big so they'd still fit
her swollen feet in the evening.
The ringing of the supper bell made Rika jerk. "Hurry,
Jo!" She passed her friend the washcloth and laid out a clean skirt and
bodice for Jo.
"You go on." Jo didn't move from the bed.
"I'm not hungry."
Not hungry?
Rika eyed her slight friend. Jo had lost
weight during the last few weeks, and she couldn't afford to miss meals.
"Jo," she said. "Come on. Just a few bites."
"No. Go on." Jo shooed her away. "I'll stay
and read my letters."
The sound of feet dashing down the stairs made Rika look up.
If she didn't hurry, her place at the table and most of the food would be gone.
"I'll try to bring you some bread and cheese. Are you sure you'll be fine?
I can stay and keep you company."
"No, go."
"Promise you'll go see a doctor. They got lady doctors
at the hospital now."
"What would they tell me? To rest? To quit working in
the mill?" Jo shook her head. Her voice was calm, as if she had long ago
accepted her situation. "I can't afford either."
Rika drilled torn fingernails into her palm. "But maybe
there's a tonic or syrup that can help."
"I can't waste money on that. I need every dime when I
go west. Now go, or the others will eat your supper."
"But —"
Jo opened her mouth to interrupt, but coughs cut off her
words. Her face flushed, and she waved Rika away.
With one last glance, Rika hurried to the dining room.
Tin plates clattered, and chairs scraped over the floor.
Girls and women shouted up and down the three long tables, adding to the
roaring in Rika's ears. She squeezed in between two girls and snatched the last
potato. The first few forkfuls of beans landed in her stomach without her
taking the time to chew thoroughly or enjoy the taste.
At breakfast and lunch, the factory bell hurried them along,
and Rika gobbled down her food to satisfy her growling stomach. Now she found
it hard to eat slowly. Minutes later, she mopped up the bacon grease on her
plate with a piece of brown bread and became aware of the other women's
conversation.
"Did you hear about poor Phoebe?" Mary-Ann asked.
The women shook their heads and stared at Mary-Ann.
Rika listened but said nothing. She used the others'
distraction to slip a slice of bread into her pocket.
"What happened?" Erma asked.
"She got her hair caught between a belt and one of the
shafts," Mary-Ann said. "Scalped her from forehead to the back of her
neck."
The girl next to Rika gasped.
Rika touched her own hair. Factory rules demanded that the
women wear their hair up and tucked under a scarf, but still accidents
happened. Last week, a weaver had lost a finger in the machinery, and the month
before, an unsecured shuttle put out a girl's eye.
"I'm taking up a collection for the hospital
fees," Mary-Ann said. "So if you can spare a few pennies..." She
looked at the other women.