The Minutes of the Lazarus Club

by Tony Pollard

  There was an almost encyclopædic spectrum of subjects recorded in the minutes, and if ever they were published they would make a fascinating contribution to scientific endeavour. It would have come as no surprise if this was what Brodie had in mind when he appropriated them.

  But I had little time to ponder my superior’s motives, as the minutes would have to be returned to his office before his arrival in the morning. Accordingly, I concentrated on the task of leafing through the pages and studying their contents. Eventually I came to the two meetings I had missed while attending my ailing father. The first had been given by Gurney, who had spoken on ‘horseless carriages and the use of steam as a means of locomotion on roads’. There seemed to be little here of relevance. The second presentation, however, immediately caught my attention, not least because it had been given by Brunel himself, just days before his departure to Egypt.

  Those listed as present at the meeting were Ockham, the asterisk next to his name indicating that he had been minute-keeper on that occasion, Russell, Catchpole, Whitworth, Perry, Brodie, Babbage, Gurney, Hawes and Stephenson. A pretty full house, I thought.

  The subject of Brunel’s talk was not the great ship, nor his bridges, railways, tunnels, nor any of the other grand creations for which he was renowned, but something described as ‘the prolongation of organ function through mechanical means’. The implication of this evaded me until I was some way advanced in my reading of Ockham’s gratifyingly thorough notes. In his talk, Brunel outlined a proposal for the construction of a mechanical organ that would entirely mimic its organic counterpart. The organ selected for such revolutionary treatment was the heart, and what followed was page after page on how an artificial counterpart could be constructed from metal and other materials.

  Based on information provided by our medical colleagues, including Sir Benjamin and Mr Henry Gray but most particularly Dr Phillips, it has become apparent that the double-valve construction of the human heart can be replicated mechanically. The organ is essentially a pump, a piece of machinery familiar to engineers, and as such operates in a manner known to us. I propose to use a quadruple system of interconnecting cup pistons to serve the function of the four cavities of the heart, which is to push the venous expended blood from the body into the lungs and then, once arterialized by the lungs, to push the life-giving fluid back into the body through the pulmonary artery. The prototype device operates through a clockwork system, which will allow continuous motion maintained by regular rewinding of the driving spring.

  Madness, I thought, absolute madness. How on earth did he propose to link this lump of metal with the organic elements of the human body? On the basis of our current understanding of biology such a proposal was entirely unfeasible. How I wished Brunel were here so that I might set him straight. But then again perhaps this was why he had elected to unveil his device or at least his proposal for its construction at a meeting from which I would be absent?

  On reading further, however, I discovered that Sir Benjamin had done just that, and had refused to be drawn into such an ill-conceived project so obviously doomed to failure. And when pressed on the issue it appeared Brunel himself had admitted that although based on sound mechanical principles his project was unachievable on the basis of present technology, though he argued that the shortfalls lay within the world of medicine rather than engineering. This did not, however, appear to have prevented him from putting his ideas into action, and although they showed little in the way of detail a couple of thumbnail sketches in the minutes left no doubt as to the intended purpose of the pieces in the package.

  Some further recognition of the difficulties involved was provided by a passage scribbled on the back of the last sheet, again in Ockham’s hand. I could only surmise that this was something Brunel himself had said during the presentation:

  The materials at present within my command hardly appeared adequate to so arduous an undertaking, but I doubted not that I should ultimately succeed. I prepared myself for a multitude of reverses; my operations might be incessantly baffled, and at last my work be imperfect: yet when I considered the improvement which every day takes place in science and mechanics, I was encouraged to hope my present attempts would at least lay the foundations of future success.

  Then, in a margin, perhaps written as a riposte to someone who came close to sharing my own view on Brunel’s ideas:

  I am not recording the vision of a madman.

  By eleven o’clock I had transcribed almost the entire record of Brunel’s presentation into my own notebook. Satisfied that there was nothing else to be gained from poring over these pages I set about returning the satchel and its contents to Brodie’s office. There seemed little point in risking the return of the key to the security box, requiring as it would another exercise in distraction. In any case, it was only a spare key so it seemed unlikely that its disappearance would be discovered for a while, and when it was, there would be no reason to suspect I was responsible.

  I took a very late, but well-earned, supper at my club and over a nightcap continued to mull over the results of a good night’s work. In addition to understanding more fully the history of the Lazarus Club it was now clear that the contents of the package for which Wilkie had been murdered were parts of a mechanical heart. Also clear was the fact that Brunel had been working on the idea for a long while, with construction work beginning some time before his presentation on the device to the Lazarus Club. Some pieces of the jigsaw had fallen into place but I suspected that I would have to delve further back in time than the occasion of Brunel’s presentation to fully understand what lay behind all of this. I called for another brandy but it was history lessons that were the order of the day.

  21

  The engineer had been away for the best part of four months and still there was no word of his return. Far removed from events in London he may have been, but while on his travels Brunel carried with him not just a steamer trunk full of cigars but also the ability to shed much-needed light on my recent misadventures.

