“A light. I see a light. ’Tis the Eddystone light.”
A new swirl of the smoke from the boiler furnaces obscured their view forward, even though the tall funnels’ purpose was to disperse the smoke away from the deck as well as ensure good furnace draft. “What bearing?” Roberta shouted.
“Two points off the starboard bow, Cap’n.”
“Two points,” she mused. “We must be farther south than we expected.” She turned to the quartermaster. “Hold our course steady. I will go forward to con this light.”
“Aye aye, Cap’n.”
Mr. Holmes followed her as she made her way to the bow. They stopped beside the short foremast, its fore-and-aft sail furled on its boom beside them. They shielded their eyes from the stiff breeze.
“Can you see anything?” she asked.
“Not a thing,” Mr. Holmes replied.
“I’ll have to go up. The Eddystone light can only be seen above the horizon at about fifteen miles.” She moved to the shrouds on the starboard side and took a pair of kid gloves from a pouch at her waist to slip on before taking a firm hand grip on the ratlines.
“Good heavens,” Mr. Holmes exclaimed. “You mean to climb?”
“Yes. If I wish to see the light, Sir. Now you may understand why I and my lady engineers wear a boiler suit on duty.” With that she pulled herself to the level of the bulwark and began to climb.
The breeze, damp with spray, became stronger as she left the slight protection of the hull, but she determined not to stop her progress until she reached the lookout position, where the fore topmast joined the top of the foremast, and climbed from the ratlines onto the narrow platform.
She held on to a rope brailing around the masts to keep from losing her balance in the gusts. “Where is the light?” she asked the young sailor crouching in the lee of the timbers.
He stood to point. “’Twas o’er there, Cap’n. I thinks a squall be hiden’ ’en now.”
“It was an intermittent light?”
He peered at her. “Nay, ’twere a white or a yellerish light.”
“I mean it was by turns a clear light and then darkness . . . one giving way to the other but in the same place?” She thought a detailed description of the light had been given to all the deck crew, but clearly, nothing fixed the knowledge better than actual experience, and these lads had never sailed the Channel before this.
“Oh, aye. I was given ter think ’twas gone out, but then it shone agin.”
Roberta nodded and turned her attention to the darkness before her eyes. The ship had been taking the sea smoothly from the deck, but up here every roll was magnified into a drunken lurch. Estimating the bearing to the light would be difficult.
“I say,” came Mr. Holmes’ voice from the deck below, “are you securely located, Miss Stephenson? Can you see the light?”
“We cannot see the light at present. Possibly a squall is obscuring it.”
“Are you coming down? Perhaps I could come up to help.”
“I think that unwise, Sir, though I appreciate your thought. A brisk breeze at night in the Channel is not the time to make your acquaintance with a ship’s standing rigging.”
“There she be, Cap’n!” the sailor burst out. Pointing with his free arm. “O’er there!”
Roberta raised her head to catch the briefest wink of light before it went out. Judging herself against Spiteful’s roll, she kept her eyes on the same area until it shone again. She watched a few more alternations before satisfying herself it was the lighthouse—the period of light was less than one fourth of that of darkness, playing out the motion of the clockwork mechanism that rotated the mirror. She estimated the bearing to be less than two points to starboard, but it was greater than one.
She stepped carefully to the shrouds and bent to lower her feet onto the ratlines—it was a more hazard-fraught manoeuver than climbing off them. The wet wood offered little secure hold for the hands’ grip until the body’s weight was supported by the shrouds. The descent to the deck was easy after this.
“God’s grief,” Mr. Holmes allowed as she reached the deck, “I should never make a sailor. What happens next?”
“I must go below to the chart room to check our course. By all means come.”
Reaching the chart room, Roberta turned up the lamps to afford herself enough light to work. She plotted the direction from the lighthouse to the predicted course of Spiteful and shook her head. “This sight puts us twice as far from the coast as we expected.”
