The Iron in Our Blood: A Shropshire Workman’s Tale
Step into the grimy shoes of Thomas Jenks, an 18th-century ironworker in Shropshire’s industrial heartland. As he toils in the sweltering furnaces of Coalbrookdale, witness the birth of the Industrial Revolution through his eyes. It’s a tale of backbreaking labour, technological marvels, and the forging of a new era.
I wipe the sweat from my brow as I trudge up the muddy path to the ironworks, the clanging of hammers and hiss of steam already audible in the pre-dawn gloom. Another day of backbreaking labour awaits, but I’m grateful for the steady work. Times are changing rapidly here in Shropshire, and I count myself fortunate to have a place in this new world of iron and industry.
My name is Thomas Jenks, and I’ve been working at the Coalbrookdale ironworks for nigh on five years now. I’m 28 years old, born and raised in the nearby village of Madeley. My father was a farmer, as his father was before him. But the lure of higher wages in the ironworks proved too tempting to resist. Now I spend my days amid fire and smoke rather than fields and livestock.
As I approach the looming brick buildings of the works, I nod to my fellow labourers shuffling in for the morning shift. We’re a motley crew — former farm hands like myself, skilled metalworkers who’ve come from as far as the Black Country, even a few women and children employed in various tasks. The ironworks are always hungry for more hands to feed their ravenous furnaces and forges.
I make my way to the puddling furnace where I’ve been assigned. It’s grueling work, but I’ve developed a knack for it over the years. Using a long iron rabble, I stir the molten pig iron in the furnace, burning away impurities to create wrought iron. The heat is intense, even through my leather apron, and I’ll be drenched in sweat within minutes. But there’s a certain pride in mastering this new technique that’s revolutionising iron production.
As I work, I can’t help but marvel at how much has changed in just a few short years. When I first came to Coalbrookdale, we were still using charcoal to fuel the furnaces. Now it’s all coal and coke, allowing for much greater iron output. And the things we’re making! Not just pots and pans anymore, but massive engine cylinders, iron rails, even parts for bridges. I’ve heard talk that old Abraham Darby III is planning to build an entire bridge out of iron to span the Severn Gorge. Madness, some say, but in these times anything seems possible.
The hours pass in a blur of heat and exertion. At midday, we’re granted a brief respite to wolf down some bread and cheese. I chat with my mate Bill, a former miner who now works the blast furnace. He’s full of wild stories about the eccentric ironmaster John Wilkinson, who they call “Iron Mad” for his obsession with the metal. Apparently Wilkinson’s latest scheme is to build iron boats. We share a laugh at the absurdity — surely iron would sink straight to the bottom! But who knows in these strange times?
Back to work, and the afternoon drags on interminably. My arms ache from wielding the heavy rabble, and I’ve suffered more than a few burns from stray sparks. But I take pride in the quality of the wrought iron I’m producing. It will be used to make all manner of vital goods, from tools to machinery parts. Perhaps some of it will even end up in that fabled iron bridge.
As the sun begins to set, we’re finally released from our labours. I’m exhausted, but there’s still work to be done at home. My wife Sarah will have supper waiting, and then I’ll need to tend to our small vegetable plot before darkness falls completely. We’re better off than many, with my steady wages, but it’s still a constant struggle to make ends meet.
On the walk home, I ponder the changes I’ve witnessed in my short life. The very landscape is being transformed before our eyes, with mines and furnaces and factories sprouting up across the countryside. The air is thick with coal smoke, and the once-quiet valley echoes with the ceaseless din of industry. It’s a harsh new world in many ways, but also one of incredible possibilities.
I think of my young son, not yet five years old. What sort of future awaits him? Will he follow me into the ironworks, or perhaps find opportunity in one of the new trades springing up around us? Maybe he’ll even become an engineer or inventor, pushing the boundaries of what’s possible with iron and steam. The thought fills me with both hope and trepidation.
As I near our modest cottage, I can see Sarah silhouetted in the doorway, little Thomas clinging to her skirts. The sight of them eases the aches in my body and lifts my spirits. This is what I toil for day after day — the chance to give my family a better life in this brave new world of iron.
I may just be a simple ironworker, but I’m part of something much bigger. Here in Shropshire, we’re forging not just metal, but the very future itself. Who knows what marvels the coming years will bring? All I know is that iron will be at the heart of it, and I’ll play my small part in shaping that future, one backbreaking day at a time.
Bob Lynn / 05-Sep-2024
