Steam & Stratagem

by Christopher Hoare

  “Oh, I see. I’m afraid the thought of secrets and their discovery is very much on my mind these days.”

  Lord Paulit inclined his head sympathetically. “I’m sure it must be, but have no fear for your friends in the Low Countries. We have sent Lord Bond away with a powerful new ally to assist his discoveries.”

  “Oh. This has happened recently? I heard no mention at Clydebank before I left.”

  “Very recently. He would have joined Lord Bond’s crew off the Medway at about the time you were arriving in London.”

  Roberta could not prevent a small gasp from escaping her lips. She had thought how far coincidence would be extended, should the Nederlander join the accidental rendezvous of the Spiteful with her passenger ship Blythe at the mouth of the Thames. What superstitious thoughts could be released now she knew Lord Bond and his vessel had not been far away. Could she sense some omen in it?

  “Yes, you just missed him. The First Lord and I met him and his crew off Queenborough when we introduced him to the Count.” He stopped speaking to reach across the carriage to take her hand. “Why, you look quite faint. The news distresses you?”

  “It is nothing, My Lord. Merely some foolish thought that passed through my mind.”

  “It does not look like nothing. Wilson—are you carrying your flask today? I daresay you are. Pour a small measure into the cap, will you? Miss Stephenson looks as if she needs a small fortification.”

  “No . . . really. I am perfectly all right. Oh—well if you insist. Just the smallest drop.”

  “You are worried about your own presence off the enemy coast?” Lord Paulit went on. “Please be reassured that we expect a powerful frigate to join that squadron soon, and we will send you with her. We very likely will see the Medusa this morning, she has been in dry dock at the Thames Graving Dock on the Isle, here.”

  Roberta drank the small dram of rum and thanked Mr. Wilson. She took a deep breath and forced a gay smile. “I think that has done the trick. I do not know what ill thought assailed me—I really have no apprehension at being off the enemy coast in a Royal Naval blockading squadron.”

  Lord Paulit smiled, but he continued to watch her with a serious frown. She felt sure he intended to say more but had thought better of it.

  As they rode farther from the docks toward Millwall they came to an area of crowded housing, teeming with running and screaming children and with roughly dressed and careworn women at the public water pumps. Roberta guessed they could be near her age, but bent over with loads and buckets of water they all looked like ancient grandmothers.

  “I suppose these must be new homes for dockyard workers,” Mr. Wilson said, pointing to a row of tiny houses in a street parallel to the road they followed. “I would suppose them to be conveniently close.”

  “Yes, I daresay,” His Lordship agreed. “I did hear that all kinds of dubious tradesmen had rushed here to take advantage of the new docks. The cottages seem very small and ill found, but I would not doubt them to be no worse than the hovels the poor labourers and their families have moved from.”

  Roberta thought them possibly a shade better than the homes provided for factory workers in the north of England. She watched the casual labourers’ families as they passed, knowing that even the loss of a single day’s wages would send all to bed hungry. The security of steady work was the only answer, but business owners preferred to hire by the day, placing every man in competition for the smallest wages possible.

  When they reached the end of the houses, where new carpentry and incomplete rafters showed continuing construction, she turned her attention to the view intermittently visible across the river. Even in the midst of war it was apparent that England did not lack for the means to increase her works and her cities—if not her peoples’ welfare.

  They passed two piers and innumerable warehouses and workshops beside the river; all the clutter of industry and commerce as they rode along. Much of the industry seemed to take place in abandoned ruins—at least it would appear so except for the throngs of workmen carrying, hauling, and hammering as they built or moved whatever it was that brought their employers profit. The Clyde may have more steamships to boast of, but it had far to go before it could match London’s volume of industry.

  “Here we are,” Lord Paulit said, as he turned to address the coachman. “Take the next gate to our right. This must be the Thames Graving and Shipbuilding Company.”

