WORD OF THE BATTLE at the Boott Palace spread from boardinghouse to boardinghouse and from factory to factory, whispered from one worker to another. So too went word of the Union’s demands. At all hours, a knock might come at Mrs. Hanson’s door, to reveal another girl on the step, her cheeks pink with excitement.
“I’m looking for the Factory Girls’ Union,” she would say, as if the words themselves were an incantation, and she would be invited inside by Lucy or Georgie or Sarah Hemingway, whichever might be on guard duty. A girl might come eagerly with her hair undone, carrying fistfuls more from the operatives in her weaving room. Or she might arrive skeptically, and then Judith was summoned, always with Hannah, who watched silently through closed eyes while Judith explained that the Union was both a cover of hardiest sailcloth and flimsiest gauze.
“We are the thread, all of us together,” Judith said. “If one of us snaps, the whole bolt might unravel. If we hold fast, the corporations have nothing but empty factories.”
If the girl nodded and agreed—and if Hannah did the same—then the house woke again, rose to the attic like the steam off Mrs. Hanson’s cook pots, and wove once more, drawing new threads into the Factory Girls’ Union of Lowell.
By week’s end, there were fewer weavers inside the mills than out. Though many had not yet pledged to the Union, only the least liked and most craven operatives answered the mill bells’ call at half past four, and when they did, and the overseers counted their numbers, they only sent them away to the dormitories again. The machines could not run with so few.
* * *
On the twelfth day of the strike, Florry arrived just in time for supper, to make her daily report. “The men in the Concord Mills are still with us.” She had volunteered herself ambassador because she had ten brothers, and knew how to speak so a man would hear.
“That’s a piece of luck,” Lydia marveled. While the Factory Girls’ Union stayed out, the male hands and dyers had no work either.
“It isn’t luck, it’s Florry’s eloquence and the men’s good sense to listen,” said Judith.
“Here, come and get it!” Mrs. Hanson bellowed from the end of the long trestle table, as she let a steaming pot clatter onto the surface.
“Gruel again?” asked Sarah Payne, peering inside with disappointment.
“How else can I keep feeding you? Not to mention myself . . .”
“We’re only grateful, Mrs. H,” said Lucy, wrapping her arms about the matron and forcing a kiss on her cheek. “Girls, think! We could all be homeless by now.” The mill owners had stopped payments to the boardinghouse keepers, and some of the matrons had taken retribution against their charges, locking out tenants and tossing their belongings into the street.
“Humph,” grunted Mrs. Hanson as she ladled out supper to the nearest of her charges. “I ought to have given the boot to the whole lot of you.”
“There’s one Boott in particular I wish you could give us,” said Judith, taking one bowl for herself and one for Hannah. “I’d hang him by his toes in the root cellar until he turned on his masters.”
“Stay clear of him. If he’s smart, he already suspects every one of you of consorting with the Devil. How long before you’re denounced and arrested?”
“He wants us in the mills,” said Judith, sliding away from the matron, “not in jail.” She held the two bowls high to avoid clumsy elbows and wrists.
“A few hangings might convince the rest to go back,” Mrs. Hanson called after.
“Hangings?” gasped Sarah Hemingway.
Lucy laughed. “She’s only trying to frighten us.” If Mrs. Hanson voiced any disagreement, it was lost in the clattering of spoons and the chatter of other boarders.
“What proof could they have?” Judith squeezed past the long queue of girls still awaiting their portion. Hannah sat quietly, closest the parlor door and the staircase, and accepted the bowl Judith passed her across the table. “Unless Mrs. H is planning to testify.”
“She wouldn’t,” said Lucy, who had slid along the opposite wall to sit at Hannah’s right. “Too soft-hearted.”
“Besides,” Judith waved one hand while she dug into her gruel as if it were the finest meal she’d ever eaten, “arresting me wouldn’t end the strike. Someone else would take the lead.”
“Who did you have in mind?” lovely Lydia wanted to know, claiming the next span of bench beside Judith.
Judith shrugged with her mouth full. “Maybe Amy from the Hamilton Mills, or that Vermont girl Mary Paul. She’s clever with a speech.”
Lydia scowled across the table at Lucy, who grinned and lifted one shoulder.
“There have been more evictions?” Hannah asked, wheezing.
“Two more houses on Prescott Street,” little Abigail North confirmed.
“It won’t be for long,” said Judith. “The owners must be ready to crack.”
“You’re their confidante now, are you?” asked Lydia, pursing her rosebud mouth.
“Between the late freeze and the strike, they haven’t seen a profit in months,” Judith replied, without concern. “What else matters to a capitalist?”
Under the table, Hannah’s foot nudged her. “We ought to see to the evicted girls. Whether they need help with their things, or—”
“It’s done,” said Lydia. “Some found rooms with the Universalists, and the rest have gone to Mrs. Warrington’s boardinghouse.”
With that settled, each of the young militants turned full attention to her food, tasteless as it was. Mrs. Hanson retired to the kitchen, where she took her tea nightly in relative peace.
As they ate, Laura Cate came around with the post, distributing letters and newspaper subscriptions. Most of the news came from home, as often about the doings of younger siblings and the family cow as about the strike. Georgie Hempstead gasped when she saw inside her letter, then promptly stood up, went to Mrs. Hanson, and deposited several jingling coins in the matron’s palm.
