Short Story: Mary Rankin And The Great…

Short Story: Mary Rankin And The Great Inundation

News reached the village on Sunday, 13th March 1864.

It was Joseph Cartwright, who journeyed from his home in Clowne to Sheffield by horse and cart, every alternate Saturday, to purchase crockery and sundry items from the market, who brought the news.

Cartwright had remained overnight at his sister's house in the southern most fringes of Sheffield, before embarking upon the second-leg of his journey home, Sunday morning.

He arrived back in Clowne soon after midday.

Shortly thereafter began telling his story in The Anchor Inn.

‘The Great Inundation was…’ he pronounced, ‘…an unthinkable calamity of epic proportions’.

The dreadful details Cartwright imparted to his shocked audience, spread from public house to church to shop, and back again to public house, faster, it could be said, than wildfire traversing tinder dry August moor land.

Mary Rankin heard of the catastrophe late that afternoon from a dim-witted but rather excitable farmhand named John Goodall.

She packed at once; John was a fool, she thought to herself, but not a liar.

****

A little after ten the next morning, Mary said goodbye to her mother, Emma.

A neighbour, Henry Wills, a slight, but deceptively bold man of more than thirty years (and not yet married, Mary’s mother remarked with mounting condemnation) caught up with Mary on the lane.

He offered to carry her bag to the railway station.

‘Thank you Mr. Wills, but…’ for the first time in her life, Mary met Henry’s lecherous eye squarely, ‘…I can manage perfectly well without your assistance,’ no trace of gratitude apparent in her countenance.

Despite being only a week into her nineteenth year, Mary Rankin understood her responsibilities, was adept at meeting them.

Her twin brothers, William and Peter were in India fighting with the 95th Regiment. And with her father dead almost a year now, her elder sister Eliza with child for the third time in five years and her mother feeble after a bout of influenza, it fell to Mary to make the trip north to Sheffield.

Who else, she thought herself, will seek word of my eldest sibling Richard, if not I?

Richard resided in the northern outskirts of Sheffield, at a place called Malin Bridge, which was situated around three miles downstream from Dale Dyke dam.

Shortly after midnight on Saturday last, 12th March 1864, the crockery-cum-household goods trader, Joseph Cartwright, told the villagers, Dale Dyke dam burst. An unimaginable torrent wrought devastation, sweeping all before it along the wide and open course of the mostly rural Loxley Valley as far downstream as the confines of the industrial east end of the city.

Many souls perished. Some of the more lurid accounts in the village were already putting the death toll in the hundreds, perhaps thousands?

Mary Rankin prayed to God her brother Richard was not counted amongst them.

****

When Mary arrived at the busy railway station she noted there were only ten minutes left in which to purchase her ticket. She joined the queue.

Clowne Station Master, George Pell Toulson, caught up with her after she exited the ticket office.

'Take my advice Mary,' he said, 'and occupy a forward facing seat adjacent to a window.'

Mary thanked him for his kindness.

At twenty-five to the hour, around five minutes late, the train duly arrived and drew to a halt at the crowded platform.

Doors were flung open.

Ushering Mary towards a carriage, Toulson bid her farewell and God’s speed.

‘Be strong for your mother’s sake, Mary Rankin,’ he said and Mary smiled at him as she gathered her petticoat and stepped aboard the train.

The first compartment she tried, was fully occupied, so was the one next to that. A quick check on all the other carriages told the same story – standing room only in the corridors.

Station Master Toulson, witnessing Mary’s predicament, climbed aboard the GNR ‘Excursion Special Train’ and led her to a compartment. The uncompromising look he gave the young fellow seated next to the window, paid immediate dividend. The sullen looking character jumped up, pushed past George Pell and Mary, and stomped away.

Mary was seated at last.

By the time the train reached Woodhouse, on the southeast outskirts of Sheffield, the corridors were thronged with passengers. Every time the engine drew to a halt at a platform or siding, it lurched and bumped in a most precarious manner, and yet, despite the unpleasantness of the passenger’s cramped disposition, an atmosphere similar to that, which preceded the annual Clowne Summer Fete, persisted throughout. Indeed, Mary considered the jollity therein appeared only to intensify, as their destination grew nearer.

‘I heard tell,’ a middle-aged man declared, shaking his head woefully, ‘nearly a score of bodies were washed up only yesterday on the banks of the Loxley.’

Mary glimpsed the passenger seated diagonally opposite her and thought; it is as though the prospect of witnessing such a piteous sight somehow offends this dreadful man's sensibilities?

An ungodly thought then played upon Mary’s mind.

For a moment she wished, were it possible, to be struck deaf for the remainder of the journey, but then quickly chastised herself for even entertaining such an irreverent notion.

‘Bloated like pigs’ the rather overfed man added, ostensibly to encourage one or more of his fellow passengers to join him in his explicit discourse ‘and a horrible shade of blue-grey they do say’.

A number of the passengers did enter into conversation with him, and all, Mary noted with mounting ire, failing to disguise their ghoulish sense of expectancy. At which point she considered leaving the compartment. However, experiencing what she thought might be the first telltale signs of influenza, Mary wondered if she were too weak to stand for any length of time.

In the end, bouts of spontaneous laughter emanating from the corridor persuaded her to stay put, and resigned to her circumstance, Mary withdrew a small white envelope from her carpetbag. The envelope contained a letter from her brother, Richard. Although the three-page letter had arrived less than a week ago, it was already severely dog-eared.

Mary began reading, immediately perceiving her brother’s cultured voice…

3rd March 1864

Dearest Mary,

Thank you for recent letter. I trust I find you in good health, mother recuperating, if not as yet full recovered, and Eliza, as fit and well as nature would have it, during her latest period of confinement.

Charlotte is well.

As ever, the twins are like chalk and cheese – John hale and hearty – poor Luke continuing to cough day and night. His condition is made worse by the quality of the water here, which is at best inconsistent, and which at worst, almost certainly bears some of the many pathogens that threaten to rest Luke's poor soul from this oftentimes trying world.

The doctor’s bills are a little beyond our means at present and as a result we have been forced to take in a lodger, despite our already rather cramped circumstance. Not to worry though, Mary, times may be hard, but father's pocket watch remains safe from the Pawnbroker's. Well, safe for the time being at least, as we are managing much better at present with the board money from our lodger, Bradley Trickett.