  They were delayed only long enough for Mr. Wilson to identify the passengers of the barouche to a stout fellow at the gate before they were waved on toward the river and a long low building with a sign saying “Office” above the windows. When they stopped beside the door, a tall, gangling man walking with a cane came out of the building to greet them. He bowed awkwardly as Lord Paulit climbed down from the carriage. “Lord Paulit? Very pleased to greet you, My Lord . . . I am Charlie Napier, the proprietor.”

  Mr. Wilson dismounted next and stood close to help Roberta climb down. Lord Paulit reached out a hand to steady her. “And this is Miss Roberta Stephenson, the designer of the ships and manager of her father’s yard at Clydebank.”

  Mr. Napier smiled broadly, his face twisting enough to reveal several broken teeth. He switched his cane to the left, reached out a hand to hers and shook it warmly. “I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Stephenson. I must own to have suspected your existence to be but a figment of some Admiralty attempt at secrecy, but instead find you to be not only real, but delightfully so.”

  Roberta laughed gently. “And I am pleased to meet the proprietor of a yard who is so full of gallantry—well met, Mr. Napier.”

  “Please call me Charlie, my dear. I’m just one of the workmen here.” Napier turned and gestured to the building. “Please come into our inner sanctum. I’m sure I can clear a space where we might lay out the drawings.” He gestured toward the map case Mr. Wilson lifted out of the barouche. “I hope you will forgive its clutter and grime, Miss Stephenson—it is but an old bachelor’s abode.”

  The interior smelled of dust, of musty books, and of strong tea; it was every bit as cluttered as announced, and seemed too dark to Roberta to perform satisfactorily as a plans office. Very likely “Charlie” kept the plans for his vessels in his head and had little need to look at paper drawings. Not a promising situation for someone contracted to build an entirely novel ship for the navy. She sighed . . . was their day to be wasted?

  Lord Paulit opened the discussions. “I and Mr. Wilson are here to look at the works buildings and the yard, Mr. Napier. Miss Stephenson is solely responsible for the business discussions and possible contract for the iron construction of a spiteful class vessel.”

  Charlie nodded. “I see, My Lord, but we are just completing work on a naval frigate in the graving dock. Admiralty surveyors have been here frequently.”

  “Would that be the Medusa? I thought she was at a different company.”

  Charlie shrugged. “There was a dearth of iron building and a deal of ships needing fitting out for war last year, My Lord. The graving dock was unused, so I bought it from the bankruptcy trustees and entered a tender.”

  “Then you have no ironworkers, Sir?” Roberta asked.

  “Ah, that I do—iron workers and wood both. We are building hundred ton river barges in iron here, and I have loaned out some of my best ironworkers to the Ditchburn yard. I can have them back in a week.”

  “And where would you construct a spiteful?” she asked.

  “In the graving dock—it will house a thousand ton ship, and has room for a length overall of 150 feet. Medusa will be afloat on the next high tide.”

  Roberta looked toward Lord Paulit, who seemed less disconcerted than she felt. “Mr. Napier did well on a contract for three tugs,” he said, “and I understand the work on Medusa has been exemplary in quality and promptness.”

  She felt inclined to accept His Lordship’s recommendation—after all, the Stephenson yard would neither be required to carry out the work nor manage it. If the ship w
as not completed within the time allowed, it was the Admiralty surveyors who would bear the responsibility. She would make sure that her payment for the patents and design would be included in the cost of construction, and instalments paid when the materials were purchased.

  “Then perhaps we should look over the design drawings—is there a brighter room than this?”

  Charlie shrugged. “There’s a table outside overlooking the river. The day is fine . . . shall we go there?”

  The table had to be cleared of tea and breakfast things by a pair of stout women in kitchen aprons before they could look over the drawings. To Roberta’s surprise, Charlie seemed to have almost an instant understanding of details she thought she should explain. Within an hour, the only outstanding issue was the provision of the engines and boilers by another contractor.

