by Iain Pears
“And you run it all?” I asked, genuinely impressed.
“I run this plant.”
“How? I mean, how can one person have the slightest idea what is going on in that—chaos?”
He smiled. “That is where Ravenscliff was a genius. He developed a way of controlling all this, and not just this, but all of his factories, so that any moment you can find out what is going on, where it is happening. So that chaos, as you call it, can be tamed and the hidden patterns and movements of men, and machinery and capital and raw material, can be forced to act in a way which is efficient and effective.”
“Elegant?” I suggested.
“That is not a word a businessman often uses, but yes, it is elegant, if you wish. Not many people can, or want to, understand it, but I would even say it has a sort of beauty to it, when it works well.”
“And the reason for all of this is…”
Mr. Williams pointed, out to the east towards a dark grey shape. “Can you see that there?”
“Vaguely. What is it?”
“That is HMS Anson. A Dreadnought, 23,000 tons. Three million different parts are needed for that ship to do its job. Every one must work perfectly. Every one has to be conceived, designed, fabricated and assembled into its correct place so that the ship will perform properly. It must sail in the tropics and in the Arctic. It must be able to fire its guns under all conditions. It must be ready for full speed at a few hours’ notice, capable of sailing for months at a time with no repairs. And all of those pieces have to be gathered together and put in place on time, and within budget. That is the point of all this. Would you like to see it?”
Williams led me down the stairs and across a cobbled road to what seemed very like a cab stand. “The plant is three miles long and two miles deep,” he said as we got in the back of a horse-drawn buggy that was waiting there. “I can’t waste my time walking around, so we have this system of carriages around the place. The horses are used to the noise.”
And we clattered off. It was like going through a city, but a very strange city, with no shops, few people walking about, and no women. Everyone was dressed in working overalls. Instead of houses, there were warehouses, vast and windowless; blocks of offices, equally grim in appearance, and other mysterious buildings which Mr. Williams pointed out as we passed. “That’s Foundry No. One,” he said, “where the plate is made… the Gun Works, where the cannon are assembled…” And so we went on, the old horse clopping its way, with me in the back listening to Mr. Williams’s explanations, and veering wildly between elation at what man could achieve and a certain feeling of gloom at the thought of the power of this vast organisation.
“And this,” Mr. Williams said with the slightest quaver in his voice as we turned yet another corner, “is the reason for all of it.”
Many people have seen a dreadnought, far out to sea, or even in dock. They are impressive, breathtaking sights, even then. But only if you see one close up, out of the water, do you get any real sense of how enormous it is, for then all that is normally concealed, the gigantic bulk of the ship that is under the waterline, becomes visible. It went up, and up and up, until I thought its very top was lost in the clouds. From end to end it was so vast that the prow could not be seen at all; it disappeared in the haze of smoke pumped out by the factory chimneys. I had no idea how advanced the building work was; it looked as though it would take years before it was ready and even then I could not easily imagine how anyone expected such a thing actually to float, let alone move.
Mr. Williams laughed when I asked. “We launch in ten days’ time,” he said. “From laying down the keel to final fitting out should take twelve months. We are now eight months in and making good time, I’m glad to say. Every day we run over costs us £1,100 in lost profits. Well? What do you think?”
I shook my head. I truly believe it was one of the most remarkable moments of my life, to be confronted in this way with full proof of man’s audacity and invention. How anyone even dared to contemplate building such a thing was quite beyond my powers to imagine. And then I saw the people, the army of tiny figures scurrying up and down the scaffolding, shouting at the cranemen as gigantic squares of armour plate were lifted up, the riveters methodically pounding rivet after rivet through the holes already made, the supervisors and the electricians and the plumbers taking a break after their labours. Many hundreds of men, machines ranging from the huge hydraulic cranes to the smallest of screwdrivers, all working together, all apparently knowing what they were to do and when they were to do it. All to produce this beast, which had started out on its long route to the high seas in a decision taken by Ravenscliff months or years before. He spoke, and it was done; thousands of men, millions of pounds reacted to his decision, and were still following his orders, even after his death.
What did I think? Nothing; I was overcome by the scale of it all, by the power one man had created. Now, for the first time, I could see why all the descriptions of him were superlatives. Powerful, frightening, a genius, a monster. I had heard or read all of these. They were all true. Only such a person would have dared.
“I’m afraid that I cannot offer you a tour of the ship itself,” Mr. Williams said, interrupting my reverie. He was pleased by my reaction, I could see. I think I must have had a look of stunned amazement on my face; my silence was very much more eloquent than anything I might have said. “It is dangerous when it is in such a state, and in fact there is little to see which would interest anyone but a specialist in naval architecture. I simply wanted you to see it up close. It is an impressive sight, don’t you think?”
I nodded, but continued to gaze up and along to take in the vastness of the thing. It was dark; the hull had completely blotted out the sun, and the depths of the huge trench in the ground in which the ship was taking shape were cold, and windy and dark. I shivered.