Mr. Trickett is a stout chap of around forty years and a decent fellow to boot. He often remarks, bless his soul, he has had to suffer far worse sleeping arrangements (he bunks down on a mattress in the off-shot washroom at the rear of the kitchen) than we have to offer him.

He came to us quite recently, not long after my last letter to you, which was soon after the Waterworks Company charged with the construction of Dale Dyke Dam laid him off. Trickett was in poor shape at the time, badly bruised, with many cuts and abrasions to his face and arms. One particular nasty laceration will no doubt scar his cheek for good, and all this, I should add, the result of an accident whilst working on the dam, which although no fault of his own, he received no recompense.

Whilst some of the labourers have moved on to work at Agden Dam, there are many others like Mr. Trickett, out of work now that the Dale Dyke is all but complete. Most of these men are illiterate navvies used to sleeping rough. Quite a few of who have descended on MalinBridge and the surrounding district. Whilst I realise it is somewhat mean-spirited and unchristian of me to say this, Mary, I must make comment on their behaviour; some of these men have become a bit of a nuisance, with many fights breaking out in the vicinity of the Stag Inn and the nearby Cleakum public house, which is but a stones throw away from our terraced cottage, a little way along Holme Lane and close by the Loxley River.

Mr. Trickett refers to the navvies as ‘rabble’, or ‘the mob’, and sometimes, when he’s being particularly uncharitable ‘ungodly drunken fools’. The Lord God has shown him the way he says; ‘I have no sympathy with their sort Mr. Rankin’.

What little money Trickett has left on his person from his time working at Dale Dyke, is certainly not frittered away on ale. But he, too, it now seems, is running short and has only enough money left to pay us a further two weeks board. As I have explained to him, if he doesn’t find work in the meantime, he will, I am afraid to say, have to move on, which I suppose will mean the workhouse.

We, of course, will have to find another lodger, and be quick about it too.

I for one, Mary, will miss him. Mr. Trickett is clearly a spiritual man. Educated, I must say, way beyond the requirements of a navvy. I tried to press him on the matter once, but he would not expand on his circumstance other than to say, ‘God moved in mysterious ways’, and it was not his place to question the state of affairs, which had been visited upon him.

When Mr. Trickett is not in the town seeking work, he lends Charlotte a hand with the laundry, or entertains young John and Luke with an array of magic tricks that confound even me. A wonderful fellow indeed, I’m sure you’d agree.

Maybe one day later on in the year, perhaps in the summer, you might visit? I digress. I want to finish telling you about our lodger, Mr. Trickett, and a troublesome issue, which has recently arisen, before I move on to other matters.

I am sorry to say, and it baffles me somewhat, but Charlotte now wishes Mr. Trickett would leave immediately, even though we have not as yet secured another lodger. She says we are too cramped and has urged me to speak to the poor chap about the situation, forthwith. I really am at a loss because Charlotte and I both knew what we had let ourselves in for when we accepted a lodger into our home and she is perfectly aware that we would quickly fall into debt if were not for Mr. Trickett's weekly board. I suspect Charlotte has taken against him on a whim, but her often-fragile sensibilities are not reason enough for me to turf Mr. Trickett out, just yet, and so, we muddle through for the present.

As you know, Mary, for a time, I worked twelve-hour shifts at the wire mill, receiving just three shillings a day, but that, I am afraid, is the most a labourer might expect. Skilled men, such as file cutters and saw grinders, make nearly twice as much. Still, I have now secured a less demanding position fetching and carrying for Mr. Widdowson, who manufactures and sells baskets made out of willow. He also keeps a few cows, and from time to time, I help out with the milking. I work ten hours a day now instead of twelve and receive four shillings, which I think is quite generous. When I am not at Mr. Widdowson’s, I walk the three miles into town to continue my search for more gainful employment. I have had word that there may be an opening in the offices of The Sheffield Daily Telegraph, which is situated in Aldine Court in the centre of town. I go there tomorrow and will write again soon to tell you of my fortune, favourable or otherwise.

I know father would have regarded the monotonous industry of an office clerk beneath me, and was still hoping, right up to the end that I would follow in his footsteps and become a schoolmaster (which I still might one day), but beggars can’t be choosers, can they Mary, so in the meantime I must seize whatever opportunity comes along...

Mary refolded the letter, returned it to the envelope still wondering, as she had been all week, why Charlotte had taken against the lodger, Mr. Trickett, when Richard, whom Charlotte generally trusted as a good judge of character, thought him a splendid fellow?

There had been no follow up communication from Richard, as promised and therefore Mary presumed he had been unsuccessful in his application to the newspaper and a little too downhearted to put pen to paper, just yet.

Had Richard been offered the position at The Sheffield Telegraph, Mary thought to herself, he would have removed at once to more salubrious lodgings, those befitting a salaried employee. A dwelling, she felt sure, situated close by his place of employment in the centre of town, which would have been a safe distance from the navigation of the deathly torrent, now known to all, as The Great Inundation.

****

Later that morning, Samuel Harrison rounded the corner of Carver Street, turning right onto Division Street and into a ever-strengthening south-westerly that periodically brought with it icy shards of rain.

He did not expect to find John Gunson at home. Nevertheless, when Harrison rapped the brass doorknocker of the corner house, No. 14, against a formidable solid oak door, he composed himself, rehearsing for the hundredth time, the opening gambit he had fretted over all morning.

‘Mr. Gunson, in the interests of fair play and in the pursuit of…’ whatever line Harrison spun, it failed to ring true.

Newspaper reporters, he thought to himself, are charged with delivering the truth, in other words, the facts, and yet I wonder whether at this early juncture, Gunson, or anyone other bigwig hailing from the Sheffield Waterworks Company are in possession of all the facts?

Soon enough however, an enquiry would summon them, and the truth would out.

Samuel Harrison envisioned certain parties already preparing themselves to point the finger. He was determined not to join their ranks.

I seek to unearth the facts, he said to himself, make them public, and make it my business to set aside wild conjecture, leave it to those who misguidedly deem it in the public interest.

Satisfied that he had waited long enough, Samuel Harrison rapped his cane against the door. Shortly thereafter the door opened and a young maid stood before him.

‘Are you from the Waterworks Company Sir?’

Harrison hesitated. A quick nod, accompanied by a pleasant smile, would gain him entry.

False entry, he quickly conceded.