  I had abandoned the idea of setting out in pursuit of the man almost as soon as it entered my head. The telegraph had yet to extend to Egypt and so there was no rapid means of communicating with him even if I had known his exact whereabouts. In fact, it seemed likely that he had been steered in the direction of Egypt for this very reason, as it would make it impossible for him to be pestered by his colleagues at home and, just as importantly, vice versa.

  Recent events had shown that no less than two parties were prepared to go to drastic lengths to take possession of Brunel’s creation; the prize for commitment, though, most definitely went to my friends from Bristol, who had demonstrated that they were prepared to kill for it, while their competitors had up until now extended only to common burglary. Ironically, it was the housebreakers who had thus far carried the day, though why anyone should go to such lengths to obtain a device so obviously unfit for purpose was beyond me. Having read the minutes I was now convinced, whatever their motives, that both groups included one or more members of the club, for how else could they have learned of Brunel’s proposal? Despite a warning from the chair man to keep myself out of the business I had made it my mission to identify those behind the crimes and in doing so to exact vengeance for Wilkie, whose life had been so cruelly taken, and to locate Brunel’s fantastical device.

  With little hope of communication with the engineer it came as something of a surprise to have a letter from him fall on to my doormat not long after reading the minutes. The single page, bearing the letterhead of the Royal Alexandria hotel in Cairo, was dated 15 April 1859 – three weeks previously.

  Dear Phillips,

  I trust this letter finds you well. Despite earlier misgivings the trip thus far has been a most interesting one and I am now almost grateful to those who insisted that I venture on it. From southern France we took a steamer to Alexandria – an ancient city port founded by the man who at the age of just 32 had conquered more lands than Napoleon could ever dream of
. The crossing of the Mediterranean was a memorable experience, as our vessel fell victim to one of those unforgiving tempests the French call the Mistral. But they say everything happens for a reason, and it provided me with an ideal opportunity to assess the behaviour of our vessel in heavy seas. I positioned myself on the wheel box, where it was necessary to tie myself to the ship in order to prevent being washed overboard. From there I observed the pitch and roll of the vessel and was able to measure both the force of the wind and the size of the waves. All of this while my good doctor was confined to his bed with a bout of what for a while looked like terminal mal de mer, all most amusing!

  From Alexandria we sailed on to Cairo, from where I write this letter. We are freshly returned from our expedition up the Nile, for which purpose I hired a local vessel known as a dahabeah, which accommodated our entire party in some comfort. Unfortunately, though, this vessel was unable to carry us to our destination, as it was incapable of navigating the various cataracts which punctuate the upper reaches of that great river. Not to be defeated I purchased a more resilient date boat and had cabins constructed on her (if only completion of the ship had been accomplished so quickly). We were able to tow and almost carry the boat through the rapids and so at last reached Luxor and spent several exhilarating days exploring the monuments there. Here we saw the most impressive sight, a great temple constructed from hundreds of vast stone columns, each of them decorated with the most fascinating designs and the ancient writing style they call hieroglyphs. On the other side of the river lies Thebes and the mountain valleys behind which they say are peppered with the tombs of the ancient kings of Egypt.

  But the greatest wonders are here at Giza, just outside the bustling city of Cairo. The pyramids are wonders indeed to behold, each of them constructed from great blocks of stone hewn with nothing more than the most primitive of tools. It humbles an engineer of our own age to see of what great works man was capable all those many centuries ago. What labours must have been required to move all of the hundreds of thousands of tons of stones from their quarries and then to build them into those soaring man-made mountains? I have learned much and intend to study these ancient peoples more thoroughly upon my return.

  By the by, should you be starved of worthwhile conversation until then (I jest), might I suggest you seek out Mr Ockham, who although usually quite reticent in our meetings is actually a fascinating fellow and I regret not having taken the opportunity to introduce you properly at the club. You might also give him the Bristol package, which once again I thank you for taking care of. He will know what needs to be done with it and will be grateful to take receipt.

  Your friend,

  Isambard Kingdom Brunel

  At last, I thought, some useful information! It was the last paragraph, apparently added as a mere afterthought, which served to guide my hand, and determined me to set out on a course of action to which I had already given some thought. I was keen to meet with Mr, or should I say, Lord Ockham, not for the purpose of idle conversation and even less so to hand over the package, if it had still been mine to give, but to get some answers from him. For since reading the minutes and his marginalia it had become impossible to think about the contraption without bringing this enigmatic character to mind – and Brunel’s request that I surrender the package to him had only served to strengthen this connection between the man and the metal.

  Despite Brunel’s testimonial it remained to be seen whether I could remove Ockham from my list of suspects. He had also written that everything happens for a reason, and so it seemed to have been when, almost on a whim, I had, all those months ago, followed him to the shipyard – for now I needed to find him and knew where to look.

  The launch attempt had been a piece of tragic theatre but the painted backdrop of the ship had long before today been cut down to reveal the river and the skyline of the south shore beyond. The stage was still there, though; the hundreds of thick wooden beams, many of them supporting the iron rails along which she made her painful, jolting journey down into the water. It had taken ninety days and most of the hydraulic jacks in England to get the ship into the river and even then she entered unwillingly, finally slipping into the water like a lazy woman nudged out of bed.

