The Secrets of the Lazarus Club

by Tony Pollard

  The steward, suitably admonished, waved us by, but I saw no sign of the gates closing behind us and people continued to pour through.

  ‘I’ll have somebody’s head for this, mark me, Phillips,’ stormed Brunel.

  People were everywhere. A sea of top hats and ladies’ bonnets lapped around the foot of a platform near the ship’s prow. Crowds swarmed around two huge wooden drums at either end of the ship. These huge bobbins were wound with chains, the links of which were twice the size of a man’s head. Having lost all that remained of his patience, Brunel ran around like a dog chasing rats in a barn, yelling and waving his arms wildly as he tried to clear the spectators away from the ship.

  Chaos reigned, but it would have taken a riot of national proportion to distract me from the spectacle of the ship, the hull of which rose above the pandemonium like a cliff of riveted iron. The bow traced a graceful curve against the skyline while at the stern the suspended blades of the huge propeller threatened movement. The distance between the two extremities, I was sure, would be measurable as a respectable cab fare. Five funnels towered above the straight line of the deck, where a few tiny human silhouettes could be seen moving about.

  The behemoth, which in his lighter moments Brunel referred to as his ‘great babe’, sat side on to the river. Her hull was supported by latticed cradles resting on a raft of rails which ran down the gentle slope of the yard and into the dark water. Halfway along the red-and-black-painted hull was a timber tower, rising up like a medieval siege engine resting against a castle wall, inside of which a set of stairs zigzagged from the ground up to the deck so high above. Alongside it the iron-framed skeleton of one of the ship’s paddle wheels sat as motionless as an off-duty carnival roundabout. The noise of the crowd’s excited chatter competed against the tuneless cacophony produced by a brass band much in need of practice. As if that weren’t bad enough, many people, including most of the musicians, appeared to be drunk.

  With the help of stewards, his assistants and a small army of yard employees Brunel eventually managed to pull the crowd back from the ship and the launching equipment. He was still angry and as I walked towards him was giving someone a piece of his mind. ‘Idiots, what the hell do you think you’re doing? You’ve turned this into a bloody sideshow. I made it clear to the board of directors last week that silence would be essential during the launch, but then you go behind my back and sell damn tickets. How are the men going to hear my orders over the racket made by a drunken, rowdy mob! My God, there will be hell to pay.’

  Brunel finished his tirade and the well-dressed man sloped off with a flea, or rather a swarm of fleas, in his ear.

  To my relief his anger subsided when he caught sight of me again. ‘What do you think of her then?’ he asked as I drew up to him.

  ‘She’s beautiful, Mr Brunel. And her size! None of her pictures does her justice. I’m surprised I couldn’t see her from the hospital!’

  ‘There are those who say she is nothing more than my ego cast in iron, but they forget there is no coal in Australia. As I am tired of saying, if she is to get there and return home without once re-coaling, then she must be big enough to carry enough fuel for the entire voyage.’ He paused for a moment and took a thoughtful draw on his cigar. ‘You know, Phillips, there are times when I think I have built nothing more than a glorified coal bunker.’

  The gates had at last been closed, but this only prompted men and boys to climb up on them to secure a view of the proceedings. Likewise, they were using the yard wall as a grandstand, with so many sitting along its top that I feared collapse was a real possibility. Another man approached and I waited for Brunel to deal out another tongue-lashing. Luckily for him, though, he had nothing to do with the company that owned the ship but was a photographer eager to have Brunel pose for a portrait. Brunel agreed, and the grateful photographer directed us to the nearest of the chain-decked drums, which now it was clear of people would provide a suitable backdrop.

  Before we reached our destination Brunel was accosted by yet another individual, this time a flustered-looking man carrying a sheaf of papers. ‘Mr Brunel, sir, could I ask you for your preference for the ship’s name? The ceremony is due to start within the next half-hour.’

  Brunel pondered the question for the slightest of moments. Then he replied, ‘You can go and call her the Tom Thumb for all I care.’

