by Tony Pollard
Ockham’s pencil hung in mid-air for a while as the draughtsman assured himself that nothing was missing. Just to make certain, he lifted up one corner of the top sheet and tutted when a small detail on the original failed to show up on the copy. The sheet was pressed flat again and the error rectified with a last flourish of the pencil. ‘Finished,’ he announced.
‘Time to get out of here.’
Ockham rolled up the copy and returned the original to the drawer while I checked the floor for any stray fragments of shirt. Only then did it dawn on me that the muddy footprints I had gone to such great lengths to wipe from the floor would also be marking our route along the rooftop. Anyone looking out of the window the following day would be sure to see the evidence of our visit. There was nothing else for it – we would have to remove as much as we could on our return trip. With the lamp snuffed out I pulled open the window shutters and scrambled, shoes in hand, back out on to the roof, which, I was delighted to discover, was at that moment being pelted by cleansing rain. Concerned that the results of his labours not be washed away with the mud I whispered back to Ockham, ‘Make sure that drawing is covered.’
Following me, Ockham pulled the window down and used the chisel to flick the latch back into the locked position. Back on the ground we put our shoes on and returned the ladder to its original hiding-place. This time it was my turn to sneak a peek around the corner of the building and check that the coast was clear. The caution was merited, as the dark silhouette of the watchman was framed in the doorway of the hut, the lamp inside throwing his long shadow across the ground in front of the gate. Even though he was facing across the yard there was still a good chance of making it back to the boat without him seeing us, but I was not prepared to take the risk and so waited for him to return to the comfort of his modest abode. My patience was soon rewarded, and the sentinel turned and walked back inside, buttoning his fly as he went. Rather than brave the rain the uncouth fellow had relieved himself on his own doorstep.
The tide had turned and we found the boat fully afloat and testing the strength of its mooring. Pulling the craft to the shore, Ockham climbed aboard and sat down, taking the strain with the oars as I pushed off. The rain hitting the river sounded like a great curtain swishing backward and forward on its rail and provided a shielding counterpoint to the rhythmic slap of the oars. Rivulets of water dripped down our shirtless torsos but the discomfort was counteracted by a sense of euphoria induced by the success of our mission. Heading back to the ship with the drawing in our possession, I felt like a bandit returning to his mountain lair. I pulled a sodden mass of rags from the bag and tossed it into the river, where the knot of dirty fabric began to unravel in the current.
Back on board ship we dried off and warmed ourselves with brandy. The past few hours had taken their toll and so, with the drawing safely stowed, I was grateful to be shown to the cabin in which I would spend my first night on board Brunel’s Great Eastern.
25
The last thing a doctor wants is to be a patient in his own hospital. But that was exactly what I had become by the evening of the day after our adventure in Russell’s yard.
Announcing its arrival with a tingling in the throat, the chill had wasted no time in taking up residence in my chest, where it developed into a debilitating cough accompanied by a raging fever. It did not take a doctor to identify the cause of this rapid decline in my health – the drenching I had received in the boat, exacerbated by the lack of a shirt, had brought on the most dreadful bronchial inflammation. No stranger to fever, Florence recognized my symptoms immediately and, ignoring my pleas to soldier on, soon had me confined to a bed in one of the wards. Spending most of my life surrounded by sickness and remaining healthy throughout, I had come to consider myself immune to the ailments to which the general populace fall victim. My arrogance was about to receive a considerable shock to the immune system.
For eight days I slipped in and out of consciousness. Whenever I came round it was to find someone mopping my brow and pushing a cup of hydrating broth to my lips. Then, surfacing for the umpteenth time, I looked up to see Florence standing over me.
‘Glad to see you are still with us, Dr Phillips’ – her use of my full title indicated the presence of a third party – ‘you have a visitor. I was going to send him away but he seems to have picked his time well. Your fever has broken.’