‘No Miss. My name is Samuel Harrison; I am the Editor of The Sheffield Times.’

‘Oh. Oh. From the newspaper you say…I… Mr. Gunson’s not at home right now, if –’

Harrison interjected ‘–I won't detain you any longer Miss, given that, as you say, Mr. Gunson is not 'at home'. But please tell him on his 'return' that I called, and ask him to contact me, if you will, at my offices, as soon as is possible?'

He smiled at the maid who had already begun to retreat behind the door.

'You can do that for me,' Harrison said, adding an extra ounce of sweetness to his smile, 'can’t you Miss?’

‘Yes Sir.’

The maid closed the door.

John Gunson was in fact (as Harrison strongly suspected), at home.

He sat in his library. In front of him, spread over a large desk, numerous drawings; plans and elevations dating back several years, each one either depicting the lie of the land or the proposed construction of the dam wall.

From time to time he got up from his leather-upholstered chair, placed his hands squarely upon the heavily polished rosewood veneer, and peered more closely at the drawings.

For five years, as Resident Engineer, John Gunson had overseen the construction of Dale Dyke Dam.

Today, he had spent all morning going over everything; every last architectural and geological detail.

Why, he thought to himself, what purpose is there going over it all again and again?

I can find no defect. No oversight, he thought, on anyone else’s part or mine; the construction is sound.

Everything had gone more or less to plan, as Mr. Leather, Sheffield Waterworks Company Consulting Engineer, had stipulated. To all intents and purposes Dale Dyke was an exact facsimile of Leather's design of the Redmires, Crookes Moor and Rivelin Dams.

There had been, of course, Gunson recalled, one or two not unexpected hic-coughs along the way, but no challenge (at first they had encountered difficulties in situating the wall) he had not been able to meet and overcome.

Every possible eventuality had been gone into in exhaustive detail.

The design had stood the test of time. The dam wall at Dale Dyke was sound. It could not be breached.

It had been breached.

John Gunson closed his eyes. The nightmare vision, the moment the crack in the wall became a cavernous hole and the stone and clay behemoth collapsed, returned.

If I had not been summoned, he thought to himself, to inspect the recently discovered fissure, just after midnight on the 12th, and therefore, had not been present when the wall gave way, I would not have believed it true.

****

Samuel Harrison quickened his step. A number of trains were due at the Midland Station at around this hour. Were he to arrive there much after the passengers disembarked he might be too late to secure a cab.

These damn sightseers are a blessed nuisance, he said to himself; have they no sense of shame?

It was true, he conceded, some of them brought much needed aid, like blankets and clothes, but most brought nothing of use, save for the few pennies they spent at the many street vendors stalls lining the flood route.

Lord knows, Samuel Harrison thought to himself, it is a very ill wind indeed, which blows no good fortune whatsoever.

Crossing Pond Street and closing in on his destination, he heard a scream. Looking about him he noticed a cart, carrying perhaps three or more bodies, presumably to the Sheffield Union Workhouse at Kelham Street, where most of the dead lain, had it seemed, struck a treacherous looking pothole.

One of the motionless incumbents had been thrown to the ground. The man seated in the back of the cart, supposedly charged with the duty of ensuring the safe passage of the unfortunate victims, leapt to the street and quickly attempted to restore a shroud that had partially unravelled itself, but not before a young woman passer-by had seen the dead man’s ghastly face and fainted.

A crowd gathered around the temporarily stricken woman. Harrison reached inside his greatcoat pocket in search of a notebook and pencil, hesitated, and then withdrew his hand.

An incident such as this, he determined, ought to go undocumented.

It is nought but trivia, he said to himself.

Mere tittle-tattle, it could be said, which was, regrettably, the kind of vicarious nonsense much of his readership adored.

Well, he thought, on this occasion, I will just have to disappoint them.

Harrison arrived outside the railway station just as a fresh gaggle of eager ghouls appeared on the concourse. Some of their number, evidently the better-heeled, were heading for the rank where only one Hanson Cab remained.

Noting this, he put a spurt on, and was rewarded when his quickstep action and cane waving caught the driver’s eye.

The Hanson Cab driver readied himself, doffed his cap when the finely dressed gentleman appeared in front of him.

‘Malin Bridge?’ Samuel Harrison enquired.

‘Aye Sir, hop on board.’

'I wish to take the route via the Owlerton Low Road' Harrison added.

At the same time the driver began to advise his fare of a more apposite course, a diminutive, but rather determined looking young woman materialized out of the crowd departing the railway station, and at once appealed to the tall, studious looking gentleman, she saw engaging in discourse with the cab driver.

‘Did you say Malin Bridge Sir?’

‘Yes Miss, are you headed there too?’

‘Indeed I am,’ Mary Rankin said, ‘I seek news of my brother.’

Samuel Harrison said ‘Then I may be of service to you Miss. Won’t you join me?’

‘I will, Mister…?’

‘Harrison. Samuel Harrison’.

‘Thank you Mr. Harrison, I will gladly share the expense of the –’

‘–There’s no need Miss…?’

‘Rankin, Sir, my name is Mary Rankin’.

Mary Rankin accepted Samuel Harrison's outstretched hand and climbed aboard. When they were both seated and the cab was in motion, Samuel Harrison opted to gaze out of the window whilst Mary, reaching inside her bag, decided to continue reading Richard’s letter.

I will read it all through again twice over, if necessary, she thought, anything, which might relieve my present discomfort.

… but beggars can’t be choosers, can they Mary? So I must, therefore, seize whatever opportunity comes along.

You must forgive me Mary? I realise now, I have gone on at length about a man you have never met, burdened you with all my trials and tribulations and scarcely given thought to your present circumstance and certain matters, which you alluded to in you last letter.

May I ask, at this juncture, is there a young fellow on the horizon or perhaps even closer to hand?

I am not teasing you, Mary, really I am not. You have your plans, I know. But whether or not they include marriage in the near future, I urge you to see to it that you better yourself, as was always your desire.

Never let plans gather dust as they say.

You will of course understand exactly what I am driving at?

Mother should not detain you.

Aunt Sarah’s offer to her still stands, therefore, mother has no valid excuse to remain in Clowne, as it is but a short journey from Aunt Sarah’s in Worksop to Clowne, so I see no earthly reason why mother should loose touch with Eliza and the children.

You really MUST think of yourself Mary!

There. I have said my piece. I shall move on.

