Life in a Railway Factory

by Alfred Williams

Our smith is a perfect giant in stature. In height he is well over six feet, solid and erect, with tremendous shoulders and limbs. His head is massive and square, with broad deep forehead and bushy brows. His grey eyes, frank and fearless, are rather deeply inset. The nose is Roman and slightly crooked; the mouth, with thick lips a little relaxed, is pleasant and kind. He has a heavy, bronze moustache, a clean shaven chin and plump, ruddy cheeks. The whole countenance is square, and exhibits the marks of good-nature and honest character. His ponderous arms are hard and brown, full of rigid bone and muscle, and his hands are large and horny with continual holding of the tongs and hammer. His breast is remarkably broad and hairy — his woollen shirt is always thrown open at work; he has hips and belly like an ox, legs like those of an elephant, and large flat feet, and he weighs more than eighteen stone. When he walks his motion is rather slow and deliberate. He goes heavy on his soles, and his shoulders rise and fall alternately at every step he takes.

He is at all times steady and cool, and he seems never to be in a hurry. At the anvil he gives one the same impression, so that a stranger might even think him to be sluggish and dilatory, but he is in everything sure and unerring, never too soon or too late. Every action is well-timed; nothing is either over- or under-done. He performs all his beats with a minimum amount of labour. Where a nervous or spasmodical person would require forty or fifty blows to shape a piece of metal he will accomplish it with about twenty-five. His masterly eye and calculating brain are ever watchful and alert. He understands the effect of every blow given, and while the less experienced smith is still engaged with his piece nearly black-hot, his is finished, complete, with the metal still yellow or bright red. He moves always at the same pace, and his work is of a uniformly superlative character. When strangers are about, watching him at his weld, he makes no difference whatever in his usual methods of procedure, but behaves just as coolly and deliberately and takes no notice of any man.

Some smiths and forgemen, on the other hand, hate to be watched at work by strangers — “foreigners,” as they call them — and very quickly give evidence of their dislike and irritation. They will every now and then dart an angry look at the visitors, and, after using the tools, throw them down roughly, muttering under their breath and telling the strangers to “clear off,” though not sufficiently loud to be heard. By and by the unoffending strikers will come in for a castigation; whatever kind of blow they strike it will be wrong for their mate. At last he shuts off the blast from the forge, and, laying down his hammer, turns his back towards the “interlopers,” and waits till they have passed on up the shed. After their departure he resumes his labour and quickly makes up for the lost time.

Some smiths, again, though extremely nervous under the eye of a stranger, do not object to being watched, while others positively like the attention. Such as these are always anxious, under the circumstances, to impress the stranger with their great skill and dexterity in the use of tools and in twisting and turning the iron about on the anvil. They are the “gallery men.” As soon as visitors appear afar off they begin to prepare for an exhibition. The blast is steadied down, or shut off, and the fire is cooled round. The tools are all most conveniently disposed upon the anvil or table, and everything is made ready for a “lightning” weld. The strikers are as well agreed as the smith, and brace themselves up for an extra special effort. They wait till the visitors are nearly opposite them and certain of viewing the operation. Then on goes the blast, roaring loudly in the firebox, while the smith, with the perspiration streaming down his brow and cheeks, turns his heat over and over in the forge and glances quickly across to take care that he is ready at the right moment. The visitors notice the unusual activity of the men at the fire and stand still, waiting to see the heat. This is the signal for the iron to leave the coals. With exaggerated celerity the sections of metal are withdrawn from the forge and brought to the anvil. The fused parts are clapped smartly together, the striker throws down his tongs viciously, grips his hammer and, following the directions of his mate, rains a shower of blows on the spluttering iron. The sparks whizz out, and reach the visitors, singeing the dresses of the ladies — if there happen to be any among them — and causing them to cry out and step backwards a few paces, while the anvil rings merrily under the blows. Now the smith lays down his own hammer quickly and takes up the steel tool for finishing and squaring the heat. His mate follows, striking rapidly, at all angles, heavy and light, light and heavy, according to what is required, though the smith utters not a word during the process, for the whole routine is known by heart. Over and over the piece is jerked on the anvil — a fine flourish being given to each movement — until it is finished. Upon its completion the smith hands it to the striker, who receives it dexterously and places it on the ground, or in the pile, the pair of them looking several times at the visitors as much as to ask them if they do not think the job well and quickly done, and begging a compliment. The visitors usually accord them an admiring glance in recognition of their prowess and pass on up the forge.

