by Sally Orr
For the remainder of the evening, she and George had no further interaction. She sat with the wallflowers watching the dancers and sipping wine. She suffered a moment of panic when George requested a dance from a stunning Diamond of the First Water in a purple velvet gown, and the lady responded by turning her back to him in a motion of indirect refusal.
Meta bit her lower lip, considering if she could mask his cut by running down to pretend the next waltz was hers.
Before she had the chance to take the first step, Lady Sarah returned to his side with Grizel in tow.
After George and her friend took their places on the ballroom floor, she sighed in relief.
Lady Sarah looked in her direction and winked.
She smiled in return and watched in gratification as George seemed never to be without a dance partner. If, by chance, their gazes met again, he immediately turned away. Surprised by his response, she bitterly regretted the loss of their previous shared confidences.
After one o’clock in the morning, as the ball began to draw to a close, she boldly resolved to seek out his company for a polite greeting, if only to further judge the current state of affairs between them. It took several minutes before she summoned the courage to approach him. Gathering her fortitude, she marched to his side and addressed him. “I hope you had a pleasant evening, sir?”
He narrowed his eyes, his black brows knit. His expression appeared like a thunderstorm rolling in over the rooftops. “This evening is a foolish waste of time and money. As I mentioned to your persuasive friend, while I appreciate the Learned Ladies’ efforts upon my behalf—”
She dropped her head and kept her gaze on his gleaming black shoes.
After a long pause, his stiff posture relaxed, and he exhaled audibly. He lowered his voice. “Are you well?”
She nodded.
“I have missed…” He straightened, voice hardening. “This ball cannot possibly make a difference, since the damage has already been done. Madam.” He bowed and strode away.
Nineteen
“I’m not lying,” George said, standing in the overheated engine room. He stood next to a large set of plans for a new drainage system and watched Isambard light a Meerschaum. Soon the acrid smell of burnt tobacco filled the small brick room.
After two or three puffs on his pipe, Isambard strode to the grimy window and gazed out to the day’s spectators gathered around the top of the pit.
George joined him at the window. Outside, the day was a chilly one, the probable reason there were only twenty or so visitors huddled in small groups. “I’m not lying, because I have no reason to do so. I haven’t chased females for years. Today I’m more circumspect, one lady for five years, one very discreet lady. When young and foolish, I—shall we say—enjoyed myself,” George said, smiling from the recollection of pleasant memories. “Women were a game between me and two of my closest friends. I know your history too. All men in their twenties are idiots, admit it.”
Isambard laughed and returned to examine the drawings. “Well then, that must account for my recent behavior, since I just turned twenty. You see I have this small boat I’m fond of. You know, a pleasant Sunday outing, willow tree branches hanging over the river to provide a private spot.” This memory caused a knowing smile to grace his lips. “But, my friend, you are over a foot taller and two stones heavier than I, so you resemble the tall, dark hero in many of the three-volume novels ladies love to read. My guess is that you are vastly more successful than I could ever dream of. However, if you tell me you are not currently wooing the ladies on the side, I believe you. This whole mess, the postponement of your promotion, is all due to the publication of those field guides. If not for your book, the ladies would never have come up with their idea to publish a similar field guide. So there is some justice involved. Even you must admit that.”
“Yes, I started the ball rolling.” George continued to stare out the small window. Isambard was right, of course, but the die was cast. While Parker’s brother suspended the publication of another edition of his field guide, the books that were already sold would never vanish. The remainder of his life would be spent dealing with them, in one way or another. He ground his teeth. All young gentlemen are idiots, but he was a particularly fine example.
With his chance of promotion delayed or even destroyed, he would do as Isambard suggested in the first place and keep the line. Stay out of trouble for probably years to come before another opportunity for advancement became available. Either that, or earn it by some great accomplishment. He sighed and leaned his forehead against the window’s cool glass.