Do you still follow news of war in America, Mary?

Thank goodness cotton has not proved King and our Prime Minister, Lord Palmerston, is not persuaded to support the South. A neutral stance is always a tenuous one, I believe, but fair in our particular circumstance. And borne no doubt, out of the ever present need for diplomacy. Why would we make an enemy of the United States? On the other hand, Palmerston’s opposition to slavery is well documented and does him credit.

I suspect the terrible conflict will go on for some time yet. Though I envisage only one outcome. Eventually, Jefferson Davis and the ConfederateStates will be forced to surrender, and we may all cheer an end to slavery.

But what then Mary, the emancipation of women eh?

I wonder if in the not too distant future we will see...

Despite Mary's resolve to rid her mind of all speculative thought regarding Richard and his family by occupying her thoughts, she decided she had read enough. She placed the letter back in her bag and closed the bag. Turning to her travelling companion she said, ‘How close are we to Malin Bridge Mr. Harrison?’

‘Less than a mile’ Harrison replied.

They were headed northwest on the Owlerton Low Road at a steady clip when the driver suddenly yanked hard on the reins.

‘Whoa!’

The cab halted abruptly.

‘What’s the problem?’ Harrison enquired.

‘Constabulary’s up ahead, Sir. Looks like the Chief Constable himself, John Jackson?’

‘What’s happening?’ Mary asked.

‘It appears’ the driver shouted down to them, ‘they’ve gone and shut off the road and got horses in to lug away some of the trees, but no matter; if we head back there's a shortcut onto Langsett Road about a half mile back’.

‘Most generous of you’ Harrison remarked, ignoring the driver’s mumbled rejoinder of ‘I did try to tell you we shouldn’t have come this way?’

Harrison seized the moment and smiled at Mary Rankin.

‘Whereabouts in Malin Bridge does your brother live Miss Rankin?’

‘Not far from a public house known as The Cleakum, adjacent to Holme Lane’.

Harrison knew of it. He had visited the neighbourhood only yesterday, the day after the disaster, and found a scene of unimaginable devastation, and whilst he did not think of himself as a particularly devout man, when Harrison had surveyed the landscape at Malin Bridge, he could not help but think to himself; it is as though the Lord God himself has reached down to earth, brandishing a mighty cudgel, and carved an ugly furrow through the land.

The Hanson Cab carried them past the Barracks for a second time. Soldiers pushing barrows, carted earth and rubble away from a breach in an outer wall, depositing the unsightly mess in a mountainous heap close by the sentry gates.

Ahead of them, Harrison spied an open backed cart transporting animal carcasses, a dog, two pigs, and a cow missing much of its hindquarters, and all three doused liberally in quicklime. When they caught up with the slow moving cart he heard Mary mutter quietly to herself ‘Oh dear’.

Oh dear indeed, the newspaper editor silently recounted to himself, I suspect poor Mary Rankin has far worse trials to endure than the sight of a few dead animals.

A couple of minutes later the driver swung the cab to his right, and they branched off the main road. Via Capel Street found there way onto Langsett Road and were once again heading northwest in the direction of Malin Bridge.

Mary stole herself and broke another lengthy silence.

‘What takes you to Malin Bridge Mr. Harrison?’

Quite stiffly, Harrison replied ‘I am the Editor of The Sheffield Times, Miss Rankin. I journey to Malin Bridge on business, to gather information, anecdotes from the inhabitants'.

'I see,' Mary said.

'Most of the dead are; were, as you may already know, the poorest in our society… their story should be told, and I intend to see to it that it is’.

Stories of the dead and the dying, of the wretched homeless, of the almost inconceivable destruction; what a terrible business you are in Mr. Harrison, Mary thought, but did not say.

‘How bad is it,’ she asked him ‘at Malin Bridge?’

‘I will not lie to you Mary, it is bad.’

On the approach to the bridge, perhaps two furlongs short of where Langsett Road intersected Holme Lane the driver pulled on the reins and drew his cab to a stop.

‘We can’t go any further Sir, Miss.’

On hearing the news Harrison jumped down, quickly made his way around to Mary’s side of the carriage. Once again Mary accepted his outstretched hand, stepping out onto a road several inches deep in silt, littered with stones and sundry debris, evidently, too much of an encumbrance for the horse and their continued safe passage.

Samuel Harrison returned to the driver, settled the fare with a generous tip.

‘This way if you please Miss Rankin,’ he said, and they set off towards the remains of Hill Bridge.

Harrison could not recall for certain if the row of cottages where Mary’s brother lived, remained standing.

And even if they do, he thought to himself, it does not preclude the likelihood that Mary’s brother and family drowned in their beds.

He had been told that the first surge of floodwater passed that particular point in Malin Bridge at a level higher than the rooftops.

‘I shall escort you to your brother’s residence,’ he said to Mary, after a time.

‘I do not intend to detain you a minute longer, Mr. Harrison, I understand you have your own business to attend to.’

‘Think nothing of it Miss Rankin,’ Harrison said, 'I will not see you fend for yourself.'

As they neared Hill Bridge, and the crowds gathered thereabouts, Harrison again turned to Mary.

‘As you can see, Miss Rankin, the bridge is no more and I am far from sure it is safe for you to venture across the divide?’

When Mary reached the banks of the abyss, just ahead of Samuel Harrison, she saw that the riverbed was strewn with bricks, rafters, and slates. Barrels, tree stumps, several iron bedsteads and a perambulator minus its wheels, were amongst the detritus.

Quarried stones almost as big as men were counted by the dozen.

‘When I was a girl,' Mary announced to Harrison, who had drawn alongside her, 'I used to shin up trees. I would go weaselling in the crags near my home in Clowne, clambering my way up and over rocks, squeezing through narrow gaps. For the sake of my brother, Mr. Harrison, I think I might somehow negotiate this chasm, don't you?’

They found their way across to the other bank, where onlookers were quick to come forward and assist them up and onto the road. Mary had torn the hem of her petticoat, once her mother’s Sunday best, on an iron railing. She gave the petticoat a cursory glance before turning full circle to survey the terrain.

From her present outlook, try as she might, she could not pinpoint any of the numerous landmarks her brother had described in his letters.

It was as if a battle has raged in Malin Bridge, which thought, momentarily diverted Mary's attention to her brothers fighting with the 95th; I wonder, she said to herself, if the ravaged vista before me is commonplace on the battlefields abroad?