I turned to see Brunel standing on the other side of the bed, his mouth for once uncluttered by a cigar. ‘They won’t let me smoke in here,’ he grumbled. ‘I don’t see why not: the cigar is surely an excellent fumigator.’
Florence plumped my pillow as I tried to pull myself up on the bed. The task left me feeling quite exhausted. ‘Good to see you, too, Isambard,’ I wheezed.
‘You had us all very worried, but Miss Nightingale informs me that the worst is over.’
Florence placed a cool hand against my forehead and seemed satisfied that her judgement had not been premature. ‘Now the fever has broken I think you will be better off recuperating at home.’
‘I could not agree with you more, Miss Nightingale; a hospital is far too unhealthy a place for a man in his condition,’ concurred Brunel with a laugh, and then to me, ‘Perhaps next time you will dress more appropriately when boating at night.’
‘How is Ockham?’
‘Bright as a button and looking forward to sharing the fruits of your labours with you.’
‘He must be made of sterner stuff,’ I commented with an unwarranted degree of self-pity. Then, guessing that Brunel was eager to talk, I turned to Florence. ‘Miss Nightingale, if you could please leave us alone for a moment.’
‘Please do not detain him long, Mr Brunel, he is still a sick man.’
My visitor watched as she walked away down the ward. ‘Your nurse is a formidable woman.’
‘Indeed she is.’
Brunel seated himself on the edge of my bed, his hands folded across the top of the hat on his lap. ‘We crossed swords more than once over the Crimean affair.’
‘Yes, of course – you designed a hospital for use out there, didn’t you? I imagine she had a few opinions on that.’
‘You could say that.’
Unfortunately, I was in no condition to indulge in reminiscences. ‘Tell me, have you seen the drawing?’
Brunel’s voice softened. ‘Ockham brought it over to my office this morning.’
‘Don’t keep me in suspense, man, what is it?’
Brunel looked around and drew closer, the better to deliver his news without fear of being overheard. ‘Well now…’ But before he could continue my body was racked by an agonizing bout of coughing. Brunel cast aside his hat and snatched a glass from the shelf by my bed. The water helped to douse the flames in my chest and the paroxysm subsided, but not before the sound of coughing had summoned Florence back to my bedside.
‘Mr Brunel, I am afraid you will have to leave,’ she said sternly. ‘Dr Phillips must rest.’
Brunel nodded grimly and picked up the discarded hat, his pained expression betraying the fragile nature of his own health. ‘I will come and see you when you are feeling better – perhaps at your lodgings? Then we can discuss our next move.’
With that he departed, and I pictured him getting no further than the front door of the hospital before lighting up his next cigar.
‘It is going to be some time before you are capable of taking action of any sort,’ said Florence as she rearranged blankets thrown into disarray by my fit. ‘Now, get some sleep. I will make arrangements for you to be taken home in the morning.’ She kissed her hand and touched it against my forehead before leaving.
Feeling slightly better the next morning, I walked with jellied legs to the waiting carriage. Florence promised to check on me herself or send a nurse to do so at least once a day. I spent the next two weeks in idle convalescence, taking nourishment from the regular deliveries of warming broth and using a diffuser to keep my lungs clear. Within two days I was able to leave my bed for sho
rt periods, pottering about the place with a blanket draped over my shoulders. My cough slowly improved but was to make brief visitations for some time to come.
I also took the opportunity to bring my journal up to date, always taking care to return it to its hiding-place beneath a floorboard in my bedroom once I had finished writing.
Florence called around when she could and seemed happy enough with my progress. She kept me up to date with events at the hospital, which not for the first time appeared to be getting on quite well without me. But William remembered me, and passed on his best wishes via Florence, and apparently even Brodie had asked after my health, which I found touching as it had surely taken some degree of self-sacrifice on his part to speak to Florence. She laughed when I suggested this, as he had done so through an intermediary. That go-between can only have been Mumrill and I very much doubted whether the news of my impending recovery had greatly pleased him.
