by Tony Pollard
Darwin scowled. ‘Let us make a bargain, sir. You won’t ask me about that damned book and I will refrain from enquiring about your ship.’
‘Very well,’ said Brunel with a nod. ‘Let us change the subject.’
Clearly eager to do so, Darwin turned to me. ‘You are a physician, Dr Phillips?’
‘A surgeon at St Thomas’s hospital.’
‘A surgeon, eh? You know, I started out studying medicine at Edinburgh University.’
‘Really? Why, so did I. But you didn’t become a doctor?’
He shook his head. ‘Couldn’t stand it. All those dissections made me feel quite ill. Which brings me on to another matter… Perhaps, doctor, I could have a quiet word with you?’
Request made, he pushed a hand into the small of my back and steered me away from Brunel and Hawes. ‘If you will excuse us, gentlemen.’
Backing me into a window alcove, where I became his captive audience, Darwin began to recite a litany of medical complaints. Nausea, stomach reflux, back pain – the whole gamut. While he was speaking I glanced over his shoulder and was surprised to see that Brunel and Hawes had been joined by another; surprised because the gentleman in question was none other than Sir Benjamin, and he did not look a happy man. He was talking in what looked to be heated terms to Brunel, who, as usual, was in the process of lighting up a cigar. Trying my best to ignore my superior’s unexpected presence, I returned my attention to Mr Darwin’s catalogue of woes.
‘And then there is the dizziness,’ said the man, who on the basis of his own diagnosis seemed to be suffering from every ailment known to medicine.
But Sir Benjamin was not to be ignored for long. ‘Gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘Now we are all present can we please take our seats and get started.’
Disappointed at the curtailment of his recitation, Darwin shrugged his shoulders and led the way to the table, where chair legs scraped against the floorboards as the assembled company took their places. I picked a vacant chair situated as far away from Sir Benjamin as possible. Brunel, who for some reason seemed very pleased with himself, sat opposite me, while Mr Russell, who appeared to have put his outburst at the yard behind him, settled himself next to Brunel, nodding at me solemnly as he opened a leather satchel and took out a stack of papers.
Aside from Brunel, Sir Benjamin, Russell, and now Hawes and Darwin, everyone in the room was a stranger to me. But one man in particular caught my attention, and not just because of his relative youth, for he could have been no more than twenty-five years old. I am by no means a follower of fashion, but there could be no ignoring the quality of his wardrobe, his neck wrapped in a cravat of watered silk, the bib of his waistcoat tastefully detailed with silver thread and the well-cut frock coat lined with the finest red satin. The young man also marked himself out by standing somewhat aloof from the rest of the company and was the last to be seated, hanging back while the chairs were pulled out from the table and then, like a guest unafraid of losing out in a parlour game, casually taking the last seat available.
Sir Benjamin noisily cleared his throat before bringing the assembly to order. ‘Gentlemen,’ he barked. ‘It gives me great pleasure tonight to introduce a most illustrious guest, who I am sure will be known to most of you.’
There was a general nodding of heads. ‘Mr Darwin has for many years been pioneering a most exciting new branch of natural science, and I am very pleased that, in advance of his much anticipated lecture to the Royal Society, he has agreed to provide a preview to our own, shall I say rather more select, group.’
A ripple of laughter followed this last comment, while he threw me an imperious glance. ‘Before we begin, it is only proper that we reciprocate the introduction, especially as I see we have a new face at the table this evening.’
Sir Benjamin directed his attention to the man seated to his left and from there began working his way clockwise around the table.
‘Among the achievements of Mr Joseph Whitworth,’ he announced, ‘are of course his great guns and other armaments, but we should not forget his other achievements, among which are the many machine tools without which we would have none of the mechanical wonders with which we are now familiar.’