“It does get cold. Sometimes it even starts to rain inside the dry dock, even though it is a fine enough day outside. The construction generates a lot of heat and vapour; that condenses against the sides and falls as rain. It is quite a problem sometimes. One of those little difficulties that even the most perceptive of planners cannot imagine in advance. I hope, by the way, you are convinced that this yard does actually exist now.”
I nodded. “I think the executors might concede that one,” I said with a vague smile. “And I must thank you for your time. It has been most generous of you.”
“Not at all. As you may have noticed, I am very proud of this place. It gives me great pleasure to show it off.”
“And your workers? Are they proud of it as well?”
“Oh, yes. I think so. They should be; they know they are the best in the world. And they are paid well. We cannot afford even one incompetent riveter or mechanic. They have to be paid well, and supervised very closely. When we launched Intrepid last year the whole city came to a halt so everyone could watch. They knew they’d done something remarkable. Come along.”
We walked back to the cab, and the horse walked wearily off once more, taking a different route this time. After a few minutes, Mr. Williams asked the driver to stop. “Please forgive me,” he said with a smile. “I must just check with one of our people in here. Do come in, if you wish.”
I followed him into the entrance of a block of offices, which was attached to another giant building of such size that ordinarily it alone would have made one pause for thought. But I was almost getting used to them now. Another building the size of St. Paul’s. Oh, well. I wanted my lunch. Mr. Williams led the way into the warren of offices, where dozens of clerks sat at rows of oak desks, each with his piles of paper. Then through more, where men with drawing boards were working. Mr. Williams popped his head into one room, and called one of the men out.
“I have to see Mr. Ashley for a few moments. Would you be so kind as to take Mr. Braddock here to see our little arsenal?”
The young man, clearly pleased to have been chosen for such a task and to have attracted the attention of the mos
t powerful man in the northeast, said he would be delighted. His name was Fredericks, he told me, as he led the way. He was a senior draughtsman, working on gun turrets. He had worked at Beswick for twelve years now, ever since he was fourteen. His father also worked here, in the yards. His brothers and uncles did as well.
“A family firm, then,” I said, more for something to say than anything else.
“I don’t suppose there’s a single family in Newcastle which doesn’t have someone who works in the yard,” he replied. “Here we are.”
He pulled open a heavy wooden door, and then followed me through. Again I was astonished, even though it took me some time to work out what I was looking at. Guns. But not ordinary guns, not like in museums, or put out for display at the Tower of London. These were more like tree trunks from some vast forest; twenty, thirty feet long, three feet thick, tapering meanly and menacingly towards the muzzle. And there were dozens and dozens of them, some long and almost elegant, other short and squat, lined up in rows on huge trestles.
“That’s our biggest,” Fredericks said, pointing to one of the longest, which lay in the middle of the building, shining dully from a protective layer of oil. “The 12/45 mark 10. With the breech it weighs fifty-eight tons and it can throw an 850-pound shell nearly eleven miles and land within thirty feet of the target. If the people operating it know what they’re about. Which I doubt they will.”
“And these are all for HMS Anson?”
“She’ll take a dozen of them. Think of the effect of a single broadside. And these can fire once a minute. We think.”
“You think? I got the impression that everyone who worked here knew. I didn’t think guessing was allowed.”
He looked a bit disconcerted by this. “Well, you see, it’s not the guns. We know they work. It’s the gun control. The hydraulics. Anson will have an entirely new design. The trouble is…”
“You can’t test it in advance too easily.”
He nodded. “It’s what I work on. I think it will be just fine. But if it isn’t…”
“So, what are the other ones for? If twelve go on Anson, there must be another couple of dozen of those great big ones here.”
He shrugged. “Who knows? It’s not as if they tell us. But it’s the same all over the yard. There’s enough guns and plate and girders to build a battle fleet out of the spare parts, with more being made. But there are no more orders.”
“Who’s they?”
“Scuttlebutt. Gossip. Talk in the pub. Who knows where these things come from? People are worrying about layoffs, once Anson’s finished.”
“What about foreign orders?”
He shook his head. “Perhaps they’re being kept secret.”
He laughed. “You don’t know shipyards, sir. There aren’t any secrets from the workers. Do you think there is anything that affects our jobs we don’t know about?”
I looked thoughtfully at the vast pieces of metal lined up in that gigantic, chilly room, and shivered. It was calm in there, peaceful almost; it was impossible to connect the atmosphere with what those things were for, or what they could do.
“Tell me,” I said, “perhaps you can help. I am looking for a man called James Steptoe. He works here, I believe.”
Fredericks’s expression changed instantly. “No,” he said shortly. “He doesn’t. Not anymore.”
“Are you sure? I am certain…”
“He used to work here. He was dismissed.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Theft.” He turned away, and I had to grab him by the arm.
“I wish to speak to him.”
“I don’t. Nobody likes a thief.”
“Nonetheless, I must talk to him. Ah. Here comes Mr. Williams. Perhaps he will be able to tell me…”
“Thirty-three Wellington Street. That’s where he lives,” he said hurriedly. “Please…”
“Not a word,” I whispered back.
And then Mr. Williams came within earshot and that was the end of the conversation, but in some ways it was the most interesting part yet of my visit. A pity I hadn’t had more time with the young man, who seemed serious and observant.