  “The Admiralty intends they should be built by the Maudslay works,” Lord Paulit announced. “They have supplied a number of such machines for Admiralty contracts and our Steam Department think they will be completely satisfactory.”

  “But the machinery may not fit the baseplates and bulkheads laid out on these drawings,” Charlie said.

  “Indeed,” Roberta answered. “I had already told Commander Ripley that we must supply drawings to Maudslay’s immediately to determine what alterations were needed within the machinery spaces of the hull.”

  Charlie smiled. “And if I have a contract, I’d like to go along when ye take the drawings. Too many cooks can spoil such fine-fashioned broth as this.”

  “Indeed,” Roberta said. “We must keep control over details as closely as possible. My father and I are the only two supervisors for our northern contracts.”

  They ate lunch with the proprietor and his senior workers at the same table an hour after noon and then walked along the riverside past a slip where one of the barges was being built until they could see the stumps of masts of the Medusa rising above the graving dock.

  When they were able to look down into the dry dock they could see the shipwrights removing some of the timber baulks that kept the grounded hull upright and safe from warping. “Every third, mind,” Charlie shouted down to them.

  “Aye aye, Sir,” one of the carpenters said with a wave. Several more left the work and scrambled up the bracing.

  A big man with hands as round as dinner plates stepped forward. “We’re laid off when ship floats aht?”

  “Aye, Reuben. If we have no contract to replace it,” Charlie agreed.

  “But we ’eard you want to build an iron ship in the dock next. What will us carpenters do?”

  “There are many wooden working platforms and decks needed in the construction,” Roberta said.

  Reuben eyed her keenly. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss, but that don’t take as many as work ’ere nah.”

  She looked at Charlie—that was true. She had met the problem before—the more ships built of iron the more old-time shipwrights were put out of work. But she knew no way to prevent that.

  Charlie took her aside. “One of our barges was built inside out, using wooden forms to hold up the riveted plates before the angle iron of the stringers were riveted inside. It saves the time taken to drill and fit the plates and uses more woodworkers. That means less cost than for the scarcer iron workers.”

  She had not heard of it before. “I suggest the method of building is yours . . . if you want to keep these shipwrights employed, I have no objection.”

  Reuben had moved closer and likely heard. “No objection to men earnin’ a wage ter feed their families?” he said. “Is that yer finer feelin’s?”

  Roberta drew herself up. “No. I can offer more. I have employed redundant carpenters as riveters in my own yard. They do not take long to master the work—after all, the ability to swing a hammer accurately is the qualification for both trades.”

  Charlie smiled and put a hand on Reuben’s arm. “Believe what the lady says. Ye were too proud to change last time. I’ll give any man who wants it the chance now.”

  “Aye, but is the ship to be built?”

  They all looked at Roberta. “Aye—if the Stephenson Yard gets its just dues. That means we both agree on the tendered price to the Admiralty.”

  Lord Paulit laughed shortly. “And I will no more speak to that upon the stonework of a graving dock as I would discuss the rum ration on the quarterdeck of a man-o-war, but England is in peril and will do its best for all men . . . and all women . . . who will do their best for it.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  One Uncomfortable, One Very Comfortable

  Symington Holmes stood on the corner looking over the heads of the passing crowds at the premises across the street—Le Canard Noyade. He glanced back at Captain McNab, who seemed to be reading an advertising bill pasted on a lamp post. McNab shrugged one shoulder toward the disreputable looking wine shop. Yes . . . he would have to go in to find out if it was the correct rendezvous.

  Three small urchins stopped before him as he went to step off the curb. “Sous, Monsieur?” one begged. Good Lord—these little tykes must be really starving if they thought someone dressed as poorly as the disguise he wore had a coin or two to give them. He did have a piece of cheese . . . some of the last meal they’d shared with Henri and the carter before they dropped off the farm cart to walk into Antwerp. He pulled out the cloth wrapped wedge and broke some off. Three small hands grabbed for the hard and molding pieces and ran away.