When he glanced at the pit again, he saw Fitzy, drawing pad in hand, heading toward them. The red fire of rage descended from the mere thought of the boy’s sister and her friends. So to avoid insulting or frightening the young man, George decided to escape to the barge on the river. The barge held the diving bell and its derrick, air pump, and bags of clay needed to plug leaks. He turned to Isambard. “Didn’t you mention a job needed in regard to the clay bags the other day? Did you want a count or was there something else?”
Isambard appeared lost in the drainage plans before his scrutiny. He glanced up. “Pardon? Ah, yes. The barge is moored over the spot where we are currently digging. We just learned a collier has been moored on the spot for a year and may have excavated ballast, so there could be an indentation in the riverbed. I plan to descend in the bell tomorrow and map the area. What I need today is an estimate of the volume of our current clay bags; say if the whole lot was thrown over the side. We may need to plug a hole as great as thirty or twenty feet, so we may need to procure additional bags.”
George nodded. “I’d like to avoid the Broadsham boy at the moment.” He pulled his lips into a tight line. “At least until I no longer feel like throttling his sister.”
Isambard continued to focus on the plans.
“So I will go and make estimates of the volume. Is that all you want?”
The engineer waved his hand. “Yes, I mean no.” He looked up. “I’d like your opinion too on the length of the hazel branches stuck through each clay bag. We may have to lengthen them in the future if we want our plug of clay bags to hold together. Oh, and be sure to ask Mr. Duff if the new stronger chain for the bell has been tested more than once.”
George nodded and then escaped to the dinghy for the short journey to the barge. The chilly day helped quell the normal stench of the river. For several minutes, he glanced across the Thames to the St. Catherine docks on the north side. All of that part of London appeared alive. Tall ships, their cargo holds filled to bursting, waited for a chance to unload. Upstream, past the Tower, London stood as a hazy outline below a coal soot–tinged sky. The dense, black air made the spire on top of St. Paul’s Cathedral difficult to fully distinguish.
He climbed up onto the fifty-foot wooden barge, a vessel of significant length and breadth. On one end loomed the giant diving bell, shaped like an oversized cowbell. In the middle of the barge rose a large derrick to lift and lower the bell into the river. Piled high on the opposite end were at least a hundred saltpeter bags filled with blue clay, hazel rods protruding through each one. The whole lot of bags resembled a pile of bloated hedgehogs.
Mr. Duff, the man in charge of the vessel, wiped his grimy hands on his leather apron and shook his hand. “Pleasure to see you here today, gov. What’s it to be then?”
George could feel the dirty slime of the Thames inadvertently transferred to his hand. He gave the man the courtesy of not embarrassing him by wiping his palm. “First off, have you tested the new chain again?”
“No worry there. Yesterday, we hauled it up and down twice. Like clockwork she was.”
“Good. Let’s hope that is one problem solved. What I really need today is a bag count. I must estimate the possible volume of the plug on the riverbed by taking measurements of the pile. Then calculate the area that might be achieved with the bags we have. Shouldn’t take more than an hour, I should think.”
“Right then,” Mr. Duff said. “I’ll leave you to it. Give a shout if you need assistance.”
“Will do.” George sat close to the pile and began to assemble a long measuring stick. An hour later, he had a pretty good estimate of the area the clay bags could cover if they were all thrown overboard and placed into position. If a small hole, not more than inches, broke through the tunnel’s ceiling, the current number of bags stored on the barge and in reserve should be sufficient to stop the water from flooding most of the tunnel. But if the leak was larger, they must have more clay bags on the ready. Once finished with his estimates, he wondered if Fitzy had completed his sketches, so he could return to the tunnel without running into the boy.
A shrill, long whistle broke the silence across the Thames.
George recognized the warning signal of water intrusion into the tunnel. By now men would be frantically pressing straw and plaster up against the water leak, hoping to at least slow it until a more permanent repair. Nonessential personnel would be pouring out of the tunnel. His heartbeat escalated. Had Fitzy made it to safety? How could he ever face Meta if the boy came to harm? He almost jumped into the punt to return to shore but stopped in his tracks the moment he saw another engineer on site that day standing on the dock and waving his arms.
