by Tony Pollard
The engineer made to put on his hat, but it slipped from his grasp and tumbled to the deck, where it rolled a half-circle and, before coming to rest, was joined by its owner, who collapsed on top of it. Dashing forward, I knelt at his side, releasing his cravat and loosening the collar.
Brunel regained consciousness but his condition was serious. In keeping with his role as personal physician, Brodie insisted that he treat him at his home in Duke Street rather than at the hospital. For the first time since my father’s illness I felt the closest of bonds with a patient, and was glad not to be left entirely responsible for his care. Although Brunel had obviously not been in the best of health, his seizure had come as a dreadful shock, all the more so because of the bizarre circumstances under which it had occurred. It was as though he had wanted me to be there at the end, but then somehow managed to pull away from the grip which the engine seemed to have on his heart. As ever, though, there was little time for reflection as Brodie had begun to castigate his patient for requesting a cigar through the part of his mouth unaffected by the rictus which had immobilized the left side of his body. While Brodie berated him for bringing all this down upon himself I tried to offer some comfort to Mary, the patient’s long-suffering wife,
I had not met Mrs Brunel before, but judged her strong enough to bear the truth, though I told her nothing about the incident in the engine room. She faced up to the situation with an air of weary inevitability, having no doubt seen her husband work himself close to death on more than one occasion.
Brodie beckoned me over to the bedside. Brunel was asking for me.
‘I want…’ croaked the engineer, his voice slurred by his twisted mouth ‘… I want you to be on the ship when she sails on her trial.’ He paused to catch his breath: ‘… to keep an eye on things.’
‘But Isambard, I am a surgeon not an engineer.’
‘You know men, Phillips, you know what makes them tick. I want you to keep an eye on our friend Russell.’
I glanced at Brodie, on the other side of the bed. ‘But Isambard, I have duties in the hospital.’
Brunel shifted his gaze to his doctor, his eyes flickering like fires burning in snow. ‘I am sure an arrangement can be made.’
Brodie nodded without speaking.
‘Very well. I will be there on your great babe.’
29
The day after Brunel’s stroke I was back on the deck of the Great Eastern as she steamed downriver towards the North Sea and the English Channel beyond. When last I had heard from Brodie, his condition was stable but showed little sign of improvement. He feared that even if he were to pull through, the paralysis would be permanent.
Once again scenting money, the ship’s owners had taken on board hundreds of passengers, all of whom had paid handsomely for the privilege of sailing on the maiden voyage. But it was a voyage without a destination. The ship was to sail out into the Channel where she would be put through various trials before returning to the river of her difficult birth. It seemed a cruel twist of fate that after devoting so much time and effort to the project, illness prevented Brunel from joining with his ship on her maiden voyage.
I was still a little uncertain why he had insisted on sending me on this mission, as since our subterfuge there had been no suggestion of interest in the mechanical heart from any quarter and I still found it hard to see Russell as the guilty party. His reaction to Brunel’s seizure did nothing to settle these misgivings. After welcoming me aboard he expressed grave concern for his colleague’s condition and seemed determined to go and visit him as soon as possible.
Nonetheless, I had agreed to do Brunel’s bidding and place his partner under scrutiny, but it proved to be no easy task, as Russell was always on the move, striding from one part of the ship to another. Armed with a notebook and accompanied by a coterie of assistants, he battled his way through the crowds of promenading passengers on a constant round of inspections. One minute he was on the paddle box, checking on the wheel, the next he was at the binnacle inspecting the compass, which had been set high up on a mast where it could operate without being thrown off by the iron hull. Whenever possible I joined the party but refrained from imposing myself on his inspections below decks, where he spent much time with the engines. As we reached Purfleet, our first anchorage, Russell seemed entirely satisfied with the ship’s performance and invited me to join him for dinner.
We sat some distance away from where the captain entertained a host of well-to-do-looking guests at the top table. Thinking that Russell might prefer this grander company, I pointed out that I would be happy to eat alone. ‘Nonsense, my good doctor, I am grateful to have an excuse to be away from them. Damn passengers – it’s a wonder we can get anything done with them stamping about like a herd of sheep. My God, Brunel would have had them cut loose in the small boats by now. No, I am quite happy to let the captain entertain them.’
Over dinner, Russell spoke of his regret at Brunel’s condition. ‘What are his chances of recovery?’ he asked as our empty soup bowls were taken away by a white-gloved waiter.
‘I don’t know,’ was my honest answer. ‘He may pull through, but I am sorry to say that he will never be the same again.’
‘What is it they say? The candle that burns brightest burns the shortest?’
‘So I believe, but he is not dead yet, Mr Russell.’
‘But you think the paralysis will be permanent, even if he does pull through?’
‘Alas, it seems likely.’
‘Then he is as good as dead,’ said Russell with grim confidence. ‘You know him as well as anyone, Phillips – can you imagine him wanting to go on living in that condition?’
I shook my head in sad agreement before he continued: ‘There comes a time when an engine is beyond repair, and then it’s just as well to douse the boilers and let it slow to a stop.’
