The Old Order (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 7)

by Andrew Wareham

  “I did not know there was war in the Mediterranean, sir.”

  “The Ottoman, one understands, my lord.”

  “I must make enquiry, Mr Stephenson. If there is to be war then our foundries may well be busy casting barrels again. Mr Robert Andrews will have heard all there is to know, I doubt not.”

  “He is a banker, I believe, my lord.”

  “And very interested in the progress of steam, sir.”

  Stephenson made a very open note of the fact; a referral from my lord might well knock a couple of points off the cost of a loan and would inevitably bring a contract in Roberts’ direction as a thank you.

  “Which sections of your trackway are to use locomotive engines, Mr Stephenson?”

  “The flattest, initially, my lord. Part of our purpose on this project is to discover just what incline a locomotive engine may reasonably be expected to master, and with what load.”

  Tom left with tacit permission to poke his nose in wherever he wanted – it could not be an open invitation, because that might imply that the works might normally be secret. He was intrigued to find that Stephenson was inclined to work by trial and error; when Joseph designed an engine to climb a hill he would work the mathematics for weeks until he was within reason certain of what his results would be – he certainly would not point his machine uphill and see what happened.

  It was very similar to the building of a turnpike – a deep and firm roadbed to support the tracks themselves; greater care taken to avoid even low hills, the curves much less sharp than one might find on a highway, but otherwise clearly demanding the same skills of the workers, on flat land at least.

  Bridgeworks were much the same, but cuttings, almost never found on the roads, made huge demands on the navigators.

  Topsoil, subsoil, country rock – all had to be shifted, occasionally to a depth of nearly one hundred feet; pickaxe, shovel and wheelbarrow the only tools, occasionally a barrel of gunpowder for a particularly obdurate rock outcropping. The spoil sometimes had to be run as much as half a mile to make an embankment across a dry valley or form the base for bridgeworks.

  Tom stopped to watch and talk at the first deep works he came to.

  There was a network of timber scaffolding supporting single planks zigzagging along the side of the cutting to reach the hard pathway which ran along the top of the hill to the next low patch to be infilled. By the time the cutting was complete the spoil should all be in place, compacted, layer by layer, by a gang with heavy stone rollers. It was all very efficient, on paper; it was killing work for ordinary labourers, but navvies were different, an elite, earning as much in a day sometimes as a farm worker made in a week.

  The gangers told Tom that the men generally took shifts on the barrows, turn and turn about, an hour, perhaps two, all that the arms and shoulders could take, apart from a few exceptional individuals.

  “Double pay for men what do it all shift. Bonus besides. Seven quid a week, that’s what Muley gets.”

  The ganger pointed across to a smallish man trotting behind a barrow piled high with large stones.

  “Must be a quarter of a ton, by the looks of it!”

  “About that, gaffer. Balance, that’s what ‘e reckons. Hold the ‘andles just right and away you goes, so ‘e says.”

  “Not the biggest of men, by a long way!”

  The ganger glanced up at Tom, grinned and commented that few of the navvies were his size, that it wasn’t the meat a man carried but how he handled it that counted.

  “I suppose you are right, at that. I have only known the one set of navigators – the men Sir William Rumpage brought to build the shipyard in London – and they were generally smaller than me.”

  “I ‘eard of ‘ow ‘e got made a knight by the old king ‘imself! Never ‘eard the like of it, not one of us ‘aving that ‘appen to ‘im! You must be that Lord what ‘e works for, then?”

  “Lord Andrews. I do not know your name, sir.”

  “Oh! Alligator Bert, that’s me.”

  Tom knew that one must never ask a navigator the origin of his name – it was deeply, possibly terminally, offensive to do so. He dearly wanted to know why – did the man have teeth, and if so, where?

  “You say that Muley does nothing else, all day, every day?”

  “Twelve hours, six runs an hour on this cutting. Drop ‘is empty and there’s another loaded and waiting for ‘im. Six days a week, rain or shine, ‘e don’t stop for nothing. Don’t spend no money on Sunday, neither, don’t do much but sleep, I reckons. Come October, when we shuts up shop for the winter, ‘e takes ‘is money and buggers off wi’ it, a couple of ‘undred or thereabouts, and us don’t see ‘im no more till April time, wherever we got a contract. They says as ‘ow ‘e’s got a small farm what ‘is missus works and ‘e buys a field or two when ‘e can or gets ‘old of a good bull or a couple of cows each year; so they says. I ain’t never asked ‘im, acos of it ain’t no business of mine.”

  All one ever heard of navigators told of them being drunken animals, a menace to humanity. Tom wondered just how many were like Muley, or Sir William for that matter. He commented that it was not what he had been told to expect.

  “Queer-like, I reckons, gaffer – there’s got to be a dozen on this site what’s like ‘im, and five ‘undred what’s bloody piss’eads, drinking every penny they earns. I dunno, but I ain’t supposed to know bugger-all, I’se just a bloody navvy! Can’t ‘ang about talking all day, gaffer. Glad to ‘ave met you and give my regards to my old mate Rumpo Willy when thou dost see ‘im next!”

