George Stephenson

by Hunter Davies

  All the big guns replied in the affirmative to their invitations, from the Iron Duke and Sir Robert Peel to Fanny Kemble and George’s Newcastle friend and partner, Michael Longridge. George wrote him a personal invitation – mentioning first of all yet another trip he’d organised for the directors. It was, of course, another success for ‘yours allways truly’.

  Liverpool July 4th 1830

  My dear Sir,

  I duly received yours of the 26th of June. I am well aware that the sentiments expressed in it are sincere, and I know no one who rejoices more than you do at my welfare. The trip was a very delightful one to me, as we took the Directors and a load along with us for the first time. Mr. Bald from Scotland was with us and was I believe highly gratified. If I had slacked the Reins of our horse on that day, they would have run over the ground in less time.

  Being as you know a very cautious man and desirous of doing things moderately, we were much longer than we need have been.

  In coming back with the Directors not more than half the power of the engine was applied on many parts of the line. On our return home Mr. Lawrence had a splendid dinner provided for the party.

  The formal opening of the Railway it is intended shall take place on the 15th of September, when I shall be glad to see you, and hope you will come a few days before, by doing which you will have an opportunity of seeing the different horses training on the ground. You ought I think to bring Mrs. Longridge with you, as it will I should imagine be a treat to her. I will take care to have Lodgings provided for you either at my house or elsewhere.

  I am dear Sir,

  Yours allways truly,

  GEO. STEPHENSON

  Mic: Longridge Esqr.

  p.s. You shall have my opinion on the form of Rails in the course of a few days. I think the I Rails an infringement of your Patent, I have seen Foster and told him so.

  G.S.

  As Fanny Kemble had predicted, there was a great demand for tickets and places for the opening celebration. Guest houses suddenly started boasting about their nearness to the railway – a complete reversal of only a year or two previous when no one wanted to be thought to be anywhere near the dreadful railway line. A hotel in Wavertree Road, Liverpool, described itself as only a few hundreds from the railway tunnel, of all places, and offered ‘sitting apartments and bedrooms, furnished in the completest manner’, and ‘wines and spirits of the choicest quality’. Another hotel owner built a grandstand outside his hotel, and a massive public one, holding one thousand people, was constructed beside the Sankey Viaduct. There is an early example of ticket touting, at least that’s how it appears from a local Liverpool paper where a stock broker was offering seats in the carriages to people who bought shares through him. He must have managed to collar quite a number of tickets, none of which was meant for sale in any way but given free to directors’ guests and other important people.

  Two days before the opening, Liverpool was crammed with visitors, just as it is today before the Grand National, and it was difficult to find anywhere to eat or sleep. On the day itself, Wednesday, 15 September, crowds were assembling three hours before the opening at the company’s engine yards at Crown Street and at least fifty thousand had gathered to watch the trains pull out of Liverpool.

  There were eight locomotives, each pulling its own train, each with its own colour to assist the important passengers find their place. The tickets were printed according to the colour of the train.

  Engine Driver Colour

  Northumbrian George Stephenson Lilac

  Phoenix Rob. Stephenson, Jr Green

  North Star Rob. Stephenson, Sr Yellow

  Rocket Joseph Locke Light Blue

  Dart Thos Gooch Purple

  Comet Wlm Allcard Deep red

  Arrow F. Swanwick Pink

  Meteor Anthony Harding Brown

  The Northumbrian was the newest and most developed of the Rocket type engines, but even as it led the triumphal procession Robert Stephenson had ready for delivery in Newcastle an even newer engine which was to replace it as a brand leader in a matter of weeks – the Planet.

  George was in charge of Northumbrian, and he probably did most of the driving himself, but there were a couple of brakesmen on each engine to do the dirty work. There was also a flagman assigned to each train, travelling at the rear, acting as the first guardsman.

  From the list, it will be seen that the others drivers were George’s son, his brother, and his leading assistant engineers, such as Locke (now back to help), Gooch and Allcard, all known to railway historians for their later successes. Swanwick was hardly more than a boy, the son of a great friend of George’s, and had only recently been taken on as one of George’s apprentices (paying fifteen shillings a week for the privilege). He later became George’s private secretary and assistant.