The gallery men are smart and quick by nature, and are fairly sure of being successful in “exhibition” work. The slightest blunder would spoil the whole act and make them appear ridiculous, consequently none but those who are really skilful ever attempt the business. The average smith, however, and especially the one we have in view, never breaks his rule or goes out of his way to oblige visitors, but continues at a steady, uniform rate. The workman who is showy and energetic before visitors is often remiss when they have gone by; it is the continual plodder that gets through the most work in the long run. The visitor, moreover, if he is gifted with an ordinary amount of insight and commonsense, may easily recognise the superior workman and discriminate between the genuine and the superficial effort. Occasionally, when strangers pass through, after such a performance as I have described, the striker, more in jest than in earnest, throws his cap at the feet of the visitors, suggesting that a tip would be welcomed. It is but fair to say that the hint is seldom or never taken.

Though the striker, or inside mate, must perform the task of preparing the fire for the smith, he is no longer responsible for it. Henceforth the smith takes it under his care, and only hands it over to his mate when the heat is finished and a stop has to be made to renew the forge. If the job upon which he is engaged is of any dimensions and two fires are needed, that will make it increasingly hard for the strikers. The heaviest work is naturally more usually assigned to the strongest men, though the rule of adaptability also holds here and the various jobs are given to those who have proved themselves to be the most efficient at them. Of the smiths, some are famed for their skill in one direction, and some for their ability in another. This job requires strength, that speed and cleverness, and another needs a combination of all those qualities and is difficult to do at any time. Occasionally it transpires that an inferior smith has been kept at one class of work for such a long time that he gets out of touch with the other jobs in the shed, and would shape awkwardly if he were suddenly called upon to undertake something new and unusual to him. This is a mistake not often committed by the foreman, however. He periodically changes and interchanges the work and so gets the smiths accustomed to many and miscellaneous toils.

The skilled and clever smith will be at home anywhere and everywhere. He will do anything, anyhow, and by any method you please, for he is a complete master of the trade. He will make all kinds of tools with the utmost ease and simplicity. He will also forge chains, wheels, joints, and levers, work in iron or steel, in “T” stuff, or angle iron; every conceivable shape and form of work is subject to his operation. If you put him at the steam-hammer he is still at home; he will forge out an ingot or bloom with the best man on the ground.

All the lightest work falls upon the young apprentices and the very old men, who are too feeble to undertake heavy and trying tasks, but are yet far too valuable to be dispensed with altogether. The apprentices perform such work as simple setting and bending, the making of bolts and eyes, rings and links for chains and so on. They usually come to the work at the age of sixteen, and stay for five or six years, when they voluntarily hand in their notices and migrate to other towns. There they are received as improvers, or as journeymen, and are forthwith paid the trade rate of wages. This varies considerably in many localities, and it is to be noted that railway sheds almost always provide the very lowest wages. Since the work is constant and sure, however, and is not subject to the many fluctuations of the contract shop, the stability of employment is counted a certain compensation for lower wages, and the majority of smiths accept the conditions philosophically.

The young apprentices are strong and sturdy, and invariably of a sound constitution; one never sees a sickly-looking youth taking up the occupation of smithing. This accounts for the fine physique and often big proportions of the senior smith; the reason being that the youths chosen were hardy and suitable, and showed signs of physical development. The sons of smiths usually choose the trade of their fathers and follow in their footsteps. There is consequently often a hereditary quality in the workman; they have been a family of smiths for generations.

The smiths, provided they are strong and healthy, are usually retained at the forge till they have reached the age of seventy when, under the present rule, they are required to leave. Even this is a kind of concession to them, for, generally speaking, the other workmen are turned off long before they reach such an advanced age. The smith’s usefulness, even in his age, is the cause of this; though feeble, he is still able to do good work and to help with his knowledge and experience. He is usually employed at tool-making, or at other light occupations. His poor old hand, almost as hard as iron, shakes with the weight of the hammer; his head trembles visibly, and his legs totter beneath him. He comes in early in the morning, in order to avoid the crush. He brings his meals with him and eats them in the forge, and he is the last going out at night. In his decline he is forced to live near the works — only a street or so from the entrance — and even then it takes him a long time to hobble to and fro. In the evening and at week-ends he usually stays at home to rest, or he may possibly look in to see a friend, or to take a mug of ale at the neighbouring inn.