Privilege Preserved (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 5)

by Andrew Wareham

  “The young master needs to be kept out of trouble, does he, Mr Murphy? No great surprise. A valiant soldier boy will always be standing to attention!”

  They laughed and exchanged nods.

  “His poor leg now, that don’t serve to limit him, you might say?”

  “Not at all, Mrs Hopkins, though it might make him a fraction less adventuresome in the bedroom, I would expect.”

  “No swinging from the chandeliers, I reckons, Mr Murphy!”

  They considered that activity, decided, in some technical detail, that it was unlikely.

  “Young Sybil, what works the downstairs, told me her big sister Dolly got thrown out of work at Mrs Partington’s in the village last week. A pretty blonde girl, our Dolly, and Mrs Partington’s got a son coming up for twenty or thereabouts…”

  “Might be she would consider taking a position as second upstairs girl here? A very fair wage and a few extras, no doubt, and a cottage of her own down the road Kettering way if anything should eventuate that needs her to set up as a widow woman with a youngster of her own.”

  “I shall just have a quiet word with our Sybil, Mr Murphy.”

  Dolly started work at the end of the week, smiling very kindly at the young master and managing, in a way that he thought was wholly unplanned, to fall into bed with him before Sunday was over despite his reservations about relations with the female staff.

  Murphy was impressed – for a country lass she was very well organised.

  Joseph set off on his travels to the North East, not too displeased with himself and with married life. He had achieved much in the previous couple of months towards his goal of establishing himself as a man in charge of his own future, or so he believed. Mary had waved him goodbye as the post-chaise had left their house, reconciled to her existence as a housewife for much of her days, or so it seemed to him.

  He had asked her to produce a series of drawings for his latest marine engine, one with a few innovations to meet the demands from the two yards. ‘Bilge pumps’ was the name captain Matthew Star had used, necessary because it seemed that iron-plated hulls let in more water than was the case with wooden construction. It had been quite easy, once he had been persuaded of the need, to design a steam feed from the boiler to a small pumping engine located at the deepest point of the hull, a distance of a very few feet away from the main plant. When the steam engineer saw water rising above the level of the inlet pipe he would merely have to engage the pump and watch as it took a suction and then ensure that he shut it down before it ran dry.

  It would be better, of course, if he could prevent the ingress of water in the first place. The problem seemed to be that the iron plates bent a little less than the wooden frames they were attached to, so small gaps, the merest fraction of an inch, opened and closed as the ship rolled and pitched to the waves. If the ship were to be constructed wholly of iron, now, that problem could not exist. Could one make wrought-iron frames, and would they be light enough to replace wood?

  Half of his first day’s journeying said that he could make the iron frames, but he almost certainly would not be able to persuade the ship to float. Too heavy, too bulky, difficult to transport as well. It would not be easy to construct the frames he needed at Roberts Foundry and then shift them to Liverpool or London.

  The ships would be wet then, for the foreseeable future. A pity but there was nothing to be done.

  What next? Bearings for paddle wheels, they needed be far stronger than the old axles they used for wagons and coal trucks. How could they be built better?

  Three days brought him to the old city of Newcastle, a handsome enough town and almost unspoiled by industry. The collieries and foundries were all on the outskirts of the town, a rapidly growing sprawl moving outwards, not impinging upon their betters in the clean centre.

  A hotel room for a few days, a few quick tours of the area, then a note to Mr Stephenson, begging the honour of an audience. He would know of Roberts, every engineer must, and the name of Andrews should be familiar, so one could expect a favourable response. He was used to dealing with the gentry as well; the Grand Allies who owned and ran the pits in the Newcastle area would have called him to their presence very frequently. Rumour insisted that they needed him, and they had been very supportive of him during the Miners’ Safety Lamp controversy.

  Mary had briefed him on the Safety Lamps, necessary if he was not to tread on Stephenson’s toes. The Royal Society, in London, had commissioned Sir Humphrey Davy, one of their own gentlemen and a fine scientist, to produce a lamp that could be used underground without exploding the gases given off by coal, as had happened only too frequently as the pits had delved deeper. The mine owners of the North East had asked Stephenson to look at the problem at much the same time and he had come up with a design that had been in the hands of a local manufacturer when Davy had published to great acclaim from the gentlefolk in London. In the nature of things, their solutions, using the latest of knowledge and technology, had been very similar and Davy’s supporters had instantly accused Stephenson of pirating his ideas, probably unaware that Stephenson had been a few weeks ahead of Davy.

  Davy was a gentleman, Stephenson had been born to a collier, had been illiterate until he was eighteen. It was obvious in London that the North Country peasant must have stolen his ideas; he could not have been the intellectual equal of one of their own kind.

  The Royal Society made an award of two thousand pounds to Davy. They gave Stephenson one hundred, presumably for being a jolly good second, which was all that a peasant was fit for, and sufficient they thought to keep him quiet. They were not too concerned about Stephenson’s claim - they were the ones who would write the history books.