  Perhaps Sir William would know the origins of his name – he would certainly be able to ask him.

  He told Frances as he sat back in his comfortable carriage, watching Muley trot by; she sang in response.

  “’We are the navigators

  We dress up like alligators

  Except when we goes down Piccadilly

  Then we dresses like a crocodilly.’”

  “I hadn’t heard that one.”

  “I was told by my father that he heard them singing that building a canal, years ago. Perhaps your man is a smart dresser when he is out on the spree.”

  It was one possibility.

  They came to a steep rise leading onto a ridge, two hundred feet or more high, the rails climbing straight up and an engine house building at the top; a stationary winding engine would pull the carriages and coal wagons up. There was a stables as well, the next section being horse-drawn. Tom could see why – the stretch was no more than two miles long before there was a steep downward slope off the ridge, it was hardly worthwhile dedicating a locomotive to so short a traverse.

  “Better to tunnel through the ridge, one might have supposed,” Frances commented.

  “Very costly, but in the long term, probably the best course, my dear. The proprietors might have difficulty finding the extra thousands this year, on top of all of the other costs. Ten years from now and I would expect to find your tunnel built.”

  “Will Roberts take a more active role now that you have seen this trackway for yourself, Thomas?”

  “No. Twenty years on it might make sense to play a part in building the roadways, but not yet – there are too many pitfalls to discover. How would one cross a river valley, a wide one with clays and sands and flooding in winter? I think it might cost a lot of money to devise that answer. It seems at first sight to be our sort of enterprise, but it is more like to road-building than iron making. We cannot do everything – we do not have the capital, the time, the knowledge – so we must be selective. Ships and guns should be our main products, besides cast and wrought iron for our customers. I would much like to find a young engineer with an interest in cannon – there will always be wars and a call for great guns, and governments can be very open-handed with their contracts, sometimes intentionally so.”

  Mount Street was warm and welcoming; it had rained for three days unbroken and their progress down the Great North Road had been slow and cold.

  �
��A steam engine travelling at thirty miles an hour would have had us here in the space of a single day, Frances. I am minded to organise a joint venture to build a trackway from London to York. One day, possibly in our lifetimes!”

  Robert shook his head; he was becoming increasingly a banker, suspicious of unnecessary innovation and preferring the tried and tested – he would have said that he was in favour of progress, just as long as someone else broke the ground first.

  “This man Stephenson, Papa. Is he sound?”

  A wonderful word, one that conveyed a world of meaning to those in the know.

  “No. He is quite capable of taking what seems to other people to be a great risk – he not understanding them as he is personally convinced that he knows exactly what he is doing and that he is the only man who does. He cares nothing for the judgement of his peers – because he sincerely believes he has none!”

  “’Be still and know that I am God’?”

  “Precisely, Frances! He is a strong man, and one who will not be defeated – he will turn this country upside down, far more efficiently than the Americans managed. And, best of all, he will not realise that he is doing so – he will merely be achieving a necessary end in the simplest fashion. I admire him, and shall take great pains never to work with him!”

  Robert and Frances grinned at each other, both knowing exactly why the irresistible force was choosing to avoid the immoveable object. Neither found the need to comment.

  “What would your advice to the City be, Papa?”

  “Be prepared for a boom that will wholly overshadow the canals, and which will, as always, be followed by a bust – and that will be greater than the Year Ninety-Five. Buy rights-of-way between the major cities, that would be my first advice, along the canals and river valleys as the trackways will keep to the flattest possible routes. In hilly country the man who owns the towpath may well be in the way of making a fortune, I believe. On the flat lands there will be a plethora of possibilities; where there is a natural obstacle to cross, then the canal, if there is one, may be expected to have selected the best way. Add to that, the canals will be in competition with the trackways, and one may well wish to purchase one’s rivals!”

  “I believe that Adam Smith once said that all businessmen habitually engage in conspiracy to drive up prices, sir. I shall follow his advice and yours and buy shares in selected canals before the public becomes aware of the wisdom of that act.”

  Frances wondered how they would know which canals to purchase, there was a shortage of maps showing the features of the countryside.

  “Captain Hood will ride the land for me, ma’am. He is an intelligencer of no mean order and has done all he can in the pursuit of Godby Fletcher so must be used elsewhere. Given a full explanation of our intentions he will discover everything we need to know. I shall send him to Darlington first, so that he can gain an understanding of the trackway, and then set him loose in the cotton and woollen towns where there is a mass of short canals independent of each other. At first thought, it seems to me that one need not own all of the rights-of-way for the new undertaking; instead, if one merely has possession of the most sensible way to cross a range of hills or leap a boggy river valley then one has a lever of great value.”

  “A mile of land that may be worth more than the rest put together, in fact. An excellent idea, Robert! It might be possible on occasion to offer one’s piece of land for a significant holding in the venture rather than merely to sell out.”

  Conversation moved on, the Season being uppermost in Frances’ thoughts.

  “James’ marriage will provide the necessity for at least one reception here in Mount Street. There is an obligation upon the family of the bridegroom, Thomas.”

