Thus far, the mishaps had been nominal; a few minor injuries and broken down machines all that had upset the flow. This positive record was highly irregular in the danger fraught machinations of a mill and all the persons involved recognized their good fortune. “Darcy.” Mr. Shultz shook his hand, jerking his head toward the smoldering mill. “We were just discussing the details of what occurred. Kinnison and I were here until late last night, but it was not safe to inspect and far too disordered. And we were busily dealing with the injuries and fatalities, and assuring the fire was out.” He shrugged, pausing briefly before continuing. “We lost the foreman Hendle and two workers, Spreckle and Trillis. Good workers.”
Darcy nodded solemnly. His personal knowledge of most of the personnel was nonexistent. However, this did not mean he did not care. “Any family? Widows?”
“The men chosen for the Christmas holiday were unmarried per protocol. Hendle was the foreman who drew lots this year and he has… had a family. It will be dealt with according to our policy, Darcy.” Shultz answered wearily but matter-of-factly. “She works in the weaving room and knows her position will be held for two weeks with compensation for Hendle until she decides what to do. They have four children, two who work as spinners, so I do not know what to expect.”
Kinnison spoke up then, “The two men injured are Haggar and Merran. They suffered minor burns and breathing difficulties from the smoke. The surgeon says they will be fine.”
They began walking toward the large front doors, Richard joining the other men to follow behind while Shultz resumed his narrative. “We were not able to speak with either man until an hour ago, so it was unclear what had occurred. The other watchmen were not at the scene until after the fire was well ablaze, making their rounds and checking equipment as expected, so they were little help. One fellow, Stevenson, let it slip that alcohol was present.” He paused for an angry glower. Shultz was a staunch Methodist and abstainer from all alcoholic beverages, even to the point of actively participating in a thus far unpopular temperance society in Derby.
Kinnison shared a sideways grin with Darcy, who nodded and smiled faintly. Darcy was not a heavy drinker by any means, a few youthful overindulgences having taught him severe lessons in moderation; but he did not fully ascribe to the near satanic, sinful qualities attributed to alcohol by some. Nonetheless, having been witness to the tragic results of drunkenness in terms of domestic violence and financial ruin—especially amongst the lower classes, although on occasion in his own peer group—he did sympathize with the temperance movement. Frankly, as a man of superior self-control, Darcy had little patience for men who chronically over imbibed and considered it a hideous character flaw.
As a company policy, alcohol of any kind was prohibited on the mill grounds. Its possession was grounds for immediate dismissal. The idea that employees would jeopardize their livelihood and lives for a drink filled him with a simmering rage. “Do we know the finer details?”
Kinnison spoke up, Shultz still glowering and muttering under his breath. “It took a bit of time. A few threats, intimidation, and cajoling, but they finally gave us enough.”
They were inside now, the aroma of smoke and burnt cotton heavy in the air in spite of the widely open windows. Unconsciously, each man retrieved a handkerchief to place over his nose. They walked down the seemingly endless rows of liquid-filled vats and gigantic tables where the bleaching, scouring, dyeing, and other finishing procedures were carried out. Darcy was relieved to note that they were heading away from the separated rooms where the two steam engines were located, those machines being by far the most expensive, not to mention necessary for all other operations to take place. They walked up a curved stairway to the second floor where they traversed long aisles between the weaving looms. Now standing idle with the threads in various stages of completion, the powerful machines were undamaged. They mounted the sooty stairs leading to the third floor spinning room while Kinnison continued, voice muffled behind cloth.
“Not too original, Darcy. A bit of holiday cheer, as it were, to accompany a lively faro game. They holed up by the stacks of rovings where it is warmer. It was early afternoon, but yesterday was cloudy, so apparently they brought in extra oil lamps; the better to see the cards, you understand?” He finished with heavy sarcasm and a shake of his head. “Plain stupidity!”
“The lamps are to be kept mounted and well away from the cotton; they all know that.” Shultz mumbled, faint German accent notable as it always was when distressed or angry.
“Apparently, Hendle happened upon their entertainment, demanded they clear out, but the four were well into their cups and a fight ensued. Somehow a lamp was overturned.” He paused to rub his eyes, continuing in a thick voice, “Hendle ran to the water pumps they tell me, but it gets confused from there on out. The others joined the scene and quenched the fire eventually, but not before Hendle and the others had died. What a waste!”
They halted before a bank of spinning mules, blackened with ash and soot but otherwise intact. Beyond was a scorched, smoking, wet mess of destroyed machinery and piles of burned fiber bundles extending thirty feet to the southern brick wall. Jagged, blackened gaps were visible in the floor and the ceiling, the fire having obviously risen to encompass the fourth level. The ceiling was essentially gone, with thick crossbeams in varying degrees of charred thickness the only support for the ruined carding machines above. The massive contraptions were scorched and twisted with melted metal pieces jutting, the entire row of mangled devices perched precariously.
Shultz gestured above. “The spinners and rovings acted as wicks, funneling the flames to the fourth floor. It looks like the damage is worst up there. Thanks to you, Darcy, we had those water pumps installed, otherwise the fire would have raged unchecked.”
“Our first order of business is to remove those carders before they break the beams and plummet through to the bottom floors and cause more damage.” Darcy said with a curt signal to several of the loitering men, who nodded and hastened to organize a group of workers for the task. “Any idea how much cleaned cotton was sitting here?”
Shultz scratched at his chin and sighed. “Well, the stacks line the walls here, piled to just below the windows. Freshly prepared bundles are replenished via the far lifts as quickly as they are set to the spinners. I have detailed invoices in my office. Looks like those on the extreme edges may be salvageable.”
While he spoke he indicated the area of destruction before them, Darcy’s mind performing rapid calculations as he considered the quantities. The walls between floors rose roughly fifteen feet with wide windows all around. The southern wall spanned at least fifty feet, the middle bulk of which was a black, faintly smoldering, and soggy mess.
Shultz was continuing, “Some of these spinners may be repairable. I have three new mules in the warehouse and dozens of spare parts from others that have worn out. Guess we should head upstairs. At least this end of the top floor is just machinery. The raw bales are at the northern end where they are hoisted up.”
The group made their way to the stairs, Shultz relating the warehouse inventory as they walked. The inspection was thorough, Darcy calling for parchment and quill to take detailed notes. Eventually, Richard left per Darcy’s request to secure rooms for them at the Georgian and to dispatch a note to Pemberley assuring of their safe arrival. It was a long day with Darcy and Kinnison spending the bulk of it in Shultz’s office on the ground level, bent over the desk and long table with jackets removed and shirt sleeves rolled up as they pored over invoices and inventory lists. Pages of parchment were written in Darcy’s firm hand, itemizing the damage.