speak today. One bodes well for the future of the Company, should we manage it well. The other is rather more unpleasant, and though I am loath to mention it at all, I fear it is my duty. But let us attend to productive things first.”
Forester signaled to a servant I had not seen before, who dashed over with a decorative lacquered box, swirling with gold and red and black, surely a product of the Orient. Upon the top was a handle in the shape of an elephant, and Forester lifted it and handed the top back to the servant. From the box itself he took out a compact roll of cloth. With this in hand, he returned the remainder of the box to the servant, who dashed off. Clearly there had been no need for the box at all, but I saw that Forester was a man who liked his drama, and I began to sense we would now observe a rather fascinating performance.
“I hold in my hand the future of the East India Company,” Forester announced. “As I need not tell you, it was one of the most disappointing moments in our organization’s history when Parliament passed the legislation making the domestic sale of India cloth so problematic. We are but weeks away from being forced to bar access to the cloth in our warehouses to our own citizens. Though there have been efforts to expand the markets for the few remaining cloths we may sell, the truth is that our Company failed to mount a proportionate counterattack to the wool interest, and now we may soon find ourselves with declining revenues. I will speak more of that later.”
I had no doubt, for Forester wished to lay the blame squarely upon Ellershaw’s shoulders, and unless Ellershaw could credibly promise a repeal of the legislation, his days were surely numbered.
“What has happened in Parliament is surely terrible,” he said, “and there have been rumors of more terrible developments to come. We have all heard it. There is a new engine, it is said, one capable of turning American cotton into an exact replica of India cloth—every bit as light and comfortable and elegant. Certainly the domestic dyeing industry has been perfecting its trade for years, and much of the India cloth enjoyed in this kingdom has been dyed here, so that if this American cotton could be spun in the mythic engine and then dyed here, it would be impossible for the consumer to tell the difference. I have no doubt that the experts of Craven House could find the slight variances, but not the consumers. Such an engine could mean the end of our cloth trade with the East.”
At this the crowd became far more energetic. Hisses and cries of
“I am here to tell you two things, gentlemen. First of all, the engine is real. I have seen its works.” The cries drowned him out, and he had to wait several moments before the Court was quiet enough to proceed. At last he did, though the din of the room made it difficult to hear. “Yes, it is true. The engine is real. But the second thing I must tell you is that this is not a moment of defeat but one of triumph. The engine has always been viewed as an enemy of the Company, but not if we own it. If it is ours, if we can use it as we like, for our profit—that, my friends, means riches beyond our imagination.”
He had the full attention of the Court. “Think of it. We continue to trade with India. We have our infrastructure there, and all of Europe craves India cloth. But we cease expansion in India and invest instead in North American cotton production. We obtain the cotton from the Americas, have it spun here on engines owned by Craven House itself, arrange for the dyeing, and then sell it domestically. Instead of being at odds with domestic textile production, we are woven into it, if you will excuse the play on words. Yes, the men of the wool interest will continue to give us trouble, but they will no longer be able to argue that we take bread from the mouths of domestic workers. Indeed, we will provide new employment and we shall become the idols of those who seek work. And since we will own the engines, their ability to dictate wages to us will be limited. With these new engines, we shall have absolute power over the textile industry, gentlemen: Indian cloth and foreign markets, American cotton and the home market.”
The room turned into an excited mass of voices. Men were standing and pointing, waving their hands about, nodding or shaking their heads. But most, from what I could divine, were excited about the notion.
For my part, I hardly knew how to understand it all. Everything I had done had been for nothing. The Company already had the engine; it would profit from it and turn the London laborer into its drudge. I could only take some pleasure in the fact that this revelation meant that not only had Cobb’s French masters lost out on their bid to control the engine but so had Celia Glade and her British masters. The Company had beat them all.
After some minutes of chaos in which Forester tried, unsuccessfully, to regain mastery of the room, I heard a loud call for attention.
“Hold!” the voice shouted. “Hold, let us hold!” It was Ellershaw. He entered the room with a confidence I had never seen in him before. His suit was new and clean and neat, and his bearing was still shambling, but it contained an authority I would have called almost regal.
Ellershaw strode onto the elevated platform and toward the podium.
“You must hold,” Forester said to him. “I have not yielded the floor.”
“Yes, you have,” Ellershaw said. “What you discuss is too important to allow the rules of procedure to silence conversation.”
“That may be so,” Forester sneered, “but the conversation will not be assumed by a madman whose brain is universally known to be disordered from exposure to a scandalous disease.”
A great gasp emerged from the crowd, and I observed so many nods and secret whispers that I understood the rumors of his having been rendered mad from the French pox were widely distributed. So it was that I began to have an inkling of Ellershaw’s malicious genius.
“Universally known, is it? It is not so known by me, or by any medical man who has taken the time to examine me, rather than a foolish knave who spreads malice. Why, I see in this very hall a surgeon who has examined me. You, sir!” He pointed to Elias. “Stand and tell the gathering if you believe me to have any affliction that could lead to a distemper of the brain.”
Elias was reluctant to stand, but Ellershaw continued to urge, and the rumblings of the crowd began to sound menacing.
“You had better do it,” I said.
Elias rose and cleared his throat. “I have examined the gentleman,” he announced. “I have found no evidence of the disease mentioned, nor any other that can result in delirium.”
Murmurs once more spread through the crowd, and Ellershaw only regained command by pounding upon the podium with a thick quarto that slammed down like a gavel.
“You see!” he cried. “Rumors accepted without basis. Now, if we may tend to the matter at hand, I would discuss this machine-produced calico Forester speaks of.” He turned to that gentleman. “At the very least, you must allow us to examine this cloth. You say it is as good as India textile, but we have only your word that it is not rough, heavy stuff the public will reject. There have been numerous new engines that have been predicted as our doom, but none of them yet have been worth a fig.”
Forester tried to block Ellershaw, but the big man pushed forward and took the roll of cloth directly into his big hands. He examined it, rubbed his hand along it, held it up to the light, even smelled it. He then paused and appeared lost in thoughtful reflection.
“Even you, sir, who have stood in my way, must admit that this is the very thing,” Forester said, his voice nearly cracking with triumph. “Can you find a thing wrong with it?”
Ellershaw shook his head. “No, sir, I cannot,” he said.
I knew, however, that there was more to come, for there was no concession in his voice. If anything, Ellershaw masked a smile, and he spoke loud enough for the room to hear. These were words not privately exchanged but performed upon a stage.
“I cannot find a thing wrong with it,” he said, “because this
The room was now alight again, but Forester tried to stop the chaos. “If it is so like the original that even a man like Ellershaw finds it hard to tell the difference, does it not prove the cloth’s value?”
Now Ellershaw did laugh, a loud, resonating boom. “You have been duped, sir. Someone has tricked you. I tell you this is India cloth, and if you were a true Craven House man—if you’d served your time in India as I have—you would know it.” He unrolled two feet or so of the cloth and held it before the room. “Gentlemen, without even touching it, can you not observe that Forester is mistaken?”
The room went silent for a moment as they studied the cloth. What was it they were supposed to see? I had no idea. But then one voice called out, “Why, that’s been dyed in India. I know that pattern.”
“Yes, yes,” another called. “There’s not a dyer on this island that can replicate that. It’s India cloth.”
The room now went mad. They could all see it, or the ones that could not pretended to. They pointed and