  Stephenson was nearly forty, a big man, in his prime, and still speaking with a broad Northumberland accent. Joseph understood perhaps one word in three. Robert Stephenson, two or three years Joseph’s junior, was present and familiar with the problem.

  The son had received a formal education at the best local schools; their curriculum biased towards the Scots rather than the English, and was developing into an engineer and businessman in his own right. He was also his father’s amanuensis, providing him with skills of literacy that he was still uncomfortable with. Robert read books to his father and wrote letters at his dictation. He acted as mouthpiece for him on occasions, especially when he wanted to deal with those who only spoke the new Germanic ‘King’s’ English and who had no ear for the local dialect.

  A few minutes showed that George Stephenson and Joseph had little in common.

  George wanted locomotive engines that worked and cared not at all that they should be elegant or the best or the most advanced – his were to be simply the most practical. He was fully prepared to build trackways that combined locomotive and stationary engines and utilised horses where convenient – all he wanted was an effective way of moving goods and people from one place to another with a maximum of speed and a minimum of cost.

  Joseph had ideas and ideals in his brain. His visions were of trackways that would glorify modernity and new science. George had no visions at all, he simply wanted success.

  Joseph broached the matter of rails for the new trackways that were sure to come, was told that Roberts would be welcome indeed to sub-contract to any venture that the Stephensons might become involved in, that any ideas for them would be listened to, but that the final decision would always be made by George himself. There would be no question of any other firm building the tracks to their own design. For trucks, wagons, wheels, indeed any of the component parts of a trackway system, the same would apply, where Stephenson built then he would specify everything, down to the last nut and bolt.

  The final comment George made was that he was sure there would be a good profit for those who followed him, and those who did not wish to accept his lead might go their own way with his goodwill. It was a large country and there would be room for many different ideas and he would always watch others with interest, and he would alway
s be happy to talk with another engineer and, if it so happened, to buy his ideas and goods if they were shown to be better.

  It took Joseph some days of cogitation to realise that Stephenson was his match in self-confidence – he knew his own genius, had no doubts about it. The more he thought, the more he realised that Stephenson resembled his father, big, within reason quiet and utterly sure in his own judgement.

  He wrote a letter of thanks, as was only courteous, and expressed his hope that if Mr Stephenson should ever have the opportunity he would break a journey at Thingdon Hall or in London at his father’s house in Mount Street.

  “Those two old buggers would either get on or be at each other’s throats in five minutes,” he reflected. Either way would be interesting.

  Book Five: A Poor Man

  at the Gate Series

  Chapter Nine

  “Well, Henry, my boy, you know that you are always welcome at Freemans! I shall look forward to your correspondence and will expect to hear of your burgeoning success in your new yard on the great river.”

  A stilted speech, but the best he had been able to come up with. The boy had reached man’s estate, but had shown little evidence that he had grown up, he could not farewell him man to man.

  Lord Star shook his son’s hand as he stood by the gangplank of the ship taking him west.

  His mother had made her goodbyes to him at the front door, his brothers Matthew and Thomas had both been too busy to come down to the docks but had sat at dinner with him the previous evening. His sister Mary, Mrs Joseph Andrews, he must get used to that, stood by her father’s side, though Elizabeth was engaged with the family of her fiancé, Mr Armstrong, and was unable to be present. He had visited with Mark and Luke and Bob, but they had all had jobs of work to do, could not come to the quayside, losing the best part of a day.

  Henry found the correct words, thanked his father for his hospitality, smiled kindly at the pair. Going away thousands of miles and unlikely to be back again in a decade, he felt the family could have made a little more of an effort. Hardly Prodigal Son quality, when one considered the matter, one could have surmised that they still had doubts about him.

  He debated whether to feel hurt, but he really could not be bothered. He had had a successful trip, carried a very satisfactory contract in the portfolio under his arm and had laid the foundations he had hoped for, more than that he did not need. Skilled men from the Roberts yard would be coming out to the States within six months and he would be at liberty to use all of Roberts’ drawings in his own machine shop and all for very reasonable payments, so much so that his first thoughts were to actually pay the sums agreed rather than cook the books. In such circumstances he could tolerate a little of coldness in the bosom of his family.

  His father had as well asked him to keep an eye out for investment opportunities for the family, so he could not be seen as totally unwelcoming.

  The demand in England for leather was huge, as one possibility, and dressed hides would find a ready market. The French settlers along the Gulf Coast could be a source at a good price, although, being in a Spanish colony, they were legally obliged to send their produce to Spanish ports. Cattle had legs, he reflected, and might well be persuaded to use them to walk overland, a few hundreds at a time, to wharves on the American side of the poorly defined and unpatrolled border, there to be brought by sea to market in New Orleans, thus providing slave food as well, the beef probably being rather tough after all of that walking and bouncing about on a ship.

  Rafts of timber were already floated down the river to saw mills outside New Orleans and there was cheap cargo space on the eastbound ships after the bulk of the cotton was harvested each year. Sawn timber would always sell in England and products such as turpentine would be welcomed. He had wondered about alligator skins as well – cordwainers to the rich might well be interested.