  The Duke of Wellington, as prime minister, was in his own specially designed carriage, dripping with gilt and crimson drapes, which was in the middle of the leading train drawn by Northumbrian. The other VIPs included Lord Grey (later prime minister), Lord Melbourne (later prime minister), Sir Robert Peel (later prime minister), the Earl of Salisbury (father of a later prime minister), Prince Esterhazy (the Austrian ambassador); a host of earls and viscounts including Gower, Wilton, Glengall, Lauderdale, Belgrave, Ingestre, Cassilis, Sandon, Colville, Dacre, Delamere, Granville, Stanley, Skelmersdale and Wharncliffe; many leading MPs such as William Huskisson, Arbuthnot, Calcraft, Gascoyne; Bishops like Coventry and Lichfield; engineers such as George Rennie, Rastrick, Wood and Vignoles. It was estimated that the eight trains held 722 VIP passengers in about thirty separate coaches.

  It is not recorded if the king had been invited, though the status of the monarchy at the time was not very high. George IV, who had just died in June 1830, had been known mainly for his girlfriends and good times and had been succeeded by his brother William IV, who was known for his love of the sea and nicknamed Sailor. (Without knowing it, everyone was waiting for Victoria.)

  They’d been very lucky to get the Duke of Wellington and he’d been rather brave to come, considering that reports from the northern provinces had indicated that he was no longer considered the country’s number one hero, saviour of the nation, but a reactionary old style Tory who was against any change, especially anything smacking of parliamentary reform. He’d already fallen out with some of his younger, more liberal Tory cabinet ministers, such as Huskisson, over his intransigence. Several moderate Tories had pushed the duke into attending the opening, hoping he might make his peace with Huskisson, bring the extremes of the party together and keep the reforming Whigs at bay. The reform movement had been growing for some time and was finally to sweep away Wellington and the Tories later that year and allow in Grey as prime minister, maker of the 1832 reform bill. Parliamentary reform was, however, just one element in a general feeling of social discontent, made worse by unemployment and economic depression. The Tories were particularly hated in the north west since the Peterloo massacre of 1819 when the Tory government called in the troops to a public meeting of factory workers and eleven people had been killed.

  The duke had never believed the stories from the north about dissatisfaction, dismissing it as simply a few radical agitators stirring up the working classes, and considered himself perfectly safe to come and see, and be seen, at the Liverpool opening. In one way it could be argued that railways – to which he was lending his great name by attending the opening – were indirectly hastening the reform movement. ‘Parliamentary reform must follow soon after the opening,’ wrote a Manchester reformer just before the event. ‘A million of persons will pass over it and see that hitherto unseen village of Newton; and they must be convinced of the absurdity of its sending two members to Parliament whilst Manchester sends none.’

  The directors knew, even if the duke didn’t, how unpopular he was and had made elaborate arrangements for his security. Police guarded the entire thirty miles of the route and all railway crossings had been closed except one at Huyt
on. (Seat of yet another later PM.) All the same, there was talk of disaster in the air. In his diary, just two days before the opening, Greville records a talk with his brother-in-law in which he mentions the great ceremony due on the fifteenth, but ‘fears ruin and the collapse of the Government’. One of the precautions taken to ensure the safety of the duke was that his train should have sole use of one line of the track while the other seven trains would proceed, at six-hundred-yard intervals, on the other line. If this had not been the case, disaster might have been averted.

  A cannon boomed to announce the start of the processions and George’s Northumbrian drew out of Liverpool to the cheers of the crowds, pulling the train containing the Duke of Wellington and the other eighty highly important guests, including Fanny Kemble.

  Though the weather was uncertain [she wrote], enormous crowds of densely packed people lined the road, shouting and waving hats and handkerchiefs as we flew by them. What with the sound of these cheering multitudes and the tremendous velocity with which we were bourne past them, my spirits rose to the true champagne height, and I never enjoyed anything so much as the first hour of our progress.