My thoughts returned to the engine room. ‘It’s a shame he never got around to finishing his mechanical heart,’ I said, almost without realizing it.
Russell’s face tensed at my mention of the device. ‘You don’t mean to tell me that you believe that infernal thing could work?’
‘Who can say what we may be capable of a hundred years from now? Perhaps by then we will be able to replace broken organs just like the parts in one of your engines.’
‘Even if that were so, what gives us the right to play God? It is better that we forget the matter of his device. If Brunel had spent more time attending to things that mattered, like this damned ship, and not allowing his head to be filled with pipe dreams then…’
‘Then what, sir?’
‘Then perhaps he would not be in such a sorry state today.’
Once again his sentiment seemed genuine, and I thought it diplomatic to move on. ‘What of your ship? I assume you are pleased with her performance?’
‘Wait until we get out into the Channel tomorrow. Then we will really put her through her paces.’
Such optimism may have been a little premature, for at that moment a worried-looking young man, whom I recognized as one of his engineering assistants, came rushing up to the table. ‘Bostock, what is it, man?’ demanded Russell.
‘Mr Russell. We… we have a problem, sir. There is…’
Russell threw down his napkin and stood to leave. ‘I hope you will excuse me, Dr Phillips. Teething troubles – you know how it is.’
‘The same with babes great and small, I am sure.’
Before retiring to my cabin I decided to take a turn around the deck, in the hope that the night air might clear my head for sleep. The place had the feel of Brighton seafront on a summer’s night: all that was missing were the cabs and hawkers – and perhaps the warmth, for the breeze, which was blowing unchecked across the water from the east, had a distinct chill to it. The deck was illuminated by a series of lamps fuelled by gas produced by the ship. The shore lay some distance away in the dark, its presence only evident through the constellation of lights showing from scattered settlements.
A notice informed me that three revolutions of the deck was almost the equivalent of a mile and so, buttoning my coat against the cold, I set out on my walk.
Moving in a clockwise direction around the ship, which for now at least put the wind behind my back, I strolled towards the stern. The walk helped me to order my thoughts, most of which concerned Russell and my niggling doubts about his guilt. But then my reverie was interrupted by a flurry of activity. I watched as two uniformed crewmen clambered into a lifeboat hanging from davits over the side of the ship, one holding a lantern. Moments later they dropped back down on to the deck and moved on to the next boat, where they repeated the process.
There seemed little reason to doubt that whatever bad news Russell’s assistant had brought with him to the dining room and the search I was now witnessing were related. And the search wasn’t just confined to the lifeboats, for as I rounded the stern and began my walk to the bow, the wind now in my face, I spotted another pair of crewmen on the look-out for something or someone, peering into hatchways, sticking their arms down air ducts and opening lockers. Further along the deck another pair were duplicating the search of the lifeboats I had observed on the opposite site of the ship.
Then I saw Russell, talking heatedly to an officer before sending him off in the direction of the nearest stairwell. He looked set to follow the man but on seeing me he paused.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked, glancing towards the two men in the lifeboat.
He thought for a moment, perhaps uncertain how much he should tell me. ‘We may have a stowaway.’
‘Do stowaways always generate such excitement?’ I asked, in the naïve belief that such things were almost a tradition aboard ships.
‘We have to consider the possibility of sabotage,’ said Russell.
‘Sabotage? But why?’
Russell watched the progress of the search. ‘There could be any number of reasons. She’s going to put a lot of smaller vessels out of business. Now, if you will excuse me, doctor, I must return below decks. And please, not a word of this to any of the passengers. We do not want a panic on our hands.’
‘Of course,’ I replied.
Russell entered a stairwell and I waited for a few moments before following him. Two flights down I caught a glimpse of him disappearing through a door on the landing, the threshold of which took me from a wide, carpeted stairway into a small chamber, where both the floor and the walls were of bare, unpainted metal. Even the air had a different feel to it, a viscous quality redolent with the taste of oil. This place could not be far away from the engine room. Pausing at the top of a spiral staircase, I listened to the sound of voices below me, one of them belonging to the big Scotsman. As they grew fainter I set foot on the first of the steps and cautiously began to make my way down.
After reaching the very bottom of the ship’s hull, I lingered beside an oval hatchway in the bulkhead at the foot of the stairs. The voices were still audible but coming from quite some distance away. Stooping down, I stepped into a long hall with a high ceiling, suspended from which were all manner of pipes and tubes. A series of huge iron furnaces ran the entire length of one of the walls – inside each glowed the embers of coal fires run down for the night. Against the opposite wall were bays filled with coal.
Sitting above the furnaces were the boilers, the great tanks where water was transformed into life-giving steam and carried along to the engines by an arterial system of pipes. Rising between them was the base of a funnel, which above my head pierced no fewer than four interior decks before sprouting through the upper deck and pushing on into the sky for another thirty feet. Up ahead, beyond the boilers and their furnaces, the next bulkhead was punctured like the one behind me by an oval hatchway, which I guessed would give way to a replica of the room in which I was standing; Brunel had explained to me that there were no less than five such rooms, one for each funnel.