George’s heartbeat escalated until he could hear it in his ears.
The young man cupped his hands and shouted. “Leak in number twelve, Drexel. A big one. Use the bell to see what we got from the top.”
Then Isambard came running to the end of the dock. “Man the bell, men. Leak in number twelve coming in fast. Estimate two hundred thirty feet from the water’s edge. Hurry!”
George and the three men on the barge leaped into action.
He and Mr. Duff hurriedly tried to estimate the proper distance to drop the bell so it would be over the leak. Meanwhile, the engineer and workmen readied the air pump, leather hoses, and derrick.
As quickly as possible, they maneuvered the barge directly over the estimated site of the leak and threw out several anchors. Mr. Duff and a workman then manned the swing crane to hoist the heavy bell several feet into the air and position it over the water.
Mr. Duff started to remove his coat and hat, but George held his arm. “I’ll do it.”
“No, gov, that’s my job.”
George knew the man had two young children. Under no circumstances would he allow a father to risk his life while he was on board. “Pulling rank, Duff. Let me know if there is anything new about the bell I need to know.”
Mr. Duff paused, glanced at the shore, and for whatever reason, he nodded. “You’ve been down afore; you’ll do well. Let’s get to work.”
George began to strip off his heavy waterproofed clothes. It occurred to him that if he was successful stopping the leak, it might go a long way to the restoration of his esteem in the eyes of the Brunels. If he successfully plugged the hole before any real damage could be done to the great shield, they might quickly forget about “the stallion not in the studbook.”
He shed his coat and waistcoat before jumping into the Thames. The cold water stung like a thousand daggers piercing his skin. He clenched his teeth and focused on a positive thought, like a promotion. Thankfully, the river seemed to be at slack water, so he would not have to struggle with a strong current. However, the tide would eventually return. Giving him plenty of motivation to get the job done as quickly as possible.
Surrounded by the clanging of heavy iron chains, the men on the barge started to lower the giant iron bell into the Thames. Once the bell was almost covered with water, George took a deep breath and swam under the bell’s edge into the dim interior. He gasped for air, but after hearing the hiss of compressed air from two pumps delivered through a leather hose into the bell, he began to relax.
He sat on a small ledge and watched the water rise up inside of the rusty dome, grateful for the light brush of pumped air upon his cheeks. He waited and watched the water below him darken as the men above lowered the bell to almost thirty feet, hovering just above the Thames riverbed. A sign painted on the inside of the bell stated: “More air, knock once; less air, knock twice; pull up, knock three times.”
For several agonizing minutes, he focused on the riverbed, as the bell’s position slowly moved. Then he saw the leak. Nothing more than a tiny, dark gash in the middle of a craterlike indentation on the sandy floor. He lowered himself into the water, feet first, to examine the hole.
The small, dark crack of several inches appeared next to a silver streak of water rushing into the tunnel. George tested the depth by shoving his finger into the hole. His finger traveled mere inches before it hit a solid object, possibly the top of the great shield. Not wasting any more time, he started to layer the few iron rods piled in the bell in a lattice pattern over the indentation in the riverbed. The first one disappeared in the swirl of disturbed river bottom. “Damnation.” The thought of failure and instant death from being sucked into the hole crossed his mind for a second or two. He closed his stinging eyes and kept heaving the remaining heavy iron rods into place.
When finished, he signaled the men to drop numerous clay bags.
Once several bags were dropped, George swam in and out of the bell to move the bags into position over the leak. After repeatedly holding his breath for a minute or two, he tugged the bags to spread over the iron rods to make a wider plug. After who knows how many minutes later, he pulled himself into the bell, breathing hard. He waited a minute or two before he observed the first signs of success, the lack of any silver streaks of rushing water. Instead, the water around the bags appeared calm, as revealed by the disturbed sediment slowly falling down like snow back onto the riverbed. A dark outline of bags appeared like nestled eggs in the middle of the indentation. He continued to swim out of the bell and drag new bags close to the pile on the floor of the Thames, as fast as his fatigued arms could move them.
