Steam & Stratagem
Published by Tyche Books Ltd.
www.TycheBooks.com
Copyright © 2013 Christopher Hoare
First Tyche Books Ltd Edition 2013
Smashwords Edition 2013
Print ISBN: 978-0-9918369-7-0
Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9918369-8-7
Cover Art by Tretiakov Alexey
Cover Layout by Lucia Starkey
Interior Layout by Ryah Deines
Editorial by M. L. D. Curelas
Author photograph by deJourden's Photo.graphics Ltd; Lethbridge
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Hoare, Christopher, 1939 -, author
Steam and Stratagem / Christopher Hoare.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-0-9918369-7-0 (pbk.).-- 978-0-9918369-8-7 (pdf)
I. Title. II. Title: Steam and stratagem
PS8615.O19S74 2013 C813'.6 C2013-906515-6
C2013-906516-4
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage & retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright holder, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third party websites or their content.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this story are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead would be really cool, but is purely coincidental.
Dedication
With my thanks to all who have made my writing readable; my wife, Shirley, who is always the first reader and set of eyes looking for my errors and omissions; my fellow writers and critiquers at the Crowsnest Novel Writers' Group; my publisher and her staff for adding all those quality bits; friends who helped with sources of research; and everyone else who has read, edited and commented on my work over the years; and to all of you followers of all things steam, I dedicate this work to you all.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Unwelcome Proposal
Four Years Later
A Second Voyager
Three Vessels
Foresight Farewell
Five Hours Late
Six O’Clock Train
More Strikes Against His Lordship
An Extra Delay
Chaperones
Noon Appointment
Their Lordships
More Days In London
Items to Upgrade
The Missing Hanoverian
Admiralty Warrant
Who’s For Dancing
At the End of a Rope?
Thinking of You
Night Navigating
Stopover Falmouth
Plans in Progress
Assessing the Gentlemen
Popularity Contests
One Embarrassed; One Lies
Ideas and New Blood
Curt Words
Another Suiter?
Spying Action
Post Mortem
Subterfuge in Ernest
Some at Sea
Admiralty Instructs
Setting Off Secretly
No Meeting at Sea
Changing Plans
Discomfort with Allies
Secrets of the Drawing Room
Contract Discussions
One Uncomfortable, One Very Comfortable
Cannon Fire
Propositions
Improvising Plans
Alarming Information
First Class Cabin
About the Author
Prologue
Unwelcome Proposal
Roberta waited in the drawing room for the summons from her father that threatened to change her life forever. A typical Newcastle day poured down rain in blasts and squalls off the North Sea which the fire in the grate did a poor job of countering with warmth. The house had been a great advance from the cottages she’d been raised in, but she fretted that her father had paid more for the lease than the house warranted. Not that the “Father of Railways”, George Stephenson, could ill afford it with the number of orders for steam locomotives and expert consultations for new railways that poured in. She knew hers was no more than the ingrained caution of a young woman who had been lifted into the gentry by a father’s rise in the world.
A man who had risen from the mines of Northumberland had to step carefully in the society of England in 1810, a difficult and competitive world that could take away as easily as it gave. The calumny of the dispute with Sir Humphrey Davy over the invention of the miners’ safety lamp still hung over them, even after the Commission had exonerated her father from the charge of stealing the design. That all the mines of the North Country used her father’s rather than the Davy lamp did not exclude them from jealous gossip.
And now, her father looked to preserve the business he had built for the future—one to be inherited by a son, if Heaven had granted him one. Roberta tried to still the fear that threatened to rise in her throat—for the only reason Martin Postlethwait had visited them today was to discuss the running of a business that, through the legal conditions of the partnership, could only be inherited by her future son, and administered until his majority by the partners and the child’s father.
Roberta tried hard to read the pamphlet in her hand, a tract on an investigation into the efficiency of paddle-wheels employed in the propulsion of steamships, but her mind kept slipping away into the discussion that must be ongoing, out of earshot, in her father’s library. Hadn’t she done her best to be the son her father wanted? She had been raised with steam, and possessed a great deal of experience in interpreting that knowledge into material products. Martin Postlethwait might be a reliable engineer in her father’s locomotive shop, but he was no manager. She knew herself more capable in that role than he.
The sound of the library door opening came to her and she almost dropped the pamphlet. Footsteps in the corridor signalled the time had come. Her father appeared at the door. “Would you please go to the library, Roberta? Mr. Postlethwait would like to speak privately with you.”
She would have felt no worse being invited to step onto the gallows. Her father did not wait for her to leave the room before settling himself into the best armchair with the latest newspaper—he had clearly given his approval for the matter. Her Aunt Nelly, sitting by the fire, caught her eye briefly as Roberta walked to the door, but could offer no hope of assistance. Unmarried herself, she had no support in life save as a servant to her rich brother.
