The Minutes of the Lazarus Club

by Tony Pollard

  ‘It keeps us busy,’ said Wilkie as he began to sort through papers on his desk.

  ‘Why is it called the floating dock?’ I enquired, looking out over the wide stretch of black water. ‘It looks fairly stationary to me.’

  The riffling stopped and Wilkie turned in his chair. ‘Have you ever heard the phrase “shipshape and Bristol fashion”?’ he asked. I nodded and he went on to explain that it referred to the strong keels ships moored in the River Avon needed to survive the dramatic changes in tide which twice a day left them grounded in the mud. That was why the dock had been built early in the century. The water level in it was kept high through a series of channels and gates and it was called the floating dock simply because the ships in it stayed afloat. It was no surprise to learn that Brunel had also had a hand in the enterprise, later adding a system of sluices and channels to keep the dock free of silt. The dock, Wilkie explained, had also been the birthplace of Brunel’s first two ships, the SS Great Western and then the Great Britain, both of which were depicted in paintings hanging on the wall above the big man’s desk. The relationship between the two men became clearer when he told me he had worked for Brunel on both ships.

  Now he was in a more conversational mood, I decided to ask about something that had been bothering me. ‘What about the strangers?’ I asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Two of them. Nothing unusual about strangers in a port, I suppose, but I’m sure they have been watching the shop for a week or so.’

  ‘Hence the spanner you greeted me with?’

  His tone became a little more agitated. ‘I’m a metalworker – what’s so unusual about carrying tools in my own workshop?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ I responded, slightly embarrassed that I might have read too much into the matter. ‘But do you think there is a danger?’

  ‘Someone tried to break in the other night, but they cleared off when they heard me coming down the stairs.’ As I pondered this incident Wilkie returned to the papers and, after a moment or two, pulled a sheet clear from the pile.

  Moving away from the window, I took a look at the drawing. Several components were represented, each shown in plan and elevation. It was clear from the dimensions marked in Brunel’s hand that the finished pieces would be much smaller than the drawings. Although the illustrations included all the information necessary to construct the parts they provided little or no clue to the appearance or purpose of the finished machine.

  Just as I was about to take my leave the big man erupted from his seat and narrowly avoided rattling his head off the roof. ‘Damn it,’ he yelled, making for the stairs, ‘I knew we’d missed something.’ I followed at a safe distance as he disappeared from view. ‘Nate, did you check the screws on that hinge?’ he shouted.

  By the time I reached the foot of the stairs he was standing over the boy, a file in his hand. ‘Fetch the tray of pieces, we’re going to have to double-check those dimensions.’ Quick to obey, the lad disappeared into the back room while Wilkie passed a rule over the highly polished cylinder of metal in the vice before him. Whatever the problem was, my presence had nothing to contribute to its resolution. I waited for him to finish his measurements before bidding him good evening and, as he escorted me to the door, we arranged for the collection of the package at eight in the morning.

  Leaving Wilkie and his apprentice to what looked to be a long night’s work, I determined to use what light was left to take a closer look at the dock before finding somewhere to eat. I walked along the street in the opposite direction of my arrival and, turning the corner, let out an involuntary whistle at the view now presented before me. To my left was the River Avon, which at low tide looked to be nothing more than a muddy trench, but ahead of me was the gorge, a massive notch cut into the horizon. Once again I was confronted with Brunel’s mark on the world, for the gap was spanned by what would become his bridge, which was bounded on either side by great stone towers which seemed to grow up out of the living rock of the cliff face. The scant black line of a hawser stretched between the towers looked like the thinnest of cracks in the sky and beneath it was suspended a basket. Although empty now this would carry workmen out across the gorge as they went about their labours.

  The very thought of hanging hundreds of feet above the river at the end of what looked to be nothing more than a thread was enough to make my head swim and it was a relief to turn into the docks. Low tide may have exposed the river’s sticky floor but the water remained deep enough to support the dozen or so ships berthed there.