Then, continuing his impersonation of a venerable grandfather clock, the old man moved his outstretched hand to the two o’clock position, prompting the fellow sitting there to straighten his back in anticipation of his turn. ‘Samuel Perry is a representative of Blyth’s shipyard, which is renowned for its products the world over.’ Russell, sitting at three o’clock, was then described as perhaps the most accomplished shipbuilder working today, which raised a frown from Brunel. But his ego was quickly repaired when on reaching four o’clock Sir Benjamin described him as the most versatile engineer the world had ever known.
Five o’clock was occupied by a gentleman who appeared to be of similar age to Sir Benjamin, a man whom Brunel had greeted warmly while taking his seat. This pleasant-looking fellow turned out to be none other than Sir Robert Stephenson, who was renowned as a pioneer of the railway – or at least that was how Sir Benjamin put it.
The man sitting at the end of the table, in the six o’clock position, was of a slightly older vintage than anyone else. From his silver hair and well-lined face I would have put him somewhere in his seventies, though despite his advanced years there could be no denying he was an animated fellow, so much so that I guessed him to be of a highly nervous disposition, forever scratching his forehead and mumbling to himself. Brodie introduced him as ‘Mr Charles Babbage, inventor of the difference engine’.
I was still wondering what in the blazes a difference engine might be when Old Father Time moved on to seven o’clock and gestured towards the person seated to my right. ‘Mr Joseph Bazalgette, who, as Chief Engineer of the Metropolitan Board of Works, will, we hope, soon be tasked with constructing a new sewer system under the streets of London, an epic undertaking which hopefully will serve to return the River Thames to its former glory and, more importantly, have a major effect on the health of this great city’s population.’
Seated between Bazalgette and myself was Goldsworthy Gurney. According to Sir Benjamin he had once been a medical doctor but then turned to inventing. Among his creations were a steam carriage and the gas jet which when played over limestone creates the bright light used to illuminate the theatrical stage. I was later to learn from Stephenson that he had adapted Gurney’s gas jet as a means of propelling his now legendary steam engine, the Rocket.
The title of Mr Nine O’Clock fell to me, but just as Sir Benjamin began to introduce me his voice was accompanied by the sound of an accordion wheezing into life in the street below us. Before more than three notes had been played Babbage was on his feet, charging towards the window. After thrusting his head and shoulders out through the casement he bellowed at the hapless musician below: ‘Cease with that infernal racket and be off, you pestilent menace!’
There was an equally colourful riposte from the busker, who, undaunted by this verbal assault, continued with the next few bars of a jaunty tune, which to my untutored ear sounded like a sea shanty.
In response, Babbage charged back to the table and picked up a half-full decanter of wine before returning to the window and dashing the liquid down on to the head of the accordion player. The music stopped and there was further remonstration from below, where the musician sounded not a little upset to find it raining claret. ‘Be thankful I do not have a chamber pot at hand!’ retorted an unapologetic Babbage before closing the window and returning to his seat. ‘A man cannot go anywhere in this town without having his ears assailed by some instrument of torture!’
While I was mildly horrified and not a little amused by what I’d just seen, most of my companions seemed entirely uninterested in Babbage’s behaviour, acting as though it were nothing out of the ordinary – only Brunel responded, rolling his eyes and muttering, ‘Here we go again.’
Babbage remained in his seat but was not to be distracted from his tirade. ‘I
had a full brass band outside my house the other day. They played for three solid hours and refused to disperse, even when I got the police on to them.’
‘I wonder why they picked on your house?’ pondered Brunel mischievously. ‘It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you have tried to get street music banned in the metropolis, I suppose?’
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen!’ cried Brodie, impatiently banging his fist gavel-like against the table. ‘Can we please return to the matter in hand?’
‘My apologies, sir,’ said Babbage, reining in his temper. ‘Please continue – if you can hear yourself think over that racket, of course.’
‘Thank you for closing the window,’ offered a placatory Sir Benjamin. ‘It has reduced the noise to a far more acceptable level. Now where was I? Ah, yes. Dr George Phillips is a fellow medical man, and one of our leading tutors at St Thomas’s.’