Satisfied that Russell and his party had passed through the hatchway before me, I began to approach it. The next instant I was lying flat on my back and listening to someone running back towards the hatchway through which I had entered. By the time I could lift myself sufficiently enough to look back there was no sign of the man who had appeared from nowhere to barge violently into my shoulder.
Regaining my feet and brushing the coal dust from my clothes, I was about to run forward and find Russell when a head, followed by a heavy, naked torso appeared through the hatchway. Once free of the hole this second man charged towards me, his bald head thrust forward like a cannonball in flight. He clearly had no intention of stopping and, having no desire to suffer another impact, I stepped to the side, only to catch my foot on a lump of coal which sent me tumbling once again to the floor. The human cannonball, who from his partial state of dress and coal-stained skin I assumed to be a fireman, stood over me, one of his great leaden feet pinning me to the floor by the wrist. There was a commotion behind him as others disgorged themselves from the hatchway.
‘Got ’im, sir! Got the bastard under me foot!’ shouted my captor over his shoulder.
‘Good work!’ said Russell, appearing at the man’s side.
A third man moved behind my head and dropped a lantern so low that I could feel my eyebrows singeing.
‘Phillips!’ exclaimed Russell. ‘What in God’s name are you doing down here?’
‘I was loo – looking for you,’ I spluttered, the coal dust now beginning to line my throat. ‘Get this – this great ape off me. He’s breaking my wrist.’
‘Shall I ’it ’im, sir?’ enquired the cannonball enthusiastically.
‘No, no,’ ordered a perplexed Russell. ‘Get off him, get him to his feet.’
Quick to comply, the fireman replaced his foot with a hand and, grabbing hold of my aching wrist, dragged me off the floor.
Russell wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. ‘My apologies for that, but you really shouldn’t be down here, Phillips. Now, what were you saying?’
‘I might be able to help.’
‘With all due respect, doctor, as a passenger, this is no business of yours. This area is closed to non-crew members.’
‘That may be, but the man you were looking for was here.’
‘What?’
‘I was following you when someone came dashing out of the dark and pushed me over. They went running back through the hatch up there.’
‘When was this?’
‘Just before this great clunk landed on me.’
‘Would you recognize him again?’
‘I didn’t even see him. He came in from the side, knocked me over and was gone. I guess he must have been hiding behind one of the coal piles. You must have missed him on your way through.’
Russell turned to the fireman. ‘Damn it, Simms! I told you to stay back and watch this compartment. Now whoever it is has got clean away and is causing Lord only knows what mischief.’
‘Sorry, sir, I just popped through to check on boiler three. I was worried about her goin’ right out. I came straight back.’
Despite his heavy-footed approach I felt a little sorry for the big man, who was clearly not the sharpest knife in the drawer. ‘A slippery fish all right,’ I offered by way of commiseration. ‘The fellow may have been on his way out when I arrived and got in his way. He must have fancied his chances better against me than… than with Simms here.’
‘It sounds likely,’ admitted Russell as he took the lamp from the third man. ‘Bostock, escort Dr Phillips back to his stateroom, I’m going to have a good look around in here. Now, goodnight, doctor.’
The sound of a chain, clunking link by massive link through the bow of the ship, dragged me from a deep sleep as it pulled the anchor from the riverbed. The water in the glass beside my bunk boiled like a miniature sea as vibrations from the engines worked their way up through the vessel’s superstructure. Not yet fully awake but eager to be on deck before the ship pulled away, I dressed quickly, postponing my shave until later in the day. My wrist still ached but
no serious damage had been done. A peek through the porthole suggested a fine day in the making, the sky dotted with just a few clouds and the sea clear of the white tips of the day before.
On the deck a crowd was already pressed against the railings and, eager to share the view, I eased myself into a narrow gap between two fellow passengers. Out on the water small boats had gathered, their decks lined with sightseers returning our gaze. Some people had clambered up the great arch of the wheel box, and from up there enjoyed the best vantage point on the ship – if you discounted the tops of the masts of course. Those unable to fit on the box platforms but still eager for a grandstand view lined the footbridge which spanned the width of the deck between the two wheel boxes.
The tops of the paddle wheels were entirely shrouded by the boxes but if you stood far enough away and looked down over the side it was possible to see the blades as they disappeared below the surface of the water. A loud cheer went up as the wheels began to turn, thrashing through the water and adding their propulsion to that provided by the huge screw at the stern. I didn’t hold out much hope for any of the smaller vessels foolhardy enough to steer a course into the maelstrom that was our wake.
We passed the Nore light and the mouth of the estuary widened into the open expanse of the North Sea, where our course veered south towards the Channel. The ship stayed close enough to the shore for us to be able to see the thousands of well-wishers who had come down to the water to watch her steam by. I had just decided to go down for breakfast, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to find Russell, the black bags under his eyes a legacy of the unsettling events of the night before.
‘My apologies for last night’s unfortunate incident, Dr Phillips. I trust your wrist is recovered?’
‘My wrist is fine,’ I said, shaking my hand just to prove the point. ‘And there is no need to apologize. Your man was only doing what he thought was right. As you said, I should not have been down there in the first place, especially as I knew that something was amiss. Did you find the man?’