Not long after one of her visits there was another knock at the door. I braced myself for a visit from Inspector Tarlow. It was a relief to find Brunel standing on the threshold.
Ockham, who could not wait to inform me that he too had come down with a chill after our escapade, followed him in. The man lied like a cheap watch, but no matter how clumsily delivered I appreciated his attempt at making me feel better.
‘Delighted to see you up and about, Phillips. I am sure you have been wondering about this,’ said Brunel, as he pulled a sheet of paper from a leather tube and rolled it out on the table. ‘Well, in any case, you should have been: it almost cost you your life.’
The drawing was as I remembered it, showing the mechanical cigar fish from every angle, the innards visible through cutaways in what I took to be an iron hull. He was right: although I had tried to distract myself with books, the true meaning of the drawings had rarely been far from my thoughts during my convalescence.
‘You know what it is then?’
Brunel beamed triumphantly. ‘Oh yes, it did not take long to work that out. Come, take another look.’ I edged towards the table. ‘I believe that you and Ockham have christened this thing the cigar fish. Well, I could not think of a better description myself.’ As if to prove the point he rolled a fresh cigar on to the drawing, where it came to rest alongside the elevation of its mechanical counterpart. ‘The screw obviously means it is designed to travel through water.’ He snatched up the cigar and used it as a pointer, first to indicate the propeller attached to the tapered end of the device and then moving on to the interior. ‘Here is the drive shaft, the compression system, and here, most importantly of all, even if I say so myself, is the housing for the engine – my engine.’ He paused for a moment to allow the last word to sink in.
‘You mean the heart?’ I asked.
‘Although I think he originally had in mind the gaz engine he then realized that the heart may serve his purpose even better.’
‘I don’t quite follow.’
Brunel put a hand to his chest. ‘What is it your heart does, doctor?’
‘Pumps blood, of course, which in turn carries oxygen around the body.’
‘And that’s just what we’re looking at here.’ His hand travelled from his chest to sit palm down on the drawing. ‘The mechanical heart will push compressed gases through a series of copper pipes after they have been released into the compression chamber here.’ Brunel pointed to a chamber located some distance from where the heart would be mounted. ‘Still under pressure the gas will push against the pistons, which in turn will rotate the crankshaft. Some small modification may be required but the principle is sound. The multiple heart valves will not only push the gas along but also recompress gas returned through the system. It is ideal for the purpose because, unlike a steam engine, it does not require fire or produce fumes, which means that it does not need a boiler or an exhaust, and that means it can operate in a sealed unit, without requiring the funnels common to surface vessels.’
‘Then it travels underwater?’
Brunel slapped the drawing. ‘There you have it in one, my friend. This is a submersible, an underwater boat. Or, if you like, a cigar fish.’
‘But this thing is surely far too small to carry people.’ I glanced over at Ockham, who had first pointed this out in Russell’s office.
The cigar was dragged across the paper to the beast’s pointed snout. ‘It is not meant to. Look here. The bow is stuffed full of explosives, and there, that small button on the nose is a detonator, positioned so as to set off the charge when it strikes its target.’
‘A bomb?’
‘Not quite,’ he countered. ‘A torpedo – a device for sinking ships.’
‘Then Wilkie was killed for a weapon?’
‘This is more than just a weapon, this contraption has the potential to revolutionize maritime warfare.’
‘How?’
‘Before Russell came up with this little monster, the torpedo was nothing more than an explosive charge attached to the end of a boom, just a pole sticking out in front of a boat. The boat steams up to the ship and the torpedo is pushed against the hull, below the waterline, where it will do most damage. The charge is driven into the wooden hull using a spike and the boat sails away leaving the torpedo behind. Then it explodes and tears a hole below the waterline.’
‘It all sounds very haphazard.’