  He stepped into the street—here goes.

  Pedestrians also overflowed into the street, hurrying this way and that. He crossed slowly against the crush, only reaching the other side as everyone made way for a passing waggon drawn by a swaybacked nag. He glanced back at the cart—was it his imagination or did it look an awful lot like the tumbrels that had carried the condemned to the guillotine during the Reign of Terror? Of course not.

  He pushed open the door to the wineshop—the vinegary smell of stale wine enveloped him as he took a deep breath and went in. He had just a second to look at McNab, watching him from the corner, as he closed the door behind him. He walked through smoke and shadows to the counter.

  “Votre plaisir, Monsieur?”

  Holmes dropped a few sous on the counter. “Vin primeur.”

  A half full glass landed on the counter before him. He turned to look around at the patrons as he took a first mouthful. New wine . . . grapey and still losing its sweetness. He counted three tables with patrons; one of old men playing dominoes, one with an old crone drinking from a bottle, and one of three workmen, smoking pipes and arguing over an empty wine bottle. No soldiers, but who might be an informant among these people?

  He drank his wine while wondering if he should direct his question at the barkeep while these customers were here. He thought they looked as if they had nowhere else to go—he didn’t have enough time to wait for them to leave.

  The barkeep came back along the counter with a half full bottle in his hand. Holmes shook his head. “I’m looking for Monsieur LaGarde. Do you know him?”

  The man didn’t reply, merely made a small whistle, as if calling a dog, and raised a hand to the crone. She turned on her stool and leaned against the table to help her get to her feet. “Eh! I know. I know.”

  Holmes froze. Was this the signal for engaging an aged trollop? He wanted to run, but stood his ground as the hag approached.

  “Yes, Monsieur. You ask for me?”

  Holmes gulped. “Do you know where I can find Monsieur LaGarde?”

  She smiled and her face transformed—not so old after all. “Monsieur LaGarde will be at home. I can show the way.”

  He let out the breath he’d been holding—that was the correct answer to his code question. “Can we go at once?”

  “Assurément, there is just the price of my wine.”

  He turned to look for the barkeep, who seemed to have disappeared. The workmen pushed back their stools to leave. The old men looked up silently from their dominoes.

  “Take no notice of them. Tw
enty sous is usual price.”

  He placed the coins on the counter and pushed away from the edge. The woman stopped at the door. “We will have to leave arm in arm. C’est compris?”

  He opened the door for her and took her arm as they reached the street. “My companion will follow. Is that all right?”

  “One companion? He will be discreet?”

  “He is an army officer. He knows the routine.”

  They walked slowly in silence through the crowd that suddenly seemed the noisiest he had ever walked through. He tried to see the woman better as they walked, but it was difficult. She might be no more than middle age, and although she walked slowly he felt sure she could run fast if she needed to. Every shout from across the street sounded like a soldier’s challenge, every loud conversation to be a discussion of his real identity. He had never felt so . . . damned English . . . in his life.

  They walked the lengths of several streets and took short cuts through alleys and arched thoroughfares. He did not know whether they walked closer to the river—the only landmark he knew—or farther away. At length she stopped in a narrow alleyway where the crowd thinned, and turned to embrace him. She raised her mouth to his ear. “Tell your companion to join us.”

  He pulled away quickly and walked to the entrance of the alley. He arrived almost face to face with McNab. “Come with us,” Holmes said.

  When they reached the woman she stood in a low doorway. “Come. Speak not.”

  The door led into a smelly doss-house, the corridor thick with grime, and sleeping figures sprawled everywhere. The woman took them to a room, slightly cleaner and less crowded than the rest. A man looked up from an empty table. “You want LaGarde?”

  “We were told to ask for him.”

  “Where did you meet this man who told you?”

  “On a boat . . . from across the Channel.”

  “La Manche?”

  “The very same. He must be in the city already.”