Roberta steeled herself a moment at the library door and then marched in resolutely. “Good morning, Mr. Postlethwait.”
Martin Postlethwait stood to offer her a Cheshire cat smile that made his narrow face and close-set eyes look even more like that of a rat peering out of a cream churn. His bony frame told of an upbringing much like her own, with sparse rations in hard times, and a cough that spoke of too many nights huddled over a coal fire to catch every chance of warmth. Not that she despised him for his modest upbringing—it was the way he had accommodated to it that grated on her nerves.
“Do come in and sit near me, Miss Stephenson.”
Roberta walked to the centre of the room and took a seat somewhat farther away than the one he had offered. Yes—offered, as if he were already master of the house.
Postlethwait looked at his chair and eschewed it in favour of crossing the room to stand near her seat, looking down at her. “My dear Miss Stephenson. I am so glad to have this oppor
tunity to unburden myself to you after such a lengthy . . . and indeed gratifying discussion with your father. I have no doubt but that you have some inkling of the nature of our conversation about the continued prosperity and, indeed, profitability of the Stephenson Engine Works and the manner of carrying that success into a second and a third generation.”
Roberta merely regarded him with as little expression as she could muster and gave no sign that she had heard his words.
“I owe my every success in life to my employment with your father these past five years—years that have seen me give all my energies and loyalties to the continued advancement of the business. I must admit that the honour your father has presented to me in his address has gone straight to my heart—it is far more than I might have . . . indeed, had any right to expect . . . Words fail me to frame the gratitude and utmost respect I feel in return for his faith he has expressed in me. He has given his opinion to me that he feels that I . . . above all the others he could name . . . offer the greatest prospect of solid and enduring management to the business. What do you think to that, Miss Stephenson?”
“I hope you and the business will be very happy together, Mr. Postlethwait.”
Postlethwait’s shoulders slumped. “I did not mean . . . I must assure you that I did not assume . . . You must surely understand that the management of the Stephenson Engine Works must be placed into the hands of a new manager at some date in the future. It is most assuredly in your interest as well as your father’s that this manager shall have had a long and successful history of participating in the enterprise as a member of the family. In his long experience and wisdom, your father has determined that the best man to entrust the future of both family and Engine Works is into the hands of myself. Am I to understand that you wish to dispute your father’s judgement?”
Roberta strove to keep her voice steady. “And was there any suggestion in the discussion with my father that the management of the Stephenson Engine Works might possibly include the management of the owner’s daughter? Myself? Am I included in the business? Did the two of you consider your suitability to undertake that task?”
“Why, Miss Stephenson. Dear Miss Stephenson—that the conclusion of the business could only be resolved by this discussion with yourself, was in no doubt. I thought it has been quite clear for many months that I hold you in high esteem . . . . I admire your beauty and your amiable qualifications. I assure you that I can offer you my complete and undivided devotion, and that my protection of yourself will always be as important to me as the regard I shall give to the business. I will never be ungenerous and negligent in my care of you when we are married—”
“Mr. Postlethwait, you must realize that you are too hasty. You have not yet been so generous as to offer me a proposal—a proposal that I must emphatically refuse.”
“Refuse?” His face reddened. “I assure you that my intentions toward you carry the utmost respect for your feelings and situation.”
“Thank you for making your intentions so clear to me, Mr. Postlethwait. I fear your expressions of devotion lack only one thing—that you may have the feelings of a suitor toward the object of his affections. But perhaps you have done that . . . in your own way. I thank you for this interview but it is over and will never be repeated under any circumstances. Good day.”
Roberta closed the library door behind her with a great deal less force than her mood demanded, but she heard its thud answered by sounds of movement in the drawing room. She turned away from that direction and set her foot on the staircase, not pausing until she reached the next floor and entered her own room.
There, she refused to succumb to the despair of throwing herself on the bed. Arms crossed, she stood in the window, looking out at the modest grounds in the rain. Her outrage, not directed at Martin Postlethwait but squarely at her father, brought bile to her throat. How could he? She suspected she would very soon find out.
The voices from downstairs mapped the conversation that must certainly be ensuing from her departure. She heard the library door open and close twice. She heard the sounds of Martin Postlethwait receiving his hat and coat from the housekeeper and leaving by the front door. She stepped away from her window so she did not have to watch him leave. Footsteps ascending the stair alerted her to the knock on her door well before it came.
“Come in, Father.”