  The company man referred to one of his sheets of paper. ‘But Mr Brunel, that name doesn’t appear to be on the list.’

  Brunel let out a mocking laugh. ‘Is that so!’

  ‘Shall I remind you of the approved names, sir?’

  ‘No, don’t trouble yourself. Take your list to your superiors and tell them I don’t give a damn what they call the ship.’

  The camera stood on a spindly wooden tripod and was covered by a black sheet. It looked such a fragile little thing when compared with the gargantuan pieces of timber and paraphernalia surrounding it. The photographer gently manœuvred Brunel into the desired position, the drum’s massive chain links behind him. ‘Come on, Phillips, stand beside me and enjoy immortality.’

  As I wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place, the last thing I wanted was proof of my presence. And so, much I am sure to the photographer’s relief, I declined the invitation and stepped behind the camera to watch the picture being made. Despite the photographer’s earlier efforts to pose his subject, Mr Brunel adopted the most casual of stances, looking away from the camera with hands in trouser pockets and cigar wedged into the corner of his mouth. I wondered whether the photograph would take in his legs beneath the knee, as his trouser bottoms and shoes were spattered with mud after his frantic crowd-herding escapade – if it did, then a more fitting expression of the man’s dynamism I could not imagine.

  ‘Stand perfectly still please, Mr Brunel,’ requested the photographer, his head shrouded beneath the black sheet. Removing the cap from the lens, he began to count. When he reached eight the cap was replaced and he stepped from under the shroud, thanking the engineer for his cooperation. In return Brunel asked for copies to be sent to his office.

  I checked my watch. It was after one.

  ‘When are you going to launch?’ I asked. ‘I have to be back at the hospital by four o’clock.’

  ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be in the water long before then,’ said Brunel, looking up at the hull, his tight jaw betraying a hint of self-doubt.

  The prospect of being late for my appointment with Sir Benjamin, or, God forbid, not arriving at all, was not one to be relished, but nevertheless my inquisitiveness again got the better of me. ‘How does it work?’

  ‘What?’ he replied, clearly distracted.

  ‘The launch, how does it work?’

  He pointed towards the interlaced timber beams wedged under the curve of the keel. ‘Hydraulic rams give her a push, and then steam winches pull her down the rails, via chains sheafed on barges anchored in the river.’

  ‘Why are you launching her sideways? Don’t most of them go in bow first?’

  ‘They do, but she’s nearly 700 feet long, and the river at this point isn’t much wider. I set out to build a ship, Phillips, not a bridge. And this,’ he went on, slapping the wooden cylinder around which the chain was wound, ‘is a checking drum. There’s another one near the stern. They will control the descent of the bow and stern once the ship starts to move down the rails. There are also brakes on the cradles themselves. The drum plays out the chain attached to the hull until we need to stop her. Then we press down on the levers’ – he gestured towards a pair of long shafts extending from the base of the drum – ‘and wait for the other end to catch up and then let her go again.’

  ‘Checks and balances,’ I remarked.

  ‘Exactly. And all controlled by yours truly from up there.’ He half turned and pointed at a precarious-looking rostrum way up above our heads. It extended from the side of the deck like an unfinished footbridge. It was positioned exactly halfway along the ship’s length, providing a clear
view of both drums and allowing him to judge the relative movements of bow and stern. Rather him than me, I thought.

  ‘What if she hits the water stern or bow first?’ I asked, intrigued by the great care to be taken in keeping her on a parallel course.

  ‘If we allow one end to get too far out of kilter,’ he replied, using his forearm to demonstrate the shift in movement, ‘she won’t get to the water. With the weight unevenly distributed like that she’ll stick and we’ll be lucky to get her moving again.’ The prospect was a daunting one, and I couldn’t help but admire his ability to operate under such extreme pressure. ‘But before we can get started we’ve got to get the damned naming ceremony out of the way. Come on.’