  Undeniable, and a thorough nuisance – Tom had no desire to face the upset to his daily routines that hospitality on a great scale demanded. Memories of Charlotte’s come-out were still vivid – at least he would not have to give a ball for James.

  “I presume that we will be obliged to invite the whole of the Masters clan – James is one of them.”

  “Only those who are in Town. The unfashionable will not wish to be involved.”

  “Good, that will limit the numbers to an extent. Do you know if Major Plunkett will be present, Robert?”

  Their business venture kept them in regular contact.

  “No, he will remain in Ireland. I believe, reading between the lines to an extent, that he is cultivating his acquaintance with the Wellesley interest. An Irish barony is not much, one might say, but it can make a springboard for the next generation, and his distilleries are making the family much richer. He is bottling at four locations in England now and we are in process of buying out a glass cone in the North Country to blow his bottles. Ricardo would be proud of us, sir!”

  Frances commented that, bearing in mind the Irish predilection for alcohol, it was sad that progress in the poverty-stricken island could only come through whiskey.

  “Better booze than starvation, ma’am!”

  She was not entirely convinced, but had no counter-argument to make.

  “I believe that Mr Jonathan Quarrington will be in Town again this year, Thomas. Has he confirmed his presence?”

  “He will be, for some of the time, his lady wife being unable to join him this year, having other things to do.”

  Frances had heard that she was increasing again, made a quick note in her tablets to purchase a silver christening mug, to be despatched only after confirmation of live birth and healthy mother and child.

  “Fourth?”

  “I believe so, Robert. He will be hoping for a second son, no doubt – and with the correct number of fingers.”

  “Ah! I had heard a rumour about the Minchinhamptons…”

  Frances had not, raised an eyebrow, gave a moue of distaste when it was explained.

  “Some of our older houses have unsavoury habits, it would seem, Thomas. There is much to be said for an infusion of healthier blood into the Upper Ten Thousand.”

  The Upper Ten Thousand employed at least one hundred thousand of household servants – there was no such thing as a secret amongst them.

  “Invitations, Thomas – a select dinner for the two families, close friends and important allies, and a larger reception for acquaintances who are worthy of notice. Politically, we must tread carefully, as James will cross the floor of the House to celebrate his nuptials.”

  Robert intervened to say that it gave an excuse not to bring Castlereagh into the house.

  “Is he close to the edge, Robert?”

  “Very, sir! He has been back to us more than once and I have been forced to beg security of him, have, reluctantly, taken a mortgage on an unentailed estate in Norfolk. A cousin of the family died last year without closer heir, left him a few hundreds of acres, insignificant in terms of his other holdings and probably not generally known to be in his possession. A damned nuisance, but I could not make a longer term loan to him on a wholly unsecured basis – the bank would get a bad name if it was known to be taking dubious business on board. One’s probity is vital in the City, and Mostyns has an unblemished name and will keep it.”

  “Better to foreclose on a Minister of the Crown than take the loss of a bad loan, Robert?”

  “Far wiser, sir – it will be known that no consideration will suffer Mostyns to jeopardise its depositors’ funds.”

  Tom was not wholly convinced – politicians tended to look after their own and would have no love for any banker who caused them embarrassment, except where their own had transgressed the unwritten code.

  “You cannot actually divulge the confidential business of any client, I know, Robert, but can we assume that Lord Castlereagh is traversing dangerous ground?”

  “You are always at liberty to make assumptions, Papa, and you tend to display a remarkable acumen in so doing.”

  It was reasonable to assume that neither footman nor maid would fully understand that last comment; it would not prevent the spread of rum
our, but it might limit its accuracy.

  “Well, James?”

  “Very well, sir. I am still not so sure about changing parties, you know, sir. There are some very strange folk sat on those benches, though the majority are, of course, of the right sort. What does one say to those who are determined to portray all manufacturers as villains who exploit the weak?”

  “Agree with them, of course, James. Then point out that there are a few shining examples of good practice which could be the model for the government to encourage. It is a great pity that master and men cannot work together, you know – the mills are battlegrounds, but it need not be so, surely!”

  This was deep water for James – he was not sure he could justify such an argument.

  “What of Foreign Affairs, Papa? Lord Castlereagh has told me that he fears our engagement with the Congress system must fail – the Austrians and Russians, and the French to an extent, want nothing more than to return to the days of despotism and will not accept that England can be different. He informs me that they have repeatedly attempted to talk politics to King George, despite requests that they should desist.”

  “Fortunate that he has no child to succeed him, hence his dynastic ambitions are muted, James. I am sure that he wishes to play a part in the governance of the country and would like nothing more than to hobnob on equal terms with Emperor and Tsar, though I cannot imagine that even he would have much to say to the French king. It is, however, a problem that will die with him: York, if he succeeds, has far too rigorous a sense of duty to overstep the bounds and Clarence is too much of a Silly Billy to be able to. Cambridge’s daughter will be in line after that, and she is to be brought up to duty, I am told – her unpleasant father having opportunely died before he could start to spoil her.”

  “So, from my point of view, sir? I know so little of diplomacy that I must beg your advice on a sensible, moderate course.”