“That’s not good?”
“Hardly, Mr. Holmes. Your need for reassurance when you reached me beside the quartermaster at the wheel would have been betrayed if the error were to the north instead of to the south. We could have run onto the headland.”
Mr. Holmes stared.
“But to present the whole sequence of possibilities for your education, I would suggest that our lookout on the foremast would have warned of danger as soon as we steamed close enough for the waves’ erratic motions and the sound of breakers upon the rocks to have reached his awareness.” She gestured at the chart. “This is intended to avoid such close calls with disaster.”
“And to what do you attribute the error?”
Roberta studied the chart. “Probably the effect of a current that has affected our determination of distance covered, as well as drifted us off course. I must admit that steaming at speed through the night is somewhat of a controversial procedure among the maritime fraternity.”
“Under canvas, continuing under full sail at night is also frowned upon,” he answered. “You have the very good fortune to be able to invent your own seamanship here. I daresay a thousand young mariners of the male persuasion would envy the chance. Having seen your methods, I am assured that the Stephenson vessels are in competent hands.”
Roberta did not quite know how to answer; he seemed quite extravagant in his esteem. She was pleased that he immediately turned his attention to the chart, making a response from her superfluous.
After some moments he frowned. “I must observe that the plotting you have carried out could as easily be duplicated with the application of the mathematical principles of trigonometry. Removing some of the need and delay of the watch officer leaving the wheel. Are you familiar with the procedures?”
Roberta regarded him with new eyes as she lowered the flames of the lamps in preparation to returning to the weather deck. “I have some familiarity, Sir, but not in this instance. I would be pleased to have you demonstrate what you suggest when we have more time. At the moment, I must supervise the changing of course necessary to return us to the track we had plotted for the journey.”
Chapter Twenty
Stopover Falmouth
Symington Holmes stood at the port rail beside the foremast shrouds as Spiteful resumed steaming into Falmouth harbour under the guidance of the harbour pilot. He still smiled at that good man’s concern as he attempted to convey the impression he was as comfortable with steam as were Spiteful’s officers. The chief of them being a woman no doubt added to his distress.
Holmes had to admit a certain solidarity with the man . . . he had always been as uncomfortable around the fairer sex himself, as long as he could remember. He glanced up at the ratlines and pictured Miss Stephenson climbing them again, as she had done before daylight this very morning. He knew he could never have duplicated the feat . . . heights made him very nervous. The memory that he had given her a different impression still lurked in the back of his mind for all his effort to dismiss it.
He watched the unfolding picture of Pendennis Castle as they steamed past the headland, thankful that the motion of their passage no longer caused him any gastric distress. The waters here were quite calm by comparison with the swell they had steamed into upon leaving Dover. Oh . . . ! Perhaps he had better not let the memory of that first day return.
The roadstead seemed well populated with smaller craft . . . likely fishing craft, as well as a larger bark anchored off the harbour being tende
d by a pair of Falmouth quay-punts, taking supplies and cargo to and from the shore. If he leaned over the rail, he could see the pilot’s similar vessel following far astern of them. This was actually the second time he had been to the port, but the first time, several years before on Admiralty business, he had found little leisure to make himself acquainted with the surroundings.
Carrick Roads, the long inner harbour, was also alive with smaller vessels, and even a pair of naval frigates showing off their black and white colours and black gunports as they rode at anchor. A pair of 32s he surmised, perhaps preparing to take urgent Admiralty messages to English squadrons blockading Brest or Toulon. Or resting from the exertion of a stormy sail to England with urgent dispatches from an admiral of the fleet.
As they rounded the tail of Pendennis Point the town and port came into view. The new railway station at the docks was marked out with the columns of smoke from busy locomotives. Perhaps one of the columns of smoke came from the mid-day express from Exeter . . . he hoped Julian had arrived on it. His own first journey and arrival had been by mail coach from Launceston—the railway still under construction at that time. What had the Old Man wanted? His letter had seemed somewhat bad tempered. He felt glad not to have been the recipient of it.