“From my people,” said Georgie, blushing. “They said it was for the strike.”
“How did they manage?” others wanted to know, and “How much?”
Mrs. Hanson’s fist tightened around the coins, hiding them from view. But she said to Georgie, “Your family meant this for you. Are you sure?”
“Sure as sure. It’s for all of us.”
Meanwhile, Abigail was still as a stone, looking just as hard at the letter in her hands. Patience Smith moved to her side to peek over her shoulder, startling Abigail, who placed the letter facedown on the table.
“What is it?” Patience asked.
“My father is ill,” said Abigail. “Too ill to plant.”
Smelling trouble, Judith had risen from her seat and came up behind the smaller girl, trailing Lydia and Lucy. Judith didn’t scruple to lift the letter from the table and read it. “Your mother begs you to send your wages home, or they will starve next winter—Well,” she proceeded swiftly from the letter’s contents to her own rebuttal, “not to fear, Abigail! No North will starve while the Factory Girls’ Union abides. When our demands are met, you’ll send twice as much back to your parents.”
“They are all alone,” Abigail replied, taking back the letter. “They have no children at home but the babies, and now I can’t help them!” Holding herself, her fingers touched the hair-woven band around her arm and she began to cry.
The others drew close, until the small girl was too bundled up in friendship and care to remove the band from her arm if she’d wanted to.
“Judith is right,” Patience assured her. “Your parents won’t starve. We’ll be back at work soon.”
“I’ll write to my people,” Georgie offered. “Perhaps they’ve got another coin for yours.”
Covered in embraces and kind words, at last Abigail nodded. “Yes,” she agreed, “you’re right. I don’t—I mean, I know we’re in the right. My mother will be proud when she learns what we do here.”
Relieved, Judith returned to find a seat beside Hannah. The Seer hadn’t moved but sat, eyes closed, with her face turned to the knot of young women surrounding Abigail. Judith pinched her and told her to eat, pulling over what remained of her own portion. Hannah was too thin as it was; it was a wonder she ever had the strength to manage a power-loom at all, to throw the levers and knock the weft thread home after a bobbin change.
To liven the room, someone called for Lucy to do a reading, but instead of an original ode or acrostic, Lucy stood up on the bench and read out an opinion of the strike from the Boston Herald, with all the gravity of a schoolmarm, until all her audience laughed to tears: “‘The ambition of a woman ought to begin and end in adorning the domestic sphere, not inciting her sex to riot. Governor Everett must call up the militia and prevent a gynecracy in Lowell.’”
“Hah. I should like to see what the militia does when they see who their enemy is,” declared Sarah Hemingway.
“Probably lay down their arms and ask Lydia to dance,” said Judith, which neither Lydia nor Hannah smiled at. But Lucy chuckled before announcing she would write a rebuttal to the Herald.
Sarah Payne found the next page of newsprint far more distressing. Her brown eyes, wide and liquid at the best of times, grew to the size of saucers as she spread the page across the table. “Oh, look here! Do you see?”
Lydia leaned over and read it out in her clear, declaiming voice: “‘WANTED: healthy grown girls and women for mill work. Fair wages and clean board. Must be unmarried. Good character. Lowell, Massachusetts.’”
Many of the young operatives grew quiet. A few muttered oaths as they passed the page around the full length of the table.
“Boston is rife with girls who will answer that ad,” said Lydia. “Think of the shiploads of Irish, the orphans and widows—”
“—and not one reason they oughtn’t make common cause with us against rich men in gilt houses,” said Judith, still wiping at her tears of mirth.
“If they don’t join us, they could have a job and wages,” said Sarah Hemingway, growing gloomy.
Surrounded by her fellow strikers, Judith could feel their uncertainty tugging at her, like a litter of insistent pups at her skirts. After Abigail had come around, she’d hoped they would show a bit of sterner stuff. “Come now! Don’t forget your worth. Sarah Payne,” she called, “when you came to Lowell, did you know a warp thread from a weft?”
The girl blushed. “No, not at all. My family never had the money for a loom of our own.”
“Who showed you how?”
“Why, Georgie did. We started in the same weaving room.”
“Now you run five looms yourself. Five! And Lucy, did you work in any factory before this one?”
“No, Judith,” Lucy replied, grinning, for she must have seen at once what their ringleader was about. “It was Betsy Thorne and Sylvia who taught me.”
“And you’ve worked as drawing-in girl for twelve months, haven’t you? You see?” Other faces besides Lucy’s were brightening now, eyes rising from the floorboards and up from the trestle table.
“Us in this room are worth triple and quadruple what the owners get us for,” Judith preached, a gospel she could feel their ears eager to hear. “The corporations may try to replace us, but they’ll have no one to teach the new girls, and no one to run the machines meanwhile.”
“That’s true,” murmured Sarah Payne.
“Of course it’s true!” Judith cried. “This is no time for faint hearts. We are on the cusp of victory!”
“Hear, hear,” said Lucy, rapping her spoon against her bowl.
“Mind the crockery,” Mrs. Hanson scolded from the kitchen.
“To victory,” wheezed Hannah, raising her cup. “To the Factory Girls’ Union of Lowell.”
Around her, more cups rose and the chorus went up. “To victory! To the Factory Girls’ Union of Lowell!” There was nothing but watery coffee in the cups, but tonight, it sufficed.