The Two Confessions by John Whitbourn (good books to read for adults .TXT) 📕

out the night inan abandoned dwelling, refusing to surrender to sleep or speculate how hisrefuge came to be blackened and tumbled.

'Down but not out'. If you determinedly sought it there was always hope:unfortunately not enough for optimism, but just sufficient, doled out in miserdoses by life, to keep you persevering.

Onthe other hand, dusk was on its way, the time when those - human and otherwise- who drew a more predatory living from the Great Road came out to play. He'dheard of one band who saw fit to skin their victims and leave the pelt on thehighway for next morning's wheels to trundle over. Others were said to holdhuman roasts to celebrate their robberies. Whilst safe behind London's wallshe'd always scoffed and pronounced them 'smugglers’ tales', designed to chillthe blood and keep nosey-parkers indoors. Now, out on the heath and lonely,like a pea on a drum under the darkening sky, he was less sanguine.

Withsuch cheerful thoughts as company, ancient habits reasserted themselves and hefelt a powerful urge to pray. The temptation was - with effort - resisted.Instead he struck an inner bargain: that if he came through all this he'd wrenchsome benefit from it and learn his lesson. Misfortune was only opportunity indisgusting disguise. If he survived, ever after he'd keep his subversiveopinions to himself.

Barredfrom the capital of his own nation, Samuel Melchizedek Trevan sweated his wayinto exile in the far West.

U[U[U[U[U[U[U

cHAPTER 3

He was set upon that road,quite unexpectedly, not two weeks before. Previously, all was well and everyhope and plan in glorious ascendance. Then there arrived a series of visitors,each bearing fresh instalments of misfortune.

‘Ihave just seen Hell!’ said the first of them, a priest.

‘Noyou haven't,’ Samuel answered, ‘not here anyway. I've been set up!’

Hestill had to raise his voice to be heard above the machines, even though they'dadjourned to the comparative peace of his office. The workplace noise infernoeasily prevailed over London's street sounds outside. But he was of a mind tobawl anyway, whether in a Whitechapel factory or High Mass at the Vatican.

TheChurchman swung round to confront Trevan's outrage, drawing close.

‘Isthat what you think?’ he roared back, just as angry, though more in coldcontrol. ‘Is that really how you delude yourself?’

Hiscompanions shuffled forward, seeking conversation range.

Samuelspread wide his hands, a visible protestation of innocence.

‘Ijust don't see what's wrong! It's been like this for ages. No one'scomplained!’

‘Incorrect,’snapped a prim and disapproving curate, hitherto occupied making copious notesof all that the Church inspection party saw.

‘Apartfrom them, I meant,’ Samuel ranted, waving at the Labour Guilds observers, whoweren't even bothering to conceal a festival of smirks and sneers. ‘No one whoworks here's complained!’

‘Ifyou meet all opposition with such unreasoning fury,’ replied the presidingpriest, once again confident aloofness personified, ‘I should imagine bothlabourers and artisans were too terrified to protest.’

‘Fairpoint, Father,’ chipped in one Guild man, a Turkic type clearly very proud of hisparish-convenor's sash. ‘All our tip-offs were anonymous.’

‘Yes...,so you said.’ To be fair, the priest seemed glad he had the plain evidence ofhis eyes to rely upon, rather than just the Guilds’ testimony.

‘Balls!Cack! Be quiet and give your arse a rest!’

Simpleabuse silenced them when little else now would. Contrary to what they'dthought, it transpired Trevan had been restraining the bulk of his annoyance.All of the balance now came tumbling out to play and he was wild-eyed.

‘Itell you people are fighting to work here,’ he yelled. ‘I'm turning themaway all the time: no one pays better than me!’

Thepriest, a Cornishman by the sound of him, looked fit to strike Trevan at being spokento thus. Internal engines of self-control, every bit as powerful as the latheslabouring all around, cut in to forestall such self-indulgence.

Hestared at the factory owner and somehow aborted expression of first and bestthoughts. The little group were hushed and expectant. Even some nearby machinetenders, who wouldn't normally dare to slacken or look up, stopped to awaitdevelopments, imperfectly glimpsed through the office windows.

‘Anddon't you just get your money's worth!’ the priest said eventually, assoon as he could trust his tongue. ‘Come with me!’

Sosaying he grasped Trevan by the shoulder and Samuel had no choice but to beborn along. Left to themselves, force for force, Trevan might have mademincemeat of him. In reality, it being just one man, however blessed by nature,against a civilisation, the contest was forgone. The Guildsmen and sundryChurch administrators tagged behind. They re-entered the workplace. Shoutingbecame obligatory.

‘Somethings just seem to be invisible to you!’ the priest told his captive, right inhis ear. ‘So let's see if I can't break the spell. Observe!’ He pointed to anearby crowded workbench. ‘Now, are those children or what?’

‘Yes,but-....’

‘Youdon't maintain they're albino pygmies, I take it?’

Apparentlynot.

‘It'sonly finishing work - no hot metal stuff. And their parents begged me to havethem; the families need the money!’

‘Forbiddenby law, Trevan, as you well know - and likewise the strap your foremenemploy to keep them at it.’

‘Howelse do you make urchins concentrate?’

‘What?’

Samuelrepeated himself - still the soul of offended reason. Underwhelmed, thepriest's lip curled.

‘Howindeed?’ he roared back.

‘Buta schoolteacher'd treat 'em the same!’

‘Andspeaking of which,’ said the priest, ‘where is the schoolroom obligatory forapprentice-employing establishments? Have I somehow missed it?’

‘Youknow what space is like in London. Even for this pokey place I have to pay….Hang on, who ordered...?’

Thenoise was dying. Someone had dared to damp down the great drive engine behindthe far wall; an augury of things to come. The ranks of spindles it poweredspan more slowly. Thwarted lathes were being turned off.

‘Noschoolroom? Forbidden, Trevan: as are the hours these wretches' parentsspend here.’

Samuelhalf-heartedly tried to wrench his shoulder free of the limpet grasp - andfailed.

‘Wework the hours our clients need,’ he said, ‘and none longer than me. It's theArmy and the Navy that urge us on: they've placed all this work here and it'sthem as screams when it's late. Why can't you cast an ear to that...?’

Thepriest's hesitation tacitly accepted a weakness in the indictment here. Thesource of funding that drove this sweatshop was the Achilles heel of theChurch's otherwise unanswerable case. He pressed on, his prisoner with him.

‘AndI suppose this cheap crucifix on the wall