‘Which way is it from here Mr. Harrison, to my brother’s cottage?’

‘It would be a deal easier if I accompanied you–’

‘–No Mr. Harrison, I mustn’t presume any further on your good– ’

‘–Mary, you do not presume’ Harrison appealed to her by holding out his hands, ‘and I must also comment at this juncture that I suspect you have nowhere to stay the night, should you be forced to stay, that is, and’ he paused to make good his point, ‘neither, do I know of any establishment apposite for a young woman like yourself. Therefore, I insist that I accompany you back into town, and from there to my family residence, where Mrs. Harrison will welcome you–’

‘–But I couldn’t possibly trouble you– ’

‘–Mrs. Harrison would never forgive me if I did not ensure your safety for the night… and longer if necessary.’

‘Nevertheless Mr. Harrison,’ Mary spied a well-dressed gentlemen making a beeline towards her escort, ‘you have your duties to attend to… so, if you will be so kind as to point me in the right direction?’

‘If you insist,’ Harrison stretched out a hand, ‘aim straight ahead for around a hundred yards to where you see that crowd gathered by the ruins of The Cleakum?'

'Yes,' Mary nodded, 'I see.'

'I spy a Constable amongst their number, Miss Rankin. He will direct you from there...and oh, tell him Samuel Harrison sent you, and promise me also, Mary, that when you are done, you will meet me back here, in say, an hours time?’

Mary nodded her agreement and left. Samuel Harrison turned about and saw William Leng marching towards him.

'Mr Harrison.’

‘Mr. Leng,’ he replied, shaking Leng’s proffered hand.

‘Who is your companion?’ Leng enquired.

Harrison replied, ‘A very brave and spirited young lady indeed, Mr. Leng’.

****

Mary Rankin observed two distinct groupings on her route along Holme Lane; one such gathering consisted largely of local inhabitants, often to be overheard exchanging condolences, tales of heroic acts. The other type of assemblage she came across, were not stationary, not in the least, Mary noted with growing hostility; they moved about skittishly, feverishly examining this ‘terrible sight’ and that ‘unfortunate person’.

One such unfortunate she happened upon close by the ruins of The Cleakum public house. Quite a crowd had gathered there, and by their general demeanour Mary understood most of them to be inhabitants of the district, and it was that, which drew her curiosity.

At first, she could not see what had drawn the local resident’s attention to that particular place, other than the precarious state of the building; little more than a chimneystack of the former public house remained standing. However, when she drew nearer, Mary caught sight of the object of their inquisitiveness, a girl about her own age, upon her haunches, rifling through the debris strewn all around her.

The girl wept quietly as she picked up broken cups and saucers and other worthless trinkets.

Mary pushed her way through the crowd and knelt down beside her. The girl stopped what she was doing and turned to face Mary. Her eyes redden and watery, she held out a hairbrush and a child’s Battledore, which Mary thought was made of Ashwood, because she recalled her sister had one very similar, or indeed, identical.

‘These were mi’ sister’s Miss.’

Mary said, ‘Where are your family now?’

‘All gone Miss.’

The girl returned to her task, sifting aimlessly through the debris, placing all manner of broken and filthy items in seemingly indiscriminate piles all around her.

What deed, what action, Mary Rankin thought to herself, is apposite in this dreadful situation?

Whilst at first she had felt uncertain what to do, when Mary had had time to give the matter further consideration, she determined to act on her initial impulse, and withdrew a half-crown from her purse, dropped it into one of the cups the girl had reclaimed.

Mary promptly picked up a saucer.

‘Thank you,’ she said, getting to her feet and holding out the saucer for all to see.

Witnessing Mary’s gesture, a number of onlookers immediately came forward and offered sixpences and shillings in exchange for some of the household items the wretched girl had gathered about her.

Mary departed the scene. Further along the road spied the police constable Mr. Harrison had pointed out to her, walking away from The Cleakum. When she caught up with him she was still busy composing a suitable address.

‘Excuse me Constable, I wonder if you could tell me where Loxley Cottages are situated?’ was what she finally settled upon.

However, as Mary got closer to the policeman she forgot all about such formalities when it became apparent to her, she recognised him.

‘George Henry West!’ she exclaimed, ‘it is you!’

‘Miss Rankin!’

‘Please call me Mary, George?’

‘What on earth brings you here, Mary?’

‘Loxley Cottages, George Henry; my brother Richard lives… lived there’.

West took a moment before he said, ‘I am stationed at Crookes Road, in a completely different part of town, so I don’t know any of the residents hereabouts, and' he paused a moment before adding, 'I’m terribly sorry Mary, but I didn’t even know Richard and Charlotte had moved to Sheffield?’

‘Are Loxley Cottages far?’ she asked him.

‘Not far’ West replied, putting out a hand ‘see over there, Mary, just across the road, behind where the Stag Inn once stood?’

‘Yes, I see.’

‘The cottages are a little further down, in a dip by the river.’

Mary looked over at where George Henry West was pointing, and at once recognised the scale of the destruction thereabouts.

‘Were the cottages completely des–?’

‘–No Mary. Not completely. You’ll see for yourself though, that they were very badly damaged.’

‘Were there anysurvivors?’

Again, Police Constable West took time to compose himself before answering Mary's question.

'Most folk in that vicinity...' he began, 'I am afraid to say, drowned in their beds. But some are still unaccounted for, Mary, so there is still hope?’

‘Yes,’ Mary said, ‘hope?’

‘A few, I have been told, made a miraculous escape.’

‘How did they escape?’ Mary said, her disposition fleetingly less grave.

‘It seems by all accounts those situated downstairs when the waters hit, perished quickly. But many of the residents who had already retired upstairs to their beds, on hearing the waters approach, tried to make good their escape. One brave chap used a bedpost to smash his way through his bedroom wall and into the next door’s bedroom. And he went on like that, from house to house until eventually, all those he had gathered with him along the way, crawled up into the roof space and then out onto the slates.’

Mary’s desolate mood lifted still further.

‘Do you know his name George Henry, this brave man, or any of those who escaped with him?’

‘No Mary, I’m sorry I don’t.’