I had no complaints with this appraisal and was grateful that, perhaps distracted by Babbage’s outburst, he had passed over me as rapidly as possible. But then Brunel piped up from across the table, ‘Dr Phillips is here at my invitation. He has much to teach us about his trade,’ then added, as he glanced at Russell’s notes, ‘I also believe he may have another valuable service to offer us.’
Before Brunel could explain what this might be the irascible Sir Benjamin interjected, ‘Very interesting, Mr Brunel. Now, if we could please move on. We have been delayed quite enough.’
Gesturing towards ten o’clock, he identified the well-dressed young man next to me as Mr Ockham, and then after an awkward pause, as though he were struggling to find anything more to say about him, ‘who is currently serving on Mr Brunel’s staff’.
Moving swiftly along, we arrived at eleven o’clock. This position was occupied by an impressively broad-backed gentleman, who from the lines on his face I guessed to be around fifty years old, though his dark beard betrayed not a trace of grey. He was almost as well dressed as Ockham but his fashion sense was far more conservative. ‘Horatio, Lord Catchpole,’ began Sir Benjamin, ‘is perhaps best known as one of our nation’s most successful industrialists, owning a number of cotton mills in the north of England. He has done much to encourage technological innovation in industry, and his factories boast the latest machines.’
‘How are those new loom drivers working out?’ asked a cheery Whitworth, who was either oblivious to or uncaring about Sir Benjamin’s disapproving stare.
‘Very well,’ replied Lord Catchpole. ‘Production has increased by more than 15 per cent since we had them installed. How’s that money I paid you for them working out?’
‘Very well, though my bank balance has been reduced by 30 per cent since I started spending it!’
Once the laughter had subsided, Sir Benjamin left the floor to Darwin and seated himself in the vacant chair at what should perhaps have been twelve o’clock but due to the presence of the speaker sat halfway between it and eleven. No doubt relieved at last to get going, Darwin pulled a sheaf of papers from his inside pocket and placed them on the table before him. ‘Gentlemen, what I would like to do this evening is give you an introduction to my theory of evolution by means of natural selection, which will be the subject of a forthcoming book’ – he threw a glance at Brunel, who smiled sympathetically – ‘and also, as Sir Benjamin has already mentioned, the subject of a talk soon to be given to the Royal Society. If you do not mind I would like to take the opportunity of using the comments or questions you may have to iron out any shortcomings beforehand.’
The speech that followed was strong and confident, and his general bearing had little in common with the sickly individual he had earlier described to me. Only rarely did he refer to his notes. Here was a man who had spent many years pondering the great questions in life and had profited from the rehearsal of ideas inside his own head. On the few occasions that my attention slipped I looked across to see Russell scribbling frantically on his collection of papers. He was transcribing the talk, but no matter how rapidly his writing hand moved, he was finding it difficult to keep up with Darwin’s words. His mouth was twisted in concentration and every now and again he shook his wrist in an attempt to wring out the cramp.
In the course of his talk Darwin put forward the hypothesis that the human race had developed – or evolved, as he put it – through a series of changes and adaptations, from the lower orders, most specifically the apes. Differences could, he explained, be thrown up by any species through the course of sexual reproduction. Some of these may be advantageous to the survival of that species and be passed on as hereditary traits through later generations while others may not be so and are therefore quickly abandoned as they die off. As a country boy I knew that Darwin was right when he told us that farmers had been exploiting this phenomenon for generations, by selectively breeding livestock displaying the profitable characteristics of greatest size and meat yield.
I had also seen examples of such differences in my own work. Indeed, the anatomy museum at the hospital contained several specimens of unfortunate mutations, the most striking of which was a newborn with two heads, one growing out of the other, their china-white faces permanently frozen into an expression of surprised injustice. Until now I had considered this and other malformations merely as unfortunate aberrations, mistakes in nature’s grand scheme of things, but if Darwin was right, then these variations were all part of the process of evolution. In short, success bred success while failure was likely as not to end up in a specimen jar or, in times long ago, trapped in rock as the fossilized remains of extinct species.