‘Not to say suicidal. They are more likely to kill the operator than sink the enemy ship. And how do you attach it to an iron hull? You can hardly drive a spike in. That’s where this thing comes in. You launch it into the water, from a boat or even a shore battery, and it travels unseen below the surface of the water. Then bang! It hits the ship below the waterline.’
‘But it can only work with your engine. That’s why Russell and his cronies are so keen to get hold of it.’
Brunel slammed his fist on to the table. ‘Over my dead body,’ he announced. ‘Don’t get me wrong, gentlemen – I’m no pacifist, I’ve designed guns, for pity’s sake – but after spending all these years building the Great Eastern I’ll be damned if I’m going to see my device used in a machine with no other purpose than to sink ships!’
Ockham tugged the drawing towards his side of the table. ‘I would imagine Russell has tried everything to replicate the design, but never having access to detailed plans he has decided to wait around for Brunel to finish with his own.’
‘But we managed to get hold of his design for the torpedo – why can’t he do the same thing?’
‘There are no plans!’ scoffed Brunel, ‘just a few rough sketches, and Russell knows that.’ The cigar bent close to snapping as he jabbed it against the side of his head. ‘I built it up here.’
‘But what about the plans you gave to Wilkie?’ I asked.
‘They were specific to the parts he built, and would make no sense to anyone without an overall idea of how the thing fits together. The same goes for the various other bits I commissioned. Ockham and myself have manufactured the remaining parts.’
‘You certainly haven’t made things easy for Russell, but what if he doesn’t give up, what are you going to do then?’
Brunel looked down at the drawing for a while and then glanced up at Ockham before giving his answer. ‘Nothing.’
‘I don’t understand. Surely we now have no option but to confront the man?’
Brunel shook his head. ‘Russell is fully engaged with the fitting out of the ship. Difficult as our relationship is I cannot afford to have him distracted from the task, not now. I must see the ship through to completion. As long as we carry on as though the heart is far from finished, perhaps even abandoned altogether, then Russell will concentrate on the ship. By the time we have finished work on our little project and Russell goes to make his move I will already have taken the necessary action to forever prevent it falling into his hands.’
Fatigued, Brunel planted himself on one of the dining chairs. Plainly still a sick man, he knew that his time was short and I had little doubt that his obsession with the mechanical
heart was in part driven by this sense of looming mortality.
‘What do you think, doctor?’ asked Ockham.
‘I agree – at least I think I agree. The strategy seems to have worked thus far and as you say we would appear to have nothing to gain from confrontation. But I would like to straighten out one little detail.’
‘Which one would that be?’ asked Brunel.
‘Just what you intend to do when Russell makes his move – what is this necessary action?’
‘You will know when the time comes, my friend,’ was all he said, and when he looked up his firm expression was enough to dissuade me from pushing the matter further.
‘So, gentlemen, we carry on as normal,’ said Ockham briskly, leaning over the table and rolling up the drawing.
I for one doubted whether anything would ever be normal again.
The next morning, feeling a little out of sorts but relieved that my illness-imposed house arrest had come to an end, I went to work. Pneumonia had come close to killing me but now I was eager to return to the fray, but only after I had thanked Florence for her ministrations. ‘It was nothing,’ she said. I kissed her anyway.
After my solitary confinement the operating theatre seemed livelier than ever, the bustling mass of students threatening to spill from the stands and swamp myself and the patient.
Brodie found me in my office, and I could think of only one or two previous occasions when he had gone to such trouble, both of them to admonish me for one or other oversight. This time, however, he wished only to welcome my return.
I took the opportunity to question him about Brunel’s condition. There was a time when the old man would have scowled at my impudence and rebuffed me with the stock response that his patient’s health was no concern of mine. But now, willing to talk, I sensed in him a desire to unburden himself of troublesome knowledge.
‘If you must know,’ he said, at last signalling an end to the secrecy, ‘he has Bright’s disease, and the news, I am afraid, is not good. His condition is well advanced, the kidneys much inflamed.’