At once, Mary thought to herself, Richard is a resourceful fellow; could it have been him who led the escape, or perhaps that lodger of his, her spirits soaring all the time, what was his name, Trickett? He sounded like an ingenious and quick-witted fellow, strong, too, being a manual worker. Perhaps, it was Mr. Trickett who bludgeoned his way through the bedroom walls and assisted Richard, Charlotte and the children to safety?

Then Mary recalled that Richard's lodger slept downstairs in the washroom, and her spirits sank.

****

When they reached the Mason’s Arms, William Leng and Samuel Harrison saw the crowd gathered there, numbering perhaps forty, were bearing rubble away in buckets, onto a procession of waiting carts.

Leng stopped and turned to Harrison, ‘Mary Rankin’s story is familiar,’ he said, ‘but one I must add, which still saddens me deeply.’

Whilst neither Samuel Harrison nor his rival newspaper editor at The Sheffield Telegraph, bore any personal loss as a result of the tragedy, both privately felt encumbered by guilt.

‘I fear the poor girl…’ Harrison paused to check himself, before he resumed in a manner that he supposed might conclude Mary’s story ‘… I feel that Mary Rankin will very soon be numbered amongst the bereaved?’

Leng removed his hat. Something about his demeanour advised Harrison that his peer felt compelled to pursue their current discourse until such time as they had fully exposed the cause of their mutual disquiet.

He waited on him.

‘Her brother’s a labourer you say?’

‘Worked in a mill,' Harrison said, 'latterly, was in the employ of a local basket weaver.’

Leng nodded gravely. ‘Every man Jack of them, Harrison, artisans; Tool Grinders, Saw Smiths, shopkeepers and traders, or the wives and children of said craftsmen and traders, tell me…?’

‘Yes Mr. Leng?’

‘Do you think they’d have built that wretched monstrosity upstream of the home of the Industrialist, or perhaps the moneyed landowner…or even a blessed newspaper man?’

Harrison corrected his posture. The weight of responsibility, coalesced with guilt, had brought about a slovenly bearing upon his person to which he was not accustomed.

Standing erect now, he met Leng’s gaze directly.

‘I think not Mr. Leng,’ he said, ‘I think not.’

****

Loxley Cottages were as PC George Henry West had implied, in a very poor state of repair. The north facing gable end, which had borne the brunt of the monstrous tidal wave, was torn asunder. And yet, the narrow terrace of two-storey cottages still stood in a fashion. But as Mary had been warned, many of the victims had perished, whether or not their dwellings had stood up to the force of the torrent and therefore she could not bring herself to build on her recently acquired measure of hope.

That would be foolhardy, she said to herself, a flight of fancy, it could be said.

Number seven was exactly as Richard had described it.

Stepping over bricks and rafters, which lay higgledy-piggledy, in order to make a closer inspection of the property, Mary Rankin, came upon a gaping hole in the ground. The cellar area close by the front door was almost entirely exposed.

It might, she thought, be traversed by carefully negotiating a few of the remaining beams. And yet, she soon realised, venturing inside Richard’s house would be a futile gesture. If her brother and his family were still alive she would not find them here. The cottages were abandoned; at least for now. And as Mr. Harrison explained to her earlier, the Constabulary had already thoroughly combed every dwelling, barn, and outhouse, every conceivable location, in search of both the living and the dead.

****

‘I was fortunate enough to speak with the Chief Constable,’ Leng informed Harrison.

‘What news from John Jackson?’ Harrison asked in a tired fashion.

'The death toll has risen to over one hundred.'

'It will be at least double that when the rescue teams finish their grisly task.'

Leng said, ‘Those persons not yet claimed from the Sheffield Union Workhouse on Kelham Street will be removed to the General Cemetery later today.’

‘At what time did he say?’

‘Six o’clock.’

Samuel Harrison resolved at once to escort Mary Rankin to the workhouse. If, as seemed most likely, she had not unearthed any news of her brother, then Mary might very well be compelled to undertake the grim task of perusing the dead.

Harrison checked his watch; nearly an hour had passed since Miss Rankin left him at Hill Bridge.

‘If you’ll excuse Mr. Leng, I have urgent business?’

Leng doffed his hat.

‘Mr. Harrison.’

On his return to their agreed rendezvous point Samuel Harrison observed a queue of about two-dozen sightseers (he swore there were more and more arriving by the hour), waiting on a street hawker selling baked potatoes. Situated only yards away from the remains of Hill Bridge, the vendor had indeed secured a prime spot.

‘Thrup’nce for the tiddlers,’ he heard the man hawking his wares in a quite jovial manner ‘a tanner for the big ‘uns’.

Harrison found himself staring at the street vendor's ’s tired apparel.

A rough woollen coat patched at the elbows, which also showed signs of repair about the collar, a waistcoat similarly darned and mended in half a dozen places.

The indignant stance that I have seemingly taken against those who seek to profit from the disaster is perhaps a little too virtuous, Harrison said to himself, is it not? What right does a man like myself; have, privileged by comparison to most of my fellow citizens, to begrudge this poor fellow an opportunity to augment his livelihood?

Even in these circumstances?

Lost in contemplation, Samuel Harrison did not notice Mary approach.

‘Mr. Harrison?’

Harrison jumped.

‘Is everything alright Mr. Harrison, you look…’

‘What news, Mary?’

‘Little, I am afraid. I stopped and spoke to a few of the locals along the way, but no news of Richard I am sorry to say. Loxley Cottages are abandoned, as you might expect, and many of their former occupants, it seems, are amongst the dead, and the Constable said–’

‘–You must not give up hope Mary, there is still a –’

‘–I have not given up hope…not yet, at least.’

Harrison nodded. ‘Good, then with your agreement Miss Rankin, I suggest we head directly for the workhouse on Kelham Street.’

‘Where the victims have been taken?’

‘Yes, but also, where many of the homeless, I am informed, are to be found at present.’

Samuel Harrison did not fully understand why he felt duty-bound to deceive Mary.

Heaven forbid, he thought to himself, I am so weak as to feel the need to conceal the truth from myself?

But what was the truth, he thought?

There weresurvivors. And Miss Rankin’s brother and family may well be counted amongst them?

‘I am not a child Mr. Harrison?’ Mary said presently.

‘I am sorry Mary. You are, I am ashamed to say, dealing with your circumstance better than I am with my own.’

Mary smiled at that, and Harrison proffered his arm.

‘I think we should head for Sheffield Union Workhouse without delay as I understand that some of the victims are to be removed from there later today, and buried at the General Cemetery.'