  A year and more after the anti-climactic launch, debris from that desperate enterprise remained scattered across the waterfront; lengths of cable and chain, broken barrels, and stacks of timber that had once formed the scaffolding which climbed up the ship’s side. The carcasses of several broken jacks also remained, the strain of pushing against the ship’s dead weight having burst their lungs. Back then people had been everywhere; today the yard and the river beyond were almost entirely devoid of humanity.

  Aside from the open gates the only landmarks to remain were the sheds positioned on either side of the yard, and I hoped once again to find Ockham in one of them, dressing iron or polishing steel, or whatever it was he did when he was playing at being someone else. But like the yard the sheds had been stripped of their human swarm.

  One of the few men left inside was busy nailing closed a large wooden crate but was happy to answer my query about Ockham’s whereabouts. He had, along with the rest of the workforce, migrated to the ship, where the assembly of the engines and all the other fixtures and fittings was nearing completion.

  ‘Try your luck over there,’ he said, pointing towards the far end of the shed, where a group of men were silhouetted in an open door, through which they were pushing a trolley carrying yet more crates.

  By the time I reached the door they had made it as far as a cobbled slipway, which in turn gave way to a wooden jetty. A steam barge was moored alongside, with yet more crates stacked on its deck. The master of the vessel agreed to take me out to the ship and offload me with his cargo.

  The Great Eastern was anchored a few hundred yards downstream from the yard. With a third of her hull submerged one would have expected the ship to look smaller in the water, but out here away from the shore the effect was entirely the opposite. While on land the ship had shared the landscape with buildings, people and all those other human points of scale, but out here on the river she occupied a world of her own and so was immeasurable, unless of course another vessel sat alongside. The five smoke stacks rose up like great cylindrical watchtowers atop an impregnable fortress. Fore and aft of the funnels and in the spaces between were the masts which when fully rigged would carry enough sail to propel the ship in the event of engine failure or increase her speed by harnessing the wind as well as steam. There were six of them, each, I was told, named after a day of the week, from Monday to Saturday, as they ran from fore to aft. When asked what happened to Sunday the crewman’s stock reply was, ‘There’s no Sunday at sea.’

  As the barge drew nearer, I saw the gantries of cranes and windlasses untangle themselves from the masts and their rigging. Down on the waterline other barges bobbed like corks alongside the hull, their cargoes in the process of being lifted up on to the big ship’s deck. A great cogwheel, much like the one I had seen Ockham working on months before, was suspended about halfway up the wall of the hull, inching its way upwards on the end of two sturdy ropes. Industry on such a vast scale brought to mind the achievements of the pyramid builders described by Brunel in his letter, with the ship surely a worthy successor to those magnificent stone monuments.

  The barge came alongside a platform from where several flights of wooden steps rose up to the deck, and I disembarked and began my climb up to the deck. The steps took me close to the huge blades of the paddle wheel, which had yet to turn a single revolution.

  Reaching the top, I was once again astonished by the scale of things – it would have been possible to drive a pair of coaches side by side along the entire length of the deck. The funnels protruded through the roofs of low cabins which ran down the centre of the ship and which I was soon to discover were designed not to accommodate passengers but the wheelhouse, the captain’s quarters, animal pens and foyers for the great stairways which led down into th
e ship.

  The deck was a hive of activity. Gangs of men worked the cranes, at least two of which were steam-operated. One loaded crates on to the deck and another had been erected over an open hole and was busy lowering machine parts, I presumed for the engines, down into the belly of the ship. Men were painting the funnels and the masts, suspended from slings and ropes on the former or clinging to the rigging of the latter. Guessing that I would find Ockham with the engines, I set out to find a way below but did not get far along the deck before a voice called my name. I immediately recognized Russell’s stubborn Scottish brogue. ‘Dr Phillips. A surprise to see you aboard.’

  I rolled out a smile and turned to return his greeting. ‘Mr Russell, I should have expected to see you here, of course. A very fine ship you have.’

  Russell was followed by a pair of harassed-looking assistants, one of whom was scratching something into a large notebook, while the other carried a roll of plans.

  ‘And what brings you on board, doctor?’ asked Russell.

  I had not taken the precaution of thinking up an excuse, but Russell generously provided me with one: ‘Couldn’t wait for Brunel to get back and give you a guided tour, eh?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I replied with as much levity as I could muster. ‘As a matter of fact he had told me that in his absence Mr Ockham would provide the service. Would you happen to know where I might find him?’

  ‘I would normally be happy to take you to him, but on this occasion I’m afraid that would be entirely out of the question.’ He smiled at my puzzled expression and added, ‘But I can show you where he is. Come over here.’ Russell strode over to the railings. Standing beside him, I followed his gaze down on to the water, and seeing an unusual-looking barge below us expected him to tell me that Ockham was on it.