The Sunken

by S. C. Green

  Aaron joined them whenever he could, but his work on the furnaces and his wife kept him busy, so mostly they were left alone in Brunel’s workshop. The time there passed quickly, and in the gloom it was impossible to tell when one hour ended and the next began.

  One day Nicholas inserted the key Brunel had given him into the heavy padlock, hefted off the chain, and swung open the door to the Chimney, to find Brunel sitting at one of the pews, waiting for him. “I want to show you something,” he said, standing to greet Nicholas. “Not here — out in the workshops.”

  Curious, Nicholas followed Brunel behind the pulpit, and down a flight of steps leading out behind the church. Isambard led him past row after row of pitched roofed structures, through which Nicholas could hear all manner of hammerings, whirrings, and men swearing. Finally, Isambard stopped in front of one, nodded to the guard who leaned against the wall, pushed aside a long wooden door, and darted inside.

  Nicholas followed him, and stopped short, in awe of the sight that greeted him. Occupying every inch of that shed were the towering forms of two black locomotive engines. He’d seen drawings of these peculiarly English inventions in some of the contraband French journals, but he could not have imagined the sheer scale or raw beauty of them.

  Built for Brunel’s broader gauge rails, each wide chassis sat on her own bed of track, holding court with the dignity of Egyptian sphinxes. The formidable wheel arches rose at each side, and the open cab gaped from the expanse of iron like the mouth of a dragon, from where a tongue of flame might shoot out at any moment. Stokers crawled over every inch of the engines, fitting parts, taking measurements, welding and shaping raw metal into the zenith of engineering beauty.

  “There they are,” Brunel whispered, his eyes dancing with delight. “My two darlings. They won’t be finished for many months yet, but if I win the engineering competition, they’ll be the first locomotives to run in London. In order to meet the demands of broad gauge track, I’ve had to place the boiler on a separate six-wheeled frame behind the engine itself. The 2-2-2 engine is the Hurricane and that 0-4-0 beauty over there is the Thunderer.”

  “You built these,” Nicholas breathed, awed by their size, their complexity. They seemed to rise up from the earth, beautiful flowers in a garden of machines, as if Isambard had somehow imbued them with his own spirit.

  Brunel nodded. “My first engine — the one I sold to pay for this Chimney — was a cruder version of these. Aaron and I built it together, in secret. It took us nearly nine years. Already I’m making improvements.”

  “And Stephenson’s … are they anything like this?”

  “Hardly.” Isambard snorted. “I’ve seen his Rocket. A piddling thing, it can barely pull two carriages up a slight incline. Throw a pebble on the track and it derails. Broad gauge is stronger, faster, and more robust. The sooner the Royal Society understands that, the better.”

  Brunel pointed to the guards stationed at either end of the workshop. “They ensure only Stokers can enter here. Stephenson has Navvy spies all over London, not to mention those in the pay of the Council, who want me prosecuted for engineering. I can’t afford to have my ideas compromised.”

  They walked around the engines, Brunel stopping men in their work to discuss their progress and the problems they’d encountered. He listened as they explained parts that wouldn’t fit, questioned flaws in the design, and discussed mechanical processes Nicholas couldn’t even begin to understand. Brunel did not dismiss any opinion, but each time offered an answer that seemed to please the men.

  “Your men respect you,” said Nicholas. “I wager not many engineers can say that.”

  “The Stokers are clever men,” replied Brunel. “They understand a machine intuitively — as if it were an extension of their own bodies. They have only to glance at the plans to tell you what works and what will not. There is no reason — apart from the arrogance of certain powerful men — why Stokers cannot be engineers in their own right, or whatever they wish to be … if given the chance.”

  “And this is your dream? To have Stokers in the Royal Society? To give them seats on the Council?”

  “Freedom is the dream of every man, don’t you agree?”

  Nicholas said nothing. Brunel stopped walking, and turned to face him, his dark eyes fixed on Nicholas’ own, searching relentlessly for an answer.

  “We dance around this question,” he said. “But we are old friends, and I tire of the dance. I have not heard from you since they closed the borders, and yet, here you are again, returning at great risk to London, changing your name, wanting to work in secret, and with barely a shilling in your purse. Now the best I can figure, the only reason a learned man would want to return to London is if he were running from a woman, from the law, or from someone who was trying to kill him.”