  We made our way to the raised platform near the bow. At the top of the steps an uncomfortable-looking Brunel was greeted by a flurry of handshakes from the men gathered there and with curtsies from the excitable females. Duty done, he introduced me to a tall, heavy-set gentleman with a red chinstrap beard. ‘Dr Phillips, this is Mr John Scott Russell, my partner in this enterprise.’

  ‘He means that I built the ship he designed – this is my yard,’ said the big Scotsman, somewhat proprietorially.

  ‘Quite an operation you have here, Mr Russell.’

  ‘Let us hope so, doctor,’ he said, before turning his attention to Brunel. ‘I trust you find everything in order?’ The engineer glowered. ‘This,’ said Russell, gesturing to the crowd in the yard, ‘had nothing to do with me. You know how the company views our finances – anything to make an extra shilling or two.’

  ‘We will discuss shillings later, Mr Russell. In the meantime, let us hope that these… these people don’t get in the way of our task.’

  Russell nodded and stepped off the platform.

  The steward in charge called us to order and handed a bottle of champagne attached to a cord to a young lady, who Brunel informed me was the daughter of one of the company directors. There was a moment of hesitation before the man with the list of ship’s names whispered something into her ear. She smiled and without further ado announced, ‘I name this ship Leviathan, and God bless all who sail in her.’ With that, she let go of the bottle, which span through the air and shattered against the metal hull. There was a ripple of applause as the champagne dripped down the plates of painted iron. I turned to Brunel and said quietly, ‘They decided against Tom Thumb then.’

  He laughed and, clearly excited by the prospect, told me he was going up to the launch podium, suggesting I find myself a good vantage point somewhere at a safe distance.

  Accompanied by his assistants, Brunel climbed the steps inside the siege tower while I made my way back up the slope towards the gates, where an expectant hush had fallen over the assembled mass. It was only when I got closer that I realized stewards led by Russell himself were working their way through the crowd calling for quiet.

  Along with a few other privileged sightseers I was permitted to roam fairly freely in the area between the crowd, now kept in check by a rope strung out across the yard, and the ship. Selecting a rusty circular saw mounted on a sturdy trolley as my own viewing platform, I clambered up and, careful to avoid the jagged blade, sat with my legs dangling beneath me.

  The diminutive figure of Brunel appeared on the podium, his hat removed so as to prevent it blowing away in the breeze which caused the flags he held in each hand to flutter healthily. The one in his right hand was red and that in his left green. I guessed that these were to be used in the same fashion as a conductor’s baton, to send signals to the teams of men who had by now mustered around the levers of the forward and aft checking drums. Other groups of labourers were positioned at the rams distributed along the length of the ship.

  A shout went up: it was Brunel, who at the same time waved the red flag from side to side over his head. The cry was repeated, this time coming from somewhere in the yard, and followed by the sound of chains crashing to the ground as the ship’s restraints were released.

  The Leviathan was unbound, but as yet unmoved. Smoke belched into the air as steam winches took up the strain on the chains running through the barges anchored in the river behind her. With a flourish of the green flag the hydraulic rams on the landward side were engaged. The hull groaned and shivered, but despite the pull and push exerted by what Brunel had explained were some of the most powerful machines known to man the ship refused to yield. But then, just when I was beginning to think Brunel may as well try to move a mountain, the bow shuddered and shifted a few feet.

  Almost immediately the stern began to slip away, the iron shoes on the cradle screaming as they slid over the metal rails. The ground shook and I took fright as the saw blade behind me made an involuntary half-turn in response. Unlike the bow, the stern did not come to a sudden juddering halt and continued to move at quite dramatic speed, very soon passing what I judged to be the line of the bow, in exactly the fashion that Brunel had demonstrated with the movement of his forearm.

  The stern of the ship, having shifted further down the ramp than had been expected at this stage, took up more chain than had been let out from the stern checking drum, which began to spin wildly on its axle. The friction produced a cloud of smoke and, through this, the crowd and I watched in horror as the brake levers shot upwards, moving like the spokes on a spinning wheel. The drum’s crew, who were at the time resting on the levers, were thrown up into the air. It was as though they had been caught in an explosion, their bodies flying this way and that, limbs flailing. Women in the crowd screamed and men shouted in panic. Brunel frantically waved both flags above his head, and all means of propulsion were instantly halted and the brakes on the cradles applied. The ship shuddered to a halt – in fact, it appeared to me to have done so as soon as the drum began to spin, almost as though she sensed what damage she had done.