  I took a stroll along the quay, where a crane lifted barrels from the dark void of a ship’s hold. All the vessels were cargo carriers; the ship destined to carry hundreds of souls across the Atlantic the following morning was obviously moored elsewhere. I wondered where Brunel’s ships had been built – presumably in dry docks somewhere hereabouts. It was all pleasant enough but I couldn’t stop thinking about the two strangers and the attempted break-in. I kept a lookout for suspicious characters, but with everyone a stranger to me this seemed a little pointless.

  It was my rumbling stomach which really put things in perspective. I had not eaten since breakfast and so curtailed my explorations to seek out a suitable hostelry.

  After an agreeable meal and several glasses of wine I once again took a cab to Brunel’s lodgings up on the hill. It had been a long day and I was more than ready for bed. As I replaced the blankets I gave a sympathetic thought to Wilkie, who was probably still hard at work finishing his commission for Brunel. Fatigue notwithstanding, I had an urge to partake in a little bedtime reading, having come across a large leather-bound scrapbook belonging to the engineer. Inside was page after page of age-yellowed newspaper clippings, all of them relating to the man and his endeavours. Given the day’s events I plumped for a story from The Times dated 3 April 1838 and with my back propped against a pillow and a lamp burning on the bedside table I began to read.

  GREAT WESTERN STEAMSHIP

  The vessel got underway at 30 minutes past 5 o’clock on Saturday morning. She left the river under the most favourable prospects, the engines working as steadily and easily as the smallest Thames steam-vessel, and were as quickly halted. She stopped at Gravesend for a short time for the purpose of putting out the visitors, among whom was Mr Brunel, sen., the engineer of the Thames Tunnel, into boats, which took them ashore. The vessel again proceeded, and the patent log line was thrown out, by which her speed was ascertained to be 15 knots an hour.

  Everything wore a propitious appearance; the directors and officers, who have been for several weeks engaged in superintending the fittings up, were congratulating each other on the results of their labours, when the vessel was discovered to be on fire. The smell of heated oil began to attract attention soon after the steam-ship left Gravesend, but it was not until the vessel reached the Chapman Sand, 6 miles above the Nore, that flames were discovered by Mr Maudslay, the engineer, issuing from the top of the boilers. Soon afterwards large volumes of smoke issued from the engine-room, which drove everybody on deck, and it was at least an hour before the flames were brought under control.

  We are sorry to state that a melancholy accident befell Mr Brunel, jun., the engineer. He was on board and intended to proceed with the Great Western to Bristol. On the fire being discovered, his assistance and advice were of essential service; but in the confusion, and when the fire was at its height, he fell down the opening from the deck into the main-hold, a height of nearly 40 feet. He was soon raised, and found to be dreadfully injured. We understand that Mr Brunel is in a precarious state; his shoulder bone has been dislocated by the fall, and his leg broken. Last evening the reports on his condition were more favourable.

  The fire was caused by the ignition of the patent felt with which the boilers and steam-pipe were covered to prevent a radiation of the heat and to keep the engine-room as cool as possible. The workmen had improperly used a quantity of red-lead and oil in coating the boilers and steam-pipe with the felt, particularly with that par
t of the boilers in contact with the chimney, and when the felt once ignited, the flames spread like wildfire, and but for the precautionary steps adopted by the Great-Western Steam-ship Company for so speedily extinguishing fire, there is no doubt their first vessel would have been sacrificed.

  The story brought to mind the injured workman who had told me that Brunel had survived more than one accident himself. From what I had just read it seemed nothing less than miraculous that the man had lived so long.

  Too tired to read any further I dropped the album on to the floor, turned off the lamp and settled down to sleep.

  A violent rapping at the front door broke my slumber. I had no idea what time it was but the first tinges of dawn were filtering through gaps in the curtains. Lacking a gown, I jumped into my trousers and threw on a shirt before proceeding down the stairs. ‘You’re Wilkie’s boy – Nate, isn’t it?’ I asked, finding the apprentice standing on the doorstep. The lad was pecking as though he had just run up the hill. Seeing his face for the first time, there could be no doubt that he was the man’s son. Here was Wilkie-in-waiting, his hunched shoulders and shifting limbs reminding me of a foal still growing into its skin. ‘What is it? It’s still early, is it not?’