When the bags had run out, he signaled with three knocks for the bell to be raised. He had only enough strength to pull himself onto the small seat in the bell’s interior and slump to the side. Whether or not he was able to permanently stop the leak, he had no idea. All of the clay bags had been used, so more bags and a man with fresh muscles were needed at this point. His chest painfully constricted and with great difficultly he stifled the urge to panic due to the feeling of no air.
The color of the water below him soon appeared turquoise, indicating the bell had risen to a level where light easily penetrated the water. The bell broke the surface and fresh air burst into the iron dome.
He rolled off the shelf and managed to paddle five feet to hold on to the barge’s side. With numb hands and arms, he held on to the barge’s wooden railings with all of his remaining strength. He could do no more than that.
Mr. Duff observed his distress, jumped into the water, and swam to his side. In one swift movement, he threw his arm around his waist and heaved him high enough to grab on to the railing. “Up you go, gov.”
“The leak?” George managed to spit out with difficulty, his mouth full of foul-tasting Thames water. Able to hold on with his arm wrapped around the railing, he lacked the strength to fully heave himself out of the water.
The workman on deck gripped his arm and pulled, while Mr. Duff pushed him from below, so George finally escaped the deathly grip of the cold Thames and was flung onto the barge. He lay splayed on deck like a dead flounder.
“Don’t you go about worrying about the leak,” Mr. Duff said, pulling himself out of the chilly water. “Nothing we can do now but pile on more bags when the new ones become ready. Thomas is goin’ down next, and maybe after that we’ll hear if the leak ’as stopped.”
George replied with a nod, the only movement he had enough strength to execute.
It did not take long before the barge crew loaded fresh bags from a small boat and prepared to move the bell into place again.
He remained flat on his back, covered in his oilskins and coat, listening to the rushed e
fforts behind him.
Before they dropped the next load of clay bags, they received word from the shore that the leak had significantly slowed—enough so that it could be effectively managed from within the tunnel.
While the barge was towed back to shore, George lifted himself enough to lean against a wooden toolbox. He saw a woman with two young curly-haired children standing on the very edge of the quay. She held the smallest child in her arms, resting on her hip and a thumb in its mouth. The other, a small boy of possibly five years, held on to his mother’s skirt in a death-like grip.
Once the barge reached the dock, Mr. Duff hopped off and ran to his family. The four of them seemed to blend together in one big embrace.
George noticed other men’s families lingering around the pit as well. The news of a leak must have traveled quickly throughout London—fast enough that entire families came running to the site, concerned for the welfare of their loved ones.
After the Duffs completed their familial embrace, Mr. Duff lifted the youngest into his arms, while his wife held the boy. Both adults exchanged smiles and fleeting kisses.
George sighed; every part of his body ached. Closing his eyes, he heard only the happiness of family reunions happening around him.
Did he save the day, save Fitzy, and earn Mr. Brunel’s praise?
If so, the joy from his triumph escaped him. Fatigue or low spirits could account for some of his lack of enthusiasm. However, after watching the Duffs’ reunion, he began to fully comprehend the emotional need that drove families to rush from their homes at the sound of an alarm. He had witnessed it many times, but he had not been personally affected or truly empathetic before.
If you asked him a day ago, he would have immediately sought Mr. Brunel’s praise. Instead, this very minute, he understood why his father ran to his mother’s room when he returned home. Why his father shunned the immediate gratification of the accolades—praise that gave you the pleasure of a pat on the back and a spoken “job well done.” Why he sought the highest, most meaningful praise of them all, the proverbial crown of laurel leaves held high above your head—the accolades from the woman you love.