The end of the talk was greeted with a warm round of applause. Darwin wiped his brow with a handkerchief, where the appearance of a few well-earned beads of perspiration would likely as not be self-diagnosed as the first symptoms of typhus.
Sir Benjamin, still clapping, rose to his feet. ‘Thank you, Charles, a very thought-provoking talk. Now, with your permission, I would like to open the floor to questions.’
Darwin nodded and pocketed his dampened handkerchief.
Bazalgette was the first to speak. ‘Mr Darwin, how do you see your argument that we are descended from the apes being received by the Church?’
‘As heresy and blasphemy, of course,’ replied Darwin with a nervous smile.
Bazalgette was about to speak again, but Whitworth beat him to it. ‘And where does the Church stand on this issue of change occurring over such long periods of time?’
Darwin let out a snort of laughter. ‘Well, as those of you with some knowledge of theology will know, Bishop Usher has calculated, by counting back through the generations mentioned in the Bible, that the world was created just over 4,000 years ago. This is obviously arrant nonsense. As far back as the middle of the last century naturalists such as Buffon in France came to recognize that the world must be much older than was traditionally thought, and from recent advances in our understanding of geology there seems little doubt that the world must be hundreds of thousands if not millions of years old.’
And so the questions continued. There were a few minor challenges to his thesis, but Darwin had done his work well and the response was broadly favourable. Whether the same benevolent reaction awaited him at the Royal Society remained to be seen.
Half an hour or so into the discussion Sir Benjamin made to wind things up. Standing once again, he hovered beside the table like a waiter eager to remove a finished bowl of soup. But then, just as he was about to begin his summing up, I pitched in with my own question, an act of bravado which naturally earned a disapproving frown.
‘Sir, do you regard the evolution of species and most particularly the human species as an ongoing process, which may see us taking on a very different appearance many years from now?’
‘A good question,’ said Darwin, but as the answer required no pause for thought I guessed it was not the first time it had been asked. ‘Evolution will only proceed if advantageous changes occur. I believe that, as humans, we have reached a point where we are ideally attuned to o
ur world. Therefore I believe that further changes are surplus to requirement. If, however, an external stimulus, such as a dramatic change in our environment, were to place the species as it stands in a less advantageous position, then it is in the interest of the species to meet these new challenges through the medium of evolution.’
Interjecting before anyone else had the chance to do so, Sir Benjamin said, ‘If you don’t mind, Charles, with that point I think we need to draw an end to tonight’s proceedings. It just remains for me to ask for a show of appreciation for such a stimulating presentation.’
There was another round of applause, coming from all but Russell, who at long last was able to put down his pencil and rub the life back into his hand. ‘Splendid job,’ said Brunel, collecting the papers together and stuffing them into the leather satchel.
‘Never again,’ said Russell, massaging his wrist. ‘We really must get a secretary.’
Brunel smiled. ‘Couldn’t agree more, old chap,’ and then, looking over to me, ‘That’s where our friend Phillips comes in.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I asked.
Brunel fastened the strap on the satchel and stood up. ‘I want you to be our permanent secretary.’
This was one assumption too far. ‘You might have asked me first.’
‘I just have. What do you say?’
‘I am afraid,’ I said, looking to Sir Benjamin, ‘that I am far too busy to be taking on duties outside the hospital.’
‘You mean to tell me you wouldn’t like to come along to more of our meetings? I know Russell here hasn’t been the best advert for the job, but it would be different for you.’
‘I don’t understand how.’
‘Doctor, I’ve seen your case notes,’ he said, smiling as a frown betrayed my recollection of this incident. ‘Fascinating as they were, I wasn’t just being nosy that day in your office. I wanted to see whether you were up to the job. They were clear and, most importantly, they left no observation unrecorded. Well, at least that was the impression they gave in my brief reading of them. It’s a rare talent; you’re a natural-born secretary, Phillips.’