Shortly after Mary Rankin took Samuel Harrison's arm and they departed Malin Bridge on foot, Bradley Trickett passed through the gates of Sheffield Union Workhouse. When he arrived at the main building, he went directly inside and asked an attendant for the Master of the Workhouse.

‘I’ve come to identify my wife,’ Trickett said, ‘and my two children, God help them!’

The sombrely dressed attendant pointed to the stairs. 'There are a number of survivors upstairs on the ward.'

'Oh?' Trickett said, 'survivors you say!'

'You may go and see if your family are amongst them.'

'Thank you Sir.'

Trickett made his way up the stairs to the first floor. Around five minutes later he descended the stairs shaking his head. The attendant immediately led him away from the main building across a cobbled yard toward an annexe comprising of five rooms, which made up an impromptu morgue.

The attendant asked Trickett to wait outside whilst he fetched the Master of the Workhouse, who was at present, inside the annexe. When the Master appeared he spoke in a perfunctory manner.

‘Your name Sir?’

‘Richard Rankin’ Trickett replied, ‘once of Clowne, Derbyshire, but more recently a resident of Malin Bridge, Sheffield.’

‘Mr. Rankin, there are a score of victims in one of the off-shot rooms of our makeshift morgue who are as yet unidentified. Some of the victims arrived late yesterday from the local receiving-house, the Yew Tree Inn’.

‘On Dykes Lane?’ Rankin enquired.

The Master nodded. ‘Did you not know that the Yew Tree were receiving victims of the flood?’

‘I’d heard tell… but, I hadn’t the heart to go there you see, and look at the...bodies...because I thought, maybe, just maybe, my family had somehow survived and I’d stumble into them shortly, and…’

‘Yes. Yes. I understand Mr. Rankin. Well, you’re here now’.

‘Yes Sir.’

‘The victims who came to us from the Yew Tree have all been placed in the annexe.’

He put out a hand indicating the building behind him. Trickett did not reply, or even acknowledge the existence of the dark and inhospitable structure, but simply removed his crumpled cloth hat and bowed his head.

‘Whom have you come to identify?’

‘My dear wife, Charlotte,’ he said, ‘and my children, Luke and Joseph.’

‘Follow me then, Mr. Rankin’.

Trickett nodded. Once inside the improvised morgue the Master instructed him to cover his mouth and nose with a handkerchief, when in close proximity with the dead.

When they entered the room housing the dead, Trickett saw rows of bodies, young and old, some in quiet repose, others battered around the head and body, misshapen in limb, lying on beds of straw, upon trestle tables, along three sides of the rectangular room.

He froze.

Witnessing this, the Master beckoned him forward in an encouraging voice. ‘This way if you please Mr. Rankin.’

Bradley Trickett followed on reluctantly, but stopped abruptly when the Master of the Workhouse added, ‘There is a woman of around forty years not yet claimed. She is at the far end of this row– ’

‘– No Sir!’ Trickett cried, a look of astonishment on his otherwise haggard features. ‘My wife was just twenty-five years this February, Sir.’

‘I apologise sincerely Mr. Rankin. I realise now that I was being presumptuous.’

‘I am… I was a lucky man Sir, blessed you might say, to have such a young and beautiful wife.’

The Master nodded, ‘Yes. Yes. Well in that case, there are three females all around that age as yet unidentified’, the second of which Trickett instantly identified as his ‘wife’, Charlotte.

Soon after that he also laid claim to his 'sons', Luke and John.

By chance, Richard Rankin lay alongside his sons. Trickett barely looked at him, such was his disdain for the man.

‘Have a moment Mr. Rankin?’ The Master retired as far as the doorway that would lead back to the cobbled courtyard. ‘But remember Sir' he added, turning swiftly to face the bereaved, 'you most not touch the deceased.’

‘I know,’ Trickett said, ‘disease you say?’

‘Disease, yes, Mr. Rankin… by the way, I am bound to ask you…?’

‘Go on Sir, what is it?’

‘Have you the means with which to bury your wife and children?’

‘I lost everything in the flood, Sir.’

‘I see.’

Trickett turned his floppy hat in his hands, wringing the material as if it were a dishcloth still sodden from the floodwaters. He looked back at where Charlotte laid, her shoulder length wavy blond hair scarcely discernible from the pale straw, and a ripple of elation fed through his veins. He brought to mind Charlotte's face when she caught him rifling through her husband's papers. He recalled how her indignant expression quickly turned to one of terror when he drew his knife on her and pinning her by the scruff of her neck against the wall, threatened to murder her babies in their beds if she did not do what he asked of her. He remembered too, how her expression changed again when she consented to his lewd demands; begging him repeatedly throughout her ordeal, for the love of God, don't harm my children.

It was an ill wind, Trickett thought to himself; had that fool Rankin not gone on an errand of mercy for one of his neighbours late on Friday night, I would have remained there, at number seven Loxley Cottages, and drowned in the washroom.

‘I had heard,' Trickett said, 'there’s a relief fund been set up? And that compensation will be due in the courts, for the loss of goods and chattels, only I’ll need papers, Sir, to apply, and as I lost everything in the flood, save for my dear fathers pocket watch...’

‘The Board of Guardians of the Union will settle the costs of an unmarked grave at the General Cemetery’.

Trickett was aghast.

‘A paupers burial?’

‘I’m afraid so’.

‘Then when I am compensated,’ he declared in a haughty fashion, ‘I will make it my first task to see to it that my family receive a proper burial and a headstone too’.

The Master of the Workhouse said to him ‘Have you nothing at all that will prove your identity, Mr. Rankin, so that you may at least access the relief fund?’

Trickett shook his head.

The Master turned and set off down the corridor.

Before he made it outside, Trickett exclaimed ‘I have a letter Sir!’ and reached inside his dishevelled overcoat.

The Master returned.

‘Damn nearly… begging your pardon Sir, I almost forgot in my present state of grief that I had a letter on my person when the unforgiving waters swept all before them.’

He produced an envelope.

‘It is badly damaged of course, but…?’

The Master stepped forward. ‘May I see it?’

Trickett handed him the envelope.

‘As you can see,’ Trickett said, ‘my name and address are still visible.’

The Master read aloud ‘Mr. Richard Rankin, Number Seven, Loxley Cottages, Adjacent to Holme Lane.’