When Spiteful anchored off the docks, several smaller craft and a quay-punt came out to them. This latter proved to have been engaged by Julian, who stood in the bow as the craft came alongside. Miss Stephenson and Lieutenant Worthington—fresh from the engineroom and smelling of heavy lubricating oil—joined him at the gangway to greet the arrivals.
“You made good time, Miss Stephenson,” Julian said as he reached the deck. “Are my fellows ready to disembark? I’ve found our little Dutchman in Carrick Roads . . . . I’ll take them there aboard this and be back in a trice. Will you depart again this afternoon?”
“If our messages do not give tidings needing a delay, My Lord. Did you bring us mail?”
Julian held out a small packet to her. “One for Lieutenant Worthington from the Admiralty, and one from Clydebank, my dear. I suspect from your father.”
“Why, thank you. They were on the train?” she asked.
“I showed my Admiralty documents at Exeter and had the postmaster take them from the bag for tonight’s mail train,” Julian replied, then turned as Bloggins and his crew arrived on deck. “Ah, here you all are. Load your sea chests on the quay-punt and get aboard. I will take you to the Nederlander, off Mylor in the creek.”
“Right yer be, M’Lord.”
Julian turned to him. “Mr. Holmes, will you come with us?”
Holmes shrugged. “If you have need of my presence. I suppose I may look forward to a journey aboard the craft in due course, so it will be advisable to make its acquaintance.” His thoughts, however, went in a different direction. What had transpired at the meeting in Tiverton? Did their father have some instructions for him, as well?
Roberta remained on deck as the quay-punt left for its run up Carrick Roads and the smaller craft announced their business. A keg of fresh mackerel from Cornwall would be a welcome addition to their diet on the run up the Irish Sea. Lieutenant Worthington went below to read his letter, so she checked with her watch officer before going below to her own cabin.
The letter was indeed from her father . . . he had arrived at the Clydebank yard just three days before. His news was not as welcome as his warm greeting.
“I have been about the local yards and find some lack that will certainly impact your building plans. In short, the supply of iron plate and bars will not be sufficient for your plans to build the ten galleys as well as the larger vessel if all must be accomplished by midsummer next year. In addition, the skilled craftsmen to build the required number of steam engines and boilers do not exist on the Clyde.
“I can supply some of the required boilers, connecting rods and cylinders from Tyneside, but that would necessitate towing the unfinished vessels to the Tyne for installation. I need hardly point out that the Firth and Clyde Canal will not accommodate vessels as large as the galleys you have sold the Admiralty, necessitating a hazardous tow around the north of Scotland in winter weather.
“No doubt many of these problems may be solved once we are together at Clydebank and the construction plans are set in motion. None of this in any way detracts from your triumph in convincing Their Lordships of the soundness of our design and securing the order. I feel the casualty of these difficulties will be our profits, as I see no recourse but to include even more subcontracting to other yards than your first plan envisaged.”
Roberta lowered the letter and stared out through the porthole in the ship’s side. She should have asked for more solid reassurances from her fellow shipbuilders on the Clyde, but preparing Spiteful for its debut at Chatham had occupied most of her time. This new vessel, perhaps three times the tonnage of Spiteful, had completely set her plans—plans she thought were perfectly attainable—far out of the bounds of practicality. If she were not careful meeting their required improvements and alterations, they could bring the Stephenson shipyard to the brink of bankruptcy.
A sad circumstance for such a wonderful coup of but three weeks before. Now she felt the urge to leave the harbour and churn the Irish Sea to foam. The sooner she was back at her yard and with access to her design loft and her best assistant engineers the better. She must not despair . . . it required but fresh ingenuity and creative design to overcome this new setback . . . as she had overcome so many before.