“I’m surprised you let me in there,” I remarked as we went back to the cab. “I mean, I read in the newspapers all about spies trying to steal secrets about guns and things.”
Mr. Williams laughed. “Oh, steal away, if you wish. There is nothing you have seen which is so very secret. What a gun looks like tells you nothing. It is how the metal is made, how the hydraulics work, how it is aimed. That’s where the true secrets lie. And we are careful about that. Except for the gun-metal part.”
“Why?”
He winked, and bent towards me conspiratorially. “Because the Germans already know.”
“How come?” I asked, eager to hear a tale of espionage.
“Because they invented the process. We stole it from them.” He leaned back his head and chuckled. “They’re the best in the world at that, the Germans. Very advanced.”
“So you have spies in Germany?”
“Oh, good heavens no. Lord Ravenscliff had shareholdings. That is very much better. He had a substantial shareholding in Krupp’s, the German steel company. Not in his own name, of course; through an intermediary bank in Hamburg. They were able to obtain whatever he wanted. And Schneider in France.”
I was astonished. I didn’t think it worked like that at all. “But secret processes from here are not learned by the Germans by the same methods in reverse?”
Mr. Williams looked shocked. “Of course not. His Lordship was an Englishman, and a patriot.”
Fair enough, I thought. On the other hand, what about that tale Seyd had told me, about building submarines for the Russians? How patriotic was that?
“So tell me, Mr. Braddock,” the manager said as we headed back to the factory gate, “what did you find most impressive about Beswick? Anson, I imagine.”
I considered. “Certainly it is a staggering sight,” I said. “Quite beyond belief, really. It was worth the journey just to see it. But, oddly, I do not think that was the most impressive. I think the fact that this yard exists, and can produce such a thing more remarkable still. The idea that anyone can organise this anthill of a place is the most surprising.”
I had said the right thing. Williams almost glowed at my words.
“That was Lord Ravenscliff ’s genius, and why the greatest compliment to his skill is to say he will not be missed. Do not misunderstand me,” he said with a smile as I raised an eyebrow. “It is what he wanted. To create an organisation so perfect it could run by itself, or rather with only the managers, each of whom knows their business. I believe he succeeded.”
“How so?”
“The job of any company is to make as much profit as possible. As long as that is the main aim of the managers, then there is no need to direct them. They will, collectively, take the right decisions.”
“And you will soon find out whether that is the case.”
We had arrived by the gate. A cab, one of several, was waiting patiently to take me back into the centre of Newcastle. Williams courteously held the door for me as I got in.
“Indeed. It will be very interesting. Have a safe journey back to London. I hope you have enjoyed yourself.”
CHAPTER 23
At eight o’clock, after a rapid meal, I left once more, this time walking away from the works and into the rows of houses to the west of the city centre. Mr. James Steptoe lived somewhere in that rabbit warren. It was a dreary journey, into monotonous redbrick streets, each house exactly the same as the next, all built, I suspected, by the works and for the works. Each had a door and two windows facing the street. All the doors were green, all the windows brown. There were no trees, few patches of green, and surprisingly few pubs; I supposed that the works had intervened there as well and banned such places in order to keep its workforce sober and efficient. Or it was looking after its health, and acting responsibly. Take your pick.
But it was
neat and well ordered, no doubt about that, and a few streets of newer houses showed signs of a different way of thinking. Curved porches, more fanciful roofs. Small enough, and mean enough, no doubt, but a place to live and be comfortable. There were churches and schools and shops, all laid out with thought and care. I had seen very much worse in the East End, which was a hellish, confused nightmare in comparison with this disciplined, uniform place, which, if it was a barracks, at least allowed its occupants to pretend.
The road I was looking for was off a street, and off an avenue. All were named after imperial heroes and events of the not too distant past. I wondered how many of the inhabitants noticed after a while. Did it make their hearts swell with pride that they lived in Victoria Road? Did it make them work harder, or drink less for having a house in Khartoum Place? Were they better husbands and fathers because they walked to work along Mafeking Road, then into Gordon Street? Was Mr. James Steptoe, I thought as I knocked on the door, a more respectable, patriotic Englishman for living at 33 Wellington Street?
Hard to tell. His mother, who answered the door, certainly looked respectable enough as she peered uncertainly at me. The trouble was, I could make out only a little of what she was saying; I supposed she was speaking English, but the accent was so thick she might almost have been another Serbo-Croatian anarchist. This was a problem I had not anticipated. Still, if I couldn’t understand her, she seemed to understand me well enough, and invited me in, and showed me to the little parlour, kept for best. After a while James Steptoe came in, warily and cautiously; he was shaped rather like a bull, almost as broad as he was tall, with a thick neck emerging from his collarless shirt, and black hair covering his forearms where the sleeves had been rolled up. He had thick dark eyebrows, and a shadow of beard around his mouth. He looked like someone who played rugby, or worked down a mine rather than pushing pens and dockets.
I shook hands, and introduced myself.
“Are you the police?” A short sentence, gruffly spoken, but a great relief. I understood it. Mr. Steptoe was bilingual.
