Of Dubious and Questionable Memory by Rachel McMillan

Author:Rachel McMillan
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780736968799
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers

Chapter Four

Late that night, well after the supper hour, Merinda and I exchanged our dresses for tweed coats and pants in preparation for the Labor meeting. The evening was awash with mellow light spilling from the shutters as we made the short trek to the Wright Tavern.

We found our seats amid the bustling congregation of mostly male attendees. The group seemed in high spirits, likely due to the tankards of ale we saw in many hands. A stove in the corner sputtered a bit but provided little warmth. I shivered despite my tweed coat and knit scarf.

“Quite appropriate for them to meet here where the revolutionaries rallied,” Merinda said, taking in the history of the place.

We were greeted with smiles from a small group of women settling into the row in front of ours. They had taken the train from Amherst, we learned. Merinda said we were from Toronto visiting our cousin, and that we were interested in the workings of the anarchist movement in the States. She wanted to bring back information, she said. She was much better at keeping her voice low than I, but these Federation women took us for who we were in an instant.

Finally, we whipped off our hats and let our hair trail free.

“I keep forgetting this town isn’t stupid enough to have a Morality Squad,” Merinda whispered to me before leaning forward in her chair and asking around about Del, showing people a photograph she had secured from Miri just as we were leaving Boston—a girl who had seemed to have every intention of joining this group.

No one had heard of Delphina Barton, of course, but they said that wasn’t entirely unusual. They were all one in pursuit of a singular cause, and names were of little consequence.

Finally, the congregation came to order and the last stragglers took their seats.

I learned from the first speaker that Massachusetts housed several textile and fabric mills, and each was on the brink of an uprising. Children as young as seven worked fifty-six-hour weeks in dark, dingy conditions with little pay. The children were malnourished, their growth was stunted, and the poor air conditions caused lung problems. As the man spoke, I could tell Merinda, like myself, was thinking of the working conditions at Spenser’s shirtwaist factories back home.

As applause followed the speaker to his seat, an upturned hat was passed around to pay for the medical care of an injured worker in nearby Amherst.

Then a familiar figure rose from the middle of the crowd and made for the podium. It was Nicholas Haliburton from Orchard House, raking his fingers through his shock of white-blond hair and smiling broadly at the crowd.

He had an immediate and winsome charm, all blue eyes and boyish smile. His earnestness was arresting.

“I grew up privileged,” he began. “I never went to sleep with my stomach complaining for food. My hands and face were not chapped and cracking with the winter chill. I do not suffer from the inability to read and write.

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