George Stephenson walked into the room and seated himself in a chair near the head of the bed. At forty-four, he was a fine figure of a man, clean shaven and with threads of silver in his hair. His face spoke of sober and well-judged consideration, but at the present moment troubled with a great deal of perplexity. “What did you say to Mr. Postlethwait, Roberta? I have never seen him so agitated.”
“You are concerned to see him agitated, Father? What about my agitation?”
“I do not understand why that should be so. I have considered long and hard how best to make my dispositions for the future. You are twenty-two and unmarried . . . and seem to take little interest in the young gentlemen of our acquaintance. It seemed to me that it would be an excellent measure to find a good engineer—”
“To take on both tasks! Yes, I heard those words repeated by Martin Postlethwait. Did it not occur to you that I refuse to be bartered about as nothing more than the controlling interest in the shareholders’ meeting?”
“But you cannot inherit in your own right—Stephenson Engine Works is not some little sweetshop in the High Street. I am doing the only thing that makes business and social sense—please see that.”
“Damn Stephenson Engine Works. Leave it to your brother and his sons. I want no part in it if it means I shall be required to share a marriage bed with whatever oaf has the ability to start a steam engine.”
“I can see you are in no mood to discuss this sensibly. I will leave you alone and hope you will be in a better frame of mind at dinner.”
Roberta watched as he stood to leave but went to him before he could reach the door. She took his hands in hers. “Father, you know I’m a better engineer than most of the young men in the works. I was not being facetious yesterday when I asked to be considered as manager for the steamship works you are planning on the Clyde. I and a dozen of my ladies from school have the ability to start that enterprise for you. Promote as many of your young men here as you wish into the manager’s position—give them all a chance at the post. And if I should find one of them I might come to love . . . or even just to respect . . . I will marry him if you wish it. Just do not rush me into some ill-favoured relationship that might serve your present business circumstances. You are a young man yet—there is no reason for haste.”
Mr. Stephenson regarded her gravely. “Thank you for relating your feelings to me, Roberta. We will speak more at dinner.”
Chapter One
Four Years Later
Julian, Lord Bond stood beside the steersman at the wheel of his private yacht, staring astern at the vessel coming up on the horizon. Definitely a French sloop and intent on overhauling them before they could reach England. In an easier sea, he might hope the Foresight would out distance the Frenchman, but in the present heavy swell the larger vessel had the advantage.
He had placed his report in a waterproof oilskin package in the event he might still hope to get it to the Admiralty, but he had also placed it in a heavy iron skillet as a weight, in case he had to throw the evidence of spying overboard. The report was the fruit of his recent visit to the Low Countries—in this summer of 1814, a possession of France under the Emperor Napoleon—gained at substantial risk and expense in the ongoing war, and clearly not without an equal risk this blustery afternoon. Where was the Royal Navy when he needed them?
It had been foul luck that caused the early morning mist to rise before they sailed out of sight of land. Equally unfortunate that some sharp-eyed coast watcher must have noticed the Foresight’s gaff rig and foresail on the horizon and decided it looked like an English fashion. Damned bad luck, just when he had vital information
about Napoleon’s latest preparations to invade England—as well as the first solid information of the Emperor’s new wonder weapon that very well might make it possible.
His sailing master came up on deck from the tiny midship cabin. “Are we making headway, My Lord?”
“Not a bit. I fancy they have gained a cable’s length while you’ve been below. How wet is it in the bilge?”
“Ne’er so wet that yon pump might better it. ’Tis that small leak near the prow, I fancies, but worse now us must take the sea at such a heel.” Bloggins paused to shade his eyes and peer at the approaching sloop. “I has put they two Dutch cabin boys at pumpin’. Likely they will keep pace with ’en.”
“How long before dark? Dammit! Why cannot the weather offer us a respite with a squall and a thick mist?”
Bloggins hawked and spat overside. “I thinks we’ll be within range of his bow chasers afore we might expect night to hide us, My Lord. Shall we heave to and let him board us?”
Lord Bond smacked a fist into his palm. “We shall see. We’re not done yet. The navy must have blockading ships somewhere close.”
“Aye, My Lord, but they has a divil of a big coastline to watch.”
Indeed. After Nelson’s victory in ’05 the Royal Navy had few enemy battleships to fight. But their tight blockade from the Baltic Sea around the coast of Europe to the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies took almost every ship to maintain. Every ship that hadn’t been sent across the ocean to blockade the Americans. It had looked as if the Navy’s task would ease when Napoleon took the risk of invading Russia, but even that repulse had not ended his power when he’d been able to wait for spring to march his army out of Moscow. The allies thought they had him at Leipzig in 1813 but he managed to better their larger army and break the alliance against him. Now Prussia was a vassal, Austria hard pressed, Wellington on the retreat back to Portugal, and a new French army gathering on the Channel Coast to invade England.
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