  I dropped off the saw bench and ran towards the scene of the accident, losing my hat somewhere on the way. ‘Step back! I’m a doctor, give me room!’ I yelled at the men gathering around, quickly moving from one fallen brakeman to the next, trying to gauge the extent of their injuries. Six of them lay on the ground, scattered among the lengths of timber like so much flotsam on the beach, three of them knocked unconscious. Three more men hobbled around in a state of shock, one of them clutching what I could see to be a broken arm. My medical bag was still in the carriage, which I could only hope had by now arrived at the yard.

  Brunel, accompanied by his entourage of assistants and clearly out of breath after running down the stairs, stepped into the scene of carnage some minutes behind me.

  One of the injured men was in a very bad way, head twisted and blood trickling from his mouth and nose. I crouched beside him and listened to his breathing, which was shallow and erratic. I took off my coat to provide him with some comfort but he was dead before I could cover him so I closed his eyes and gently pulled the coat up over his head.

  Brunel was standing over me, his face ashen. ‘His neck was broken,’ I said, switching my attentions to one of the unconscious men.

  ‘You can’t blame this on the company,’ bellowed an enraged Russell as he broke through the crowd. ‘If we’d used wooden rails and iron sleeves like I’d suggested then she wouldn’t have stalled like that. But no, you wouldn’t have it. Iron against iron it had to be. Always the same with you, isn’t it, Isambard? If there’s a problem, throw iron at it. Now look where it’s got you.’

  Brunel made no reply and, unable to do anything for the victims other than coax the walking wounded into sitting down, he wandered away.

  Following my instructions, one of Brunel’s subordinates, a young chap who had distinguished himself by volunteering to assist, returned from the carriage with my bag, which I exchanged for a request for litters on which to carry away the injured. The dead man was laid out on a ladder, carried by a man at either end. Reclaiming my coat, I replaced it with a tattered old blanket, taking one last look at the man’s pale and bloodied face before covering it again. Two wagons were commandeered to take the w
ounded to the nearest hospital at Mile End. Once everyone was boarded and made as comfortable as could be expected I told the men accompanying them to inform the hospital that they were dealing with serious concussions, multiple broken bones and some risk of internal bleeding among the most seriously injured. I watched as the dreadful convoy made its way slowly through the crowd.

  Back at the scene of the accident I came across Brunel by the ship’s stern, which sat much closer to the river than the bow. He was alone and seemed lost in his thoughts. At last noticing my presence he thanked me for my efforts and after ascertaining that the injured had been removed he set about preparing for a second launch attempt. I expressed my surprise at his desire to continue so soon after what had happened, but he was determined to proceed, explaining that it would be weeks before the next spring tide.

  Giving fresh orders to the men, he oversaw the resetting of the equipment and then once again ascended the siege tower. The crowd of spectators was rapidly thinning, many of them having seen more than enough for one day. I was of the same opinion myself but given the chance of the accident repeating itself felt duty-bound to stay. Retracing my steps, I came across my hat, which had been crushed by someone’s clumsily placed foot, before resuming my position at the saw.

  A new stern-drum crew had been assembled. This time, though, they stood well clear of the dangerous device, ready to pull on newly attached ropes if the need should arise. The precaution was unnecessary, as this time the ship didn’t budge an inch, and the effort was quickly abandoned. I later learned from Brunel that one of the steam winches had stripped the teeth of a gear, totally disabling it.

  When I looked at my watch again it was almost four o’clock. I had missed my meeting with Sir Benjamin but consoled myself with the knowledge that, had I not been at the yard, then there was every chance that more than one man would have died, and a stiff rebuke from my superior seemed a small price to pay for that.