  The boy was carrying a canvas duffel bag, which at my enquiry he held out in front of him. ‘My father told me to bring this to you.’

  I reluctantly took the bag from him. ‘But I was going to come and collect it; there was no need for you to come all this way.’

  ‘You don’t under… understand, sir… there’s been trouble,’ stuttered the boy, now on the verge of tears.

  ‘Won’t you come in?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Father needs my help. The workshop, it’s been…’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘There’s been… there’s…’ Giving up, he turned and pointed down the street. I stepped off the threshold and was shocked to see a pall of black smoke and an orange glow that had nothing to do with the sunrise.

  ‘My God! A fire. A fire at the workshop?’

  The boy nodded, a tear rolling down his cheek. ‘The men came back. He wouldn’t let them in.’ I tried to guide the boy inside, but he would have none of it. ‘I need to go,’ he insisted, shaking my hand from his shoulder. ‘Father says you are to get the bag to Mr Brunel.’

  ‘Your father, where is he?’

  ‘I need to find him,’ he said, wiping his sleeve across his cheek.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ I announced, but then looked at my feet. ‘Wait here, Nate, I’m going up to put my shoes on.’

  Still clutching the bag, I darted back up the stairs, the boy calling after me, ‘Get the train. My father says you are to get on the train.’

  I fell back on to the bed pulling on my shoes, and in my recently woken state tried to make what sense I could of the situation. Who were those men, and what were they after? But there was no time for these questions now. I threw on my coat and, taking the bag with me, ran back down the stairs. The boy was nowhere to be seen.

  It was over half an hour later when I arrived at the docks, having had some difficulty in finding a cab this early in the morning. But despite the hour, people were milling about everywhere, and a fire tender stood outside the burnt-out shell of the workshop. I told the cabbie to wait and stepped into the mêlée. The cobbles were covered with mushy, wet ash and there was the dreadful, acrid smell of a fire that has burned much more than just timber or coal. The brick frontage was still intact but the roof had fallen inward on to a mound of rubble created by the collapse of the vault. The building next door was in no better condition.

  Ignoring a shout from one of the fire attendants, I dashed through a gap that had once been the doorway and scrambled on to the mound. The bricks were still hot, many of them cracked by the force of the heat. There wasn’t a chance of anyone trapped in the workshop getting out alive. I coughed at the intake of fumes from burnt engine oil. Every few feet I had to step aside to avoid being snagged on the twisted metal stumps of machinery protruding through the smouldering heap. Reaching the other side, I looked down on hoses lying criss-crossed on the dockside, their nozzles still submerged in the water. The pumps sat idle now, but they had succeeded in dowsing the fire before it had spread along the entire street.

  Another knot of people had formed at the side of the dock. By the time I stepped off the bricks the soles of my shoes had partially melted away. Pushing my way into the crowd, I yelled, ‘I’m a doctor, let me through, please.’ The wall of people gave way and I knelt beside the water-soaked form of Wilkie. The big man was clearly dead, cold to the touch and his skin already discoloured. I looked across to Nate, who was crouched on the other side of his father, hands spread across his inert chest. ‘He was in the dock,’ he said, tears streaking the soot on his face.

  I took a closer look at the body. Despite the soaked clothes and hair, the wound on the side of his head suggested that drowning had not caused the death of this gentle giant.

  The boy was of the same mind. ‘They killed him, the bastards killed him,’ he spat, looking up at the people standing around him.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Nate,’ I whispered, ‘but you need to come with me.’ Putting aside my own sense of shock, I grabbed his shoulder once again, this time refusing to let go when he made to shrug it away. Breaking out of the ring of bystanders, I tried to establish what he knew. ‘Did you see them, the men who did this?’