Chapter Twenty-one
Plans in Progress
Roberta stood aside until the chief stoker opened the watertight door in the iron bulkhead, then lowered her head to pass through. She waited for Lieutenant Worthington and Mr. Holmes to follow before she smiled and took the storm lantern from the man. “Thank you, Mr. Mishner. You may keep it closed; we will go up to the weather deck by the forward companionway.”
“Right y’are, Cap’n.”
Mr. Holmes, looking unusually seaman-like in a borrowed boilersuit, stood with his hand upon the ironwork of the bulkhead. “And what is the purpose of this structure, Miss Stephenson?”
“It serves more than one purpose, Sir. It closes off the boiler room from the forward part of the ship and keeps it from flooding if the ship has been holed forward by contact with the enemy; it also closes off the forward part of the ship from danger should a mishap with the boilers result in an explosion.”
Mr. Holmes pulled his hand away from the bulkhead. “An explosion? Is that likely?”
“Not with complete observation and control by a qualified steam engineer, but I felt the structure a wise precaution for a ship in the chaos and confusion of a sea battle. I would also point out another purpose, in that it stiffens the hull at this point and so renders a structural service.”
“You sees, Mr. Holmes,” Worthington added. “That the whole engine room and boilers is isolated toward the stern of the ship; makin’ enough weight to cause some hogging o’ the stern structure in a heavy sea.” He craned his neck and pointed where the bulkhead terminated at the weather deck level. “This big iron wall serves to carry part o’ that load to ’elp the keel structure.”
Roberta raised the lantern and Mr. Holmes’ eyes travelled from the top, down to the slot in the deck where the iron vanished to meet the keel. “I see. I have never been asked to pronounce upon the structure of a vessel constructed entirely in iron . . . . Composite build, yes, with wooden timbers on an iron frame, but nothing like this.”
Worthington seemed to consider a reply. “I say, Miss Stephenson. An idea have just struck me. This bulkhead divides the hull into two almost equal halves.”
“Very close to that, Lieutenant. What does that suggest to you?”
“In your father’s letter that you showed me, he mentions the Spiteful class hulls bein’ too long to pass through the Firth and Clyde Canal. ’Tis a pity, cause wi’out engines and paddle wheels they would all but fit the locks.”
Roberta looked again at the b
ulkhead as she visualized the ship’s lines plan. “But half the hull might fit?”
“Exactly, Miss. If ’twere possible to send the hulls to Grangemouth in two parts, they could be joined together there, on this bulkhead, an’ then be towed to Tyneside for the engines.”
Mr. Holmes stared at the two of them. “Build a ship in two halves and join it together? Surely it cannot be done . . . the keel—”
“Is not a single piece of timber as in a wooden ship, Mr. Holmes,” Roberta said. “We can insert a heavy iron plate to join the two halves and fishplate it to the existing keels in those halves. The bulkhead structure can also strengthen the joint. I think you have made an admirable suggestion, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, Miss Stephenson. I really do think that Mr. Holmes’ presence and questions has brought us to a new and clearer understanding of our profession.”
“I would rather have hoped that my contributions would have been something more sterling,” Mr. Holmes replied with a somewhat lopsided smile, “but I’m pleased to help in any way that I can.”
“I feel sure that when it comes time for you to regard our engineering and costs in your own professional manner, Sir, you will regard some of our eccentricities with a kinder eye,” Roberta said. “The costs of building each vessel in not two but three—and perhaps even more—shipyards will add greatly to our building costs. The locating and hiring of engineers to even supervise such diverse operations will be a daunting task.”
“Then perhaps I can offer a suggestion there,” Mr. Holmes replied. “The Admiralty must supply engineer lieutenants like Mr. Worthington who must accompany each vessel through its multiple transformations and ensure that the whole is a perfect representation of its parts.”
“A good idea.” Roberta turned to Worthington. “How would that suit you, Lieutenant? Travelling engineering inspector . . . surely worthy of a promotion.”
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