  The procession got safely over the Sankey Viaduct, an ideal spot if any saboteurs had had a plan to dislocate the duke’s train. The crowds in the grandstands and those below, looking up from the boats on the canal, cheered and applauded. George Stephenson, having one line to himself, was able to stop and start the Northumbrian at will without fear of any other train running into the rear, and so allowed the Duke and the other chief guests to take their time exclaiming over the remarkable engineering constructions. The duke was heard to say ‘Magnificent’, ‘Stupendous’. Behind them, on the other line, the other seven trains had to wait patiently for the white flag to signal them on.

  It had been arranged that at Parkside, some seventeen miles from Liverpool, the duke’s train would take a scheduled stop for water. It had also been arranged ‘that at this time the other seven trains would overtake on the other line, thus giving the duke a fine view of each of the trains steaming past.

  The duke’s train, having taken on water, stopped and waited. Two trains arrived and passed successfully, the Phoenix and the North Star, and were duly admired by all. There was a slight delay before the third train arrived and while they waited several passengers decided to get out and stretch their legs, including William Huskisson and Prince Esterhazy. This was strictly against the rules. All passengers had been given verbal and written instructions on no account to leave their carriages. Huskisson was standing in the gap between the two rails of the second line, discussing with friends the wonders they’d seen when the duke, sitting in the corner seat of his carriage, caught sight of him and gave a nod and wave of his hand. It was the sign many Tories had been hoping for, wanting the two statesmen to make up their disagreement and become friends once again. The duke opened his carriage, leaned out and shook Huskisson’s hand. They’d scarcely begun a conversation when there were shouts that the third train was in sight at last and was about to steam past them on the other track. Prince Esterhazy, with great presence of mind, managed to scramble into the duke’s carriage. The other guests either rushed across the track to the far side and got on to the safety of the embankment or flattened themselves beside the Duke’s train. Unfortunately for Huskisson he did none of those things. He was confused and frightened and far from agile. According to Creevey, he hadn’t been well since attending the late king’s funeral. He’d done too much kneeling and developed paralysis in one leg and thigh. He lost his balance and fell and the third train, which happened to be Rocket, passed over his thighs. ‘I have met my death,’ he was heard to shout.

  If the space between the tracks had only been wider, six feet as they are today, Huskisson might have escaped. But someone, and it can only have been George, had had the bright idea of making the space between the tracks 4ft 8½ ins, the same as the width of the tracks themselves. The theory was that extra wide loads would be able to run down the middle at off-peak times. (This was agreed to be ridiculous years later and the LNWR had to go to the trouble of altering the tracks.) When therefore Huskisson fell in the narrow gap between the tracks, through panic or paralysis, his legs were splayed across the track, right in the path of the oncoming Rocket.

  Huskisson didn’t die at once, though he might easily have done. There was complete pandemonium with everyone screaming, shouting and arguing, not knowing what to do. Only George took any action. He uncoupled all but one carriage from Northumbrian and placed Huskisson inside. Two doctors in the party applied a tourniquet with a handkerchief and George set off at full speed in the direction of Manchester. (He travelled the fifteen miles to Eccles, on the outskirts of Manchester, at an average speed of thirty-six miles per hour, a world record, not that anyone was noting such things at the time.)

  William Huskisson died that evening in the vicar’s house at Eccles, after dictating a codicil to his will. ‘It is an extraordinary fact,’ reported the Manchester Guardian, ‘and evinces the uncommon firmness and self possession of the right hon. gentleman under such awful circumstances, that after he had signed the papers he turned back, as it were, to place a dot over the i and another between the W. and H.’ His last spoken words were equally measured. ‘The country has had the best of me. I trust it will do justice to my public character. I regret not the few years which might have remained to me, except for those dear ones whom I leave behind.’

  Huskisson was aged sixty. He had been an eminent and radical president of the board of trade, a long time supporter of the Liverpool Railway and had now become enshrined forever as the first casualty of the railway age. (Various navvies had been seriously injured, some fatally, in the construction of the Darlington and the Liverpool lines, but navvies don’t go down in history.)