‘And there’s the inscription on my father's watch,’ Trickett said, producing a gold pocket-watch from his waistcoat.

The Master of The Workhouse inspected the caption engraved on the inside of the watch.

‘This is a start Mr. Rankin, and a good one at that. You will of course require further documentation as proof of your identity in order to assist you in your claim, when eventually, the Inundation Commissioners meet, to wit, testimony from myself on Sheffield Union Workhouse letter-headed paper.’

Although the Master did not see it, the man who wished to be known as Richard Rankin, was smiling.

'You may remain here for a day or two Mr. Rankin, until you find new lodgings.'

'No Sir' Trickett replied, 'I am leaving for my home village, Clowne, as soon as I can gather the fare.'

‘Very well then, follow me Mr. Rankin and I shall see to it that you get your letter before you leave.’

****

After travelling more than half a mile on foot, Mary Rankin and Samuel Harrison at long last flagged down an empty cab that was heading back into the city.

‘The workhouse on Kelham Street,’ Harrison advised the driver.

Feeling the bite of the wind, Mary put on her bonnet, pulled it down tightly.

‘I’ve never been inside a workhouse Mr. Harrison.’

‘No Mary, I never imagined you had.’

‘Are they really as awful as people say?’

‘That very much depends on your circumstance?’

‘How far is the workhouse Mr. Harrison?’

‘Not that far Miss Rankin. Shales Moor is up ahead. With less silt on the road for the horse to plough through, we’ll make better time from there on in.’

Mary endeavoured not to think about what lay ahead. Such was her determination, she very quickly lapsed into a rarefied state of mind whereby nothing except the physical and mundane realities she viewed around her, were apparent.

The houses, for instance, row upon row of two-storey terraces, and taller, older, darker buildings, in the main, tenements, housing large families, may of them perhaps only one step away from the workhouse; and so many shops, too; fishmongers, butchers, confectioners, grocers, chemists and druggists, boot and shoemakers.

There were other businesses that she noted, whilst gazing out the window, such as Frederick Bagnall, Iron & Brass Founder & Stove Grate Manufacturer, George Ball, Carpet Weaver and Rag and Bone dealer, Thomas Brewitt, Cab Proprietor, William Pulfrey, Bird Preserver.

Mary tried hard to memorise the street names; Shales Moor became Moor Fields. On their left she noticed they bypassed Acorn Street and Ebenezer Street, to their right, Snow Lane fell away behind them.

Immediately after Snow Lane the cab made a left turn onto Bowling Green Street, and Mary thought to herself, we are close, and at the junction with Alma Street when they made a right turn onto Russell Street, she thought, I imagine it is nor far now, and another left onto Bower Street and then…then they arrived at their destination; Kelham Street; The Sheffield Union Workhouse.

Could Richard and Charlotte, Mary thought to herself, her heart beating faster by the second, the children, too, still be alive? waiting for family to arrive, to take them away from their miserable surrounds and back to the familiar comforts of home?

The driver pulled up at the gates. Harrison paid him and after helping Mary to the cobbles, escorted her up the drive.

Once inside the main building Samuel Harrison made directly for an attendant.

'Excuse me' he said, 'may we speak with the Master of the Workhouse?'

'In what regard, Sir?'

'My companion, Miss Mary Rankin, is seeking word of her–'

'–Rankin did you say?'

'Yes!' Mary came forward alongside Harrison, 'Richard Rankin. Have you had word of him?'

'Yes Miss' the attendant replied, 'he is with the Master at this very moment. They will be done with their business, quite soon, I imagine, so if you will just be patient a moment, then...' The attendant stopped speaking, held up a hand, turned his head slightly to one side, in the direction of the staircase, '...I think that is them now?'

Mary Rankin turned about wildly to face the stairs. She heard footsteps, voices approaching; 'Thank you Sir,' followed by, 'you are most welcome Mr. Rankin.'

The footsteps grew louder before eventually Mary observed a rather stout man of around forty years of age, with a recently healed wound scarring his dirty face, clutching a rather grubby looking cloth cap in one hand, and a gold pocket watch in the other, descending the stairs, and behind him, a well-dressed gentleman, whom she assumed must be the Master of the Workhouse, and Mary thought; there must be some mistake, and almost immediately, that pocket watch is father's and that is the man Richard described in his letter, the lodger, Bradley Trickett!

'That man is not my brother' Mary cried, 'that is Bradley Trickett, my brother's lodger!'

Trickett slowed his descent, gazed down at the young woman who had called out his name, and saw the man stood next to her advance toward the stairs, and stopped, spun around sharply, bumped into the Master of the Workhouse, who reflexively flung up his hands to shield himself.

Trickett lost his balance, fell back, teetered a moment, regaining his footing momentarily, one leg off the ground, kicking, attempting to arrest his centre of gravity, which had begun to edge backwards. The heel of his hobnail boot became snared in the trouser leg of his standing leg.

Both arms spinning around wildly, he must have appeared to his confused onlookers, like a windmill sprung into action by a sudden burst of wind, until that was, he cartwheeled back, head over heels.

Trickett stopped cartwheeling when his head hit the wall at the foot of the stairs.

It was a solid wall; mortar affixed to wooden strips of wood, known as lats, affixed to bricks by more mortar.

For a time, no one, including Bradley Trickett, moved, apart from Samuel Harrison that was.

He rushed forward and stood over the body, observed the man's shocked expression, the hideous twist in the neck.

Harrison did not stoop to find the man's pulse.

No, he thought to himself; there is no need, it is evident the impostor is dead.

****

FOOTNOTE - CHARACTERS YOU WILL NOT FIND IN THE HISTORY BOOKS

The Rankin family.

John Goodall.

Henry Wills.

Joseph Cartwright.

George Pell Toulson was my Great-Grandfather - he worked for a time during the 1880's as a railway porter in Mablethorpe, Lincolnshire, but never to my knowledge at Clowne.

George Henry West was also my Great-Grandfather - he left Clowne, Derbyshire and moved to Sheffield sometime between 1861 and May 1864. He became a Probationary Police Constable 11 May 1864, just two months after the disaster and resigned from the force in 1875, a Police Sergeant. He was for a time a Hanson Cab Proprietor. To this day I don't whether he was in Sheffield at the time of the flood, or moved there at a time when perhaps the Sheffield Constabulary were recruiting in the wake of the disaster.