Martha of the Mill- Chapter 3

I loved the ideas Leslie had for chapter titles, so I didn't even try to think of one for this chapter... just post your ideas. Once again, I truly want feedback, so don't worry about hurting my feelings.

Chapter 3

It seemed that her eyes had only just closed when Martha felt her mother gently shake her awake.

“It’s time, Martha,” she gently said.

Martha quickly rose and pulled her apron over the dress she had slept in the night before. Her feet ached as she placed them on the floor, but she knew that would be exchanged for the ache of her eyes from the dust of the yarn and the constant staring as she looked for broken threads during the day at the mill.

As she waited in line at the gate, she pretended not to see Savannah out of the corner of her eye. She was relieved when the gate opened and allowed the workers to enter the mill.

All morning she tried to stay focused on her work but felt her self drifting to sleep. Twice, she jerked herself awake, just in time to see a broken thread.

“I’ve got to be more careful,” she thought. She knew that if the overlooker found her sleeping or even looking drowsy, he would quickly dunk her head in a cold bucket of water.

The morning seemed to drag by, with no end in sight. It felt as if the break for lunch should have been hours ago, but a quick peek outside the window showed the sun still low on the horizon. Martha felt her eyelids droop but in an instant was jerked awake by a hot burning in her arm. She heard a shriek that seemed far away, then realized it was her own voice. The loom came to a halt as someone turned it off.

“What is going on?” the overlooker’s voice roared. “I did not give permission to turn off the loom. You will all lose a half day’s pay!”

“But her hand is stuck,” an older girl quickly answered.

“Whose hand is stuck?” demanded the overlooker.

“The new girl, over there,” the worker directed.

Martha was now silent, the pain so intense she couldn’t move. The overlooker quickly came to inspect the damage.

“Make sure none of the thread is damaged. You,” he said, beckoning to the girl who had turned off the loom. “Get her out of here. She’s of no use to us now. And turn that loom back on immediately.”

As soon as he had left the room, Savannah hurried to Martha’s side.

“You go on,” she said told the others. “I know where she lives.”

She tried to untangle Martha’s hand as gently as she could. The moving parts had yanked it far into the machine, making it difficult. Martha couldn’t even look. She had never hurt so much in her life and the sinking feeling she felt about her future made the situation almost unbearable. She let the tears stream down her face without any attempt to wipe them away or stop them. Money to pay a doctor just was not available and she knew she wouldn’t be able to work at the factory or at sewing doll clothes for a long time… if ever again.

“It will be alright,” soothed Savannah.

“Oh,” Martha yelped and drew in a breath as Savannah freed her hand with one last yank. “I don’t think I can walk home,” she whimpered. “I feel too weak.”

“I’m not taking you home,” replied Savannah. “At least, not yet. I know someone who can help.”

“I must go and tell my mother. She will be worried,” said Martha.

“Don’t be silly. You aren’t supposed to be home for half a day, yet.” As she continued to talk to her, Savannah slowly eased her down the front steps of the factory and out the door.

The sunlight was blinding. It wasn’t often that the girls spent time outdoors when the sun was out. They spent most of daylight inside of the factory. If Martha hadn’t been in so much pain she would have loved to have taken a moment to enjoy it. As it was, she could hardly think enough to find the words to argue with Savannah.

“Even if there is someone that can help, I can’t pay them.”

“I know that. They don’t want money for their work. They say they work for Jesus,” replied Savannah.

Martha had rarely been inside a church. She could remember years ago, as a little girl, going to church with her grandmother on Christmas Eve. The memories weren’t particularly fond. The benches were hard and uncomfortable and the preacher seemed to talk forever. Her parents never really had time to go to church. Work and their children kept them too busy, so after her grandmother died, she never went again.

“I don’t go to church,” pleaded Martha. She was feeling a bit desperate and despite how worried she knew her mother would be, she just wanted to go home and be folded into her arms in a hug. “Please, just take me home.”

“Okay,” Savannah finally consented. “But if you change your mind, let me know. These men have something they call the ‘priesthood.’ It is the power of God and they can heal you. My mother and I have been listening to their sermons all week. I think I am going to join their church.”