  Back at the scene of the accident, it took the great men of the day an hour and a half to decide their next move. The seven trains stood idle as the duke and Sir Robert Peel argued that it was only good taste to cancel everything, pack up the celebrations and go home, but the leading citizens of Manchester said that a multitude was waiting for them in Manchester and the mob might take over if they didn’t arrive. ‘Something in that,’ said the duke. So they eventually set off for Manchester, all their best laid schemes and timetables completely ruined, stopping on the way to get the latest report on Huskisson and to pick up George and Northumbrian. A lot of coupling and uncoupling and tying of chains took place as the trains were rearranged.

  Manchester was indeed in a state of mob rule. The military had been called in to help the police but the crowds had grown impatient with the long delay. When the trains finally arrived the crowds invaded the line and forced the duke and his long procession to crawl into town. The duke had to put up with rowdies banging on his window, shaking their fists, throwing missiles and waving banners right in his face. ‘At the Manchester station,’ says Smiles, ‘the political element began to display itself; placards about “Peterloo” etc were exhibited and brickbats were thrown at the carriage containing the Duke.’ Jeaffreson, in his description of the arrival is even more explicit about who was causing the trouble. ‘A Lancashire mob is never docile; and just then political discontents had made the lower orders especially unruly.’

  The duke, wisely, refused to leave his carriage. When the train did eventually push itself into the station he managed to kiss a few babies which several well-wishers had pressed upon him, but kept safely inside. He was greatly relieved when the procession finally turned round to head back for Liverpool. The journey back was a nightmare, with mix-ups between the trains now that their schedules had broken down, couplings breaking and engines having to be watered and refuelled.

  It started to rain, which made the rails very dangerous, but even worse, there were reports that the mob had put sand on the line. They went as slowly as possible, to avoid any crashes, and were soon travelling in the pitch dark. Signalling lamps, or railway lamps of any sort, had yet to be invented. However, they m
et with only one minor obstacle on the track, a wheelbarrow which was crushed harmlessly, and they finally arrived safely in Liverpool at ten at night.

  Apart from the death of Huskisson, it was a successful day, but there was no forgetting the death of Huskisson. The duke personally never forgot and was against railways till the end of his life. In the public mind, that is all most people remember today about the opening of the Liverpool–Manchester Railway. But it was the greatest single day in the history of railways. George had reached the pinnacle of his lifetime’s work. The railway age had begun.

  13

  AFTER LIVERPOOL, THE WORLD

  What happened in Liverpool and Manchester before, during and after the grand opening was in the next twenty years mirrored in every town worthy of the name, not just in Britain but in Europe, the USA and throughout the industrial world. The hardest railways were yet to be built. The biggest locomotives were yet to be created. The multi-million-pound schemes had yet to be dreamt up and fought over. George Stephenson had many more wonderful constructions ahead. But for railways, and for George Stephenson, the worst was over. After 1830, railways became matters of public importance, public concern and of intense public interest.

  The Liverpool opening, unlike the Darlington opening, was a commercialised event. Public and promoters and souvenir makers, all of them knew that they had witnessed a major event in the progress of industrial civilisation. You don’t run off several thousand penny handkerchiefs showing scenes from the Liverpool–Manchester Railway unless you know there’s an audience panting for them – and not simply for the purpose of wiping noses. One of them came up at Sothebys in 1945, part of the enormous railway collection built up by the late C.F. Dendy Marshall. It was made of cotton, measured twenty-nine inches by thirty-two and realised £16. It would fetch five times that today. On sale at Liverpool that famous day, and for a long time afterwards, were scores of other articles showing the engines or bridges and aqueducts. You could have bought a papier mâché tea tray, a quart mug, a tobacco jar, a wall plaque, a glass tumbler, a snuff box, all of them a souvenir of the happy day, and most of them with a picture of Rocket. The Rocket had completely captured the public imagination, becoming the best-known railway engine in the world. It still is.