  There were many opportunities for trade, and the family connections would make it easier for him to become involved. Star or Andrews would be easily able to find him an agent in Liverpool or London. He could see every prospect of riches in addition to those he would make from the shipyard. He could spend the dead time of the voyage west making his plans… and looking forward to his new life as a married man.

  There was no escape from the marriage, no possible way out, and there would have to be children. He supposed he could close his eyes and think of his bank accounts but he wondered if his future wealth might not be very dearly bought. It was not impossible, perhaps, that his wife might suffer an accident or illness, eventually, but she would have to remain at his side for several years of respectability if she was to achieve the access of riches that was the sole purpose for marrying her. Perhaps he might become accustomed to her after a few years; he shuddered at the prospect.

  William Rumpage sat in an open pew at St Dionysius Church, listening with every sign of interest and attention to the vicar’s sermon based on the Parable of the Talents. He was not displeased to be informed that the Lord approved of money-making and businessmen in general, but felt that it was not information of earth-shattering significance. More important was that the churchwarden had spoken to him earlier in the week to point out that one of the closed pews, those reserved for specific worshippers who could pay or were of the highest social standing, had come available on the death of the relict of the Hickock family.

  All except the aged grandmother had gone to America, Mr Hickock taking the family West rather suddenly a year after the war ended. It would seem that there had been some sort of accounting or audit at the Arsenal, where he had been a senior man, and he had found it wiser to be elsewhere, and there was no locally resident heir to inherit the pew. For fifty pounds down and a much smaller sum each year – a donation to church funds, not a fee, dear me, no – Mr Rumpage and his wife and his close kin could announce their status in the parish, rubbing shoulders with mayor and aldermen and the superior tradesman of the suburb.

  Closed pews were inherited unless the family died out or moved away and then they were made available by invitation, and their offer was no matter of mere chance. The rector would have taken advice of the parish worthies, the mayor particularly, and would have made a list of potential candidates for the honour. Consultation would then have taken place at a higher level, the dean at least to be spoken to, and he might well have whispered with the Bishop’s close advisers or with a local member to ensure that no political embarrassment might ensue. Mr Rumpage was approved of by the mighty, probably only because of his employer, but nonetheless, he was a man of significance in the locality now.

  Fifty pounds was a lot of money, but he had it to spare, aye and more besides, and Millicent would be so proud of him. He eased his high collar and smiled at her, wearing her Sunday face, closed and serious-seeming. He would do it, next Sunday would see a gate-boy opening up a pew for them; no need to tell her, it could be a surprise.

  Her parents could join them on occasion, but it would not do for them to appear every week, their status as bakers was not quite high enough, unless they chose to expand their business, opening up more tea-shops or baking more and making deliveries to the corner stores. He might just mention the possibility when next they dined together. He could invest five hundred pounds himself if his father-in-law should be interested and wished to buy additional premises and build an extra oven and put on a pony and trap for deliveries; it was only right that all of his new family should go up in the world with him.

  He retired to his little library, his home office, for the afternoon, his invariable Sunday habit, a pot of tea at his side. Cook and Millicent would spend the afternoon together, producing Sunday dinner, while he used the solitude as his own quiet time when he could think about the whole of the business and double-check his plans for the week coming and the months ahead.

  The yard on the South Coast was a racing certainty; there would definitely be one on Spithead or the Solent. He had a map, spread it out on the desk. First investigation had shown that paddle
steamers would be able to navigate the sheltered waters all of the way from Poole to Portsmouth and Cowes and Southampton and that there was a busy passenger and coastal trade there and a use for tugging boats as well for the Atlantic traders. It seemed quite likely that there would be a call for larger steamers to work the Channel Coast round to London, possibly even to cross the narrow waters to France.

  The sole question was whether to buy land in Portsmouth harbour or to spend far less money on twice the acreage on the shores of the Itchen at Southampton. The old port of Southampton was decayed, almost derelict, as was the whole town, in fact, but it had access to rich farming land and the ancient canal to Winchester was still open. There was a potential for trade to London where the demand for fresh foodstuffs was ever-growing, and a yard building steamships might cause that trade to come about, and so create a demand for more steamships.

  Thinking it through and taking one thing with another, Southampton was the better bet. He would tell my lord and Mr Richard so when he spoke to them next week.

  He realised as he made a slow written summary of his reasons that they would almost certainly accept his suggestion, that they would probably just take it as a decision made for them. They trusted him almost without question. It was a heady feeling. They would never find William Rumpage letting them down!

  What next?

  There was talk of making a steam dredger to clear the wharves of the bigger companies along the Thames. The river was forever silting up and small boats working by hand with buckets on ropes were to be seen everywhere – slow, inefficient, not very effective. A dredger was a good idea, if it could be made to work, and that was a question he could not answer. A letter to Captain Matthew Star was needed here, and he no doubt would talk long with Mr Joseph. An hour of painstaking penmanship and the letter was done, beautiful and clear to read in his Dame School copperplate. The office-boy could take that to the post in the morning.