  ‘It was them that’s been watching us.’

  Looking back at the crowd, I felt a growing sense of regret at not having taken some sort of action to help Wilkie on hearing of his troubles the night before. But what could I have done? ‘Come on, Nate. I’m not sure what’s happening here but you need to come with me. You need to get away from here. Do you have any other family?’

  The boy glanced back towards the body. For a moment I considered sending him to Lily. The place was out of the way all right, but I couldn’t put her at risk. Then I discovered the boy had plans of his own.

  ‘America,’ he said. ‘I have an uncle in America.’

  ‘He… he knew this was going to happen?’

  ‘No, it was always the plan, just in case he got ill or something,’ he said.

  ‘What about money?’

  ‘I have enough.’

  ‘They weren’t after money?’

  ‘No,’ he replied, looking forlornly at the bag hanging from my shoulder.

  14

  Nate watched them carry off his father’s sodden corpse and then joined the thinning crowd before it melted entirely away. Other than wishing the lad well there was little more I could do. He seemed a brave young man and given his skills and a fair chance would make a good life for himself in America. But fair chances seemed thin on the ground – there was a smouldering pile of rubble and a dead man to attest to that. And no sign of the men responsible – but would I know them if I saw them?

  Checking my watch, I yelled at the cabbie to hurry. There was not much time before the train left and I still had to collect my luggage from Brunel’s apartment. The thought of spending another day in this woeful town was not a prospect to be savoured.

  Throwing yesterday’s undergarments and the package into my trunk, I checked the apartment for stray items. Satisfied that I had everything I closed the window, but then as an afterthought returned to the bedroom, lifted Brunel’s scrapbook and slipped it under the leather straps on the trunk. Then, with trunk in one hand and carpet bag in the other, I tumbled down the stairs and into the street, locking the door behind me, the tag on the key by now reduced to nothing more than a tattered shred. I felt little better myself.

  *

  Any doubts I had about recognizing the men responsible for Wilkie’s death were immediately dispelled on my arrival at the station. The cab pulled up and while I was dragging my luggage out I saw them – just a flicker in the corner of my eye, like a crow flying past a window, but it was enough. I pushed the trunk back inside and pulled my right foot on to the step. Making as tho
ugh I was tying my shoelace and trying to appear as casual as possible, I canted my head towards them, brow pricked with sweat.

  Standing either side of the entrance, they were not especially imposing men and I wondered how much trouble Wilkie had given them. Their eyes were hidden beneath wide-brimmed hats, but from the regular turning of their heads it was apparent they were closely examining everyone who entered the station. There could be little doubt they were looking for me or, more precisely, the package in my bag.

  I had seen enough, but unfortunately so had they. Stepping back into the vehicle, I ordered the driver to get me as far away from the station as possible. The cab had now been on hire for some time and, not having yet seen the colour of my money, the cabbie not unreasonably refused to move off until I specified a destination.

  ‘The docks, man, to the docks,’ I spluttered, horrified at the sight of the sentinels, who were now making rapid headway towards the cab.

  ‘Back to the docks?’

  ‘The transatlantic dock. Take me to the American packet.’ The men were getting closer, and in their hurry were now pushing people out of the way. ‘Go! Move, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Keep your ’air on,’ replied the driver. ‘First you want the train to London, now you want the ship to America. Changeable fellow, ain’t yer?’

  The men were almost upon me. One of them had by now lost his hat, exposing eyes narrowed in determination and dark hair slicked back over his head.

  Just as I was about to leap out of the other side of the cab, the vehicle lurched forward. A well-placed flick of the crop on the horse’s flank pulled us out of reach of the lead man just as he placed an outstretched hand on the rim of the wheel. I looked back to see one of them left on the edge of the kerb, but the other, the wheel-grabber, was standing in the middle of the street, having given up on a last desperate sprint for the cab as it shot away. He was bent forward, his hands on his knees and his head shaking in frustration. I allowed myself a moment of satisfaction and sat back as we sped down the street.