  Nicholas’ mouth went dry. He raked his tongue across his teeth, desperately trying to think of something to say. “You may be right on all three counts,” he managed.

  “You should tell me what has happened. I could help.”

  “If I tell you, Isambard, I throw everything you’ve built here into jeopardy. Someone may come for me at any time, and I will not drag you into my problems, any more than I already have.”

  “Nicholas—” Brunel stepped toward him.

  “Isambard,” Aaron’s voice interrupted. Nicholas jumped. He hadn’t even heard Aaron come down the stairs. How much has he heard? “I don’t mean to disturb you, only there’s a messenger from the King waiting in the Nave. He wants you and Mr. Rose to accompany him to Windsor Castle promptly.”

  Isambard’s face changed instantly. His conversation with Nicholas forgotten, he dropped the plans onto the table and raced to the elevator. Nicholas jogged behind him, his heart leaping in his chest. The King? He wouldn’t concern himself with the affairs of a minor engineer. The only reason he could want to see us would be if he’d got to him, if he’d found me—

  Nicholas gulped.

  ***

  “—you are not under any circumstances to speak to him on any matter other than that which he requests. You must only answer his questions, and be quick about it. Do not otherwise initiate conversation in any way. There will be some small sandwiches and cakes on the table, but the King will not touch them, and so neither should you. You must raise only the teacup to your mouth, and return it to the saucer after each sip. You must not slurp. If he speaks to you, address him only as ‘Your Majesty’. Do not touch him in any way—”

  The steward kept up a constant stream of instructions as he frantically brushed lint off Nicholas’ jacket. The complex protocol and fussing attendants were only serving to make Nicholas more and more nervous. Beside him, Brunel was having his hair plastered into place by two grunting attendants, while a third was trying in vain to steam out the stains on his overalls. He looked utterly unfazed to be standing in Windsor Castle, about to meet the King.

  Nicholas and Brunel had arrived at the castle in the messenger’s carriage, only to be whisked around the back to a servants’ entrance and locked in a small waiting room, where they had remained for the past two hours, subjected to various barbaric beauty treatments in preparation for their audience with King George.

  “Is this all really necessary?” Brunel asked, as one of the attendants tied a pair of starched white cuffs around his wrists.

  The steward glared at him. “His Majesty has never had an audience with Stokers before. We hadn’t anticipated how long it would take to make you presentable. And since you won’t co-operate—”

  “These overalls are a symbol of my heritage,” said Brunel. “I will not remove them, not even for the King.”

  “—then we’ve had to do the best we can with what little we have available to us. At this rate, I don’t think you’ll be able to meet with him at all today—”

  There was a knock at the door. “The King will receive them now,” a voice called through the panel.

  “They are not ready!”

  “He won’t wait any
longer.”

  “We’re perfectly presentable,” snapped Brunel, disentangling himself from the attendants. He grabbed Nicholas’ hand and pulled him toward to door. Nicholas met his eyes, and Brunel smiled, as if trying to reassure him.

  Frowning one last time at the state of them, the steward sighed loudly, and pushed open the door. Brunel stepped out, his face calm, and Nicholas followed him, his legs shaking with nerves. Brunel reached a hand up and ran it through his hair, deliberately messing it up. Nicholas smiled weakly, but the effort just made him feel ill.

  They were met by a guard, who looked them up and down with a disapproving scowl. “Are you certain you should wear that—”

  Brunel glared at him. The guard shook his head, and beckoned for them to follow him down the hall. They paused outside two ornate wooden doors, which the guard pushed open, revealing an expansive drawing room, the walls and ceiling decorated with exquisite friezes and gilded mouldings. Nicholas gulped, forcing himself to resist the urge to turn on his heel and run.

  “Mr. Brunel. Mr. Rose.” The King waved them from the doorway. “Please, you may enter and take a seat. I will have the staff fetch you some tea.”

  Nicholas, his palms shaking and coated with sweat, stared at the chair the king wished him to use, its heavy oak legs carved in the French style, inlaid with delicate details leafed in gold. It probably cost ten years of an engineer’s salary. He perched gingerly on one edge and looked up at the King, who stared down his nose at them both with a stern expression. King George’s eyes sparkled with intelligence, and neither his posture nor his features betrayed his age. Nicholas tried to read his expression, to see if what he feared were true.

  He’s found me, he thought, his chest clenched. He’s making the King send me back so he can torture me—

  Joseph Banks stood behind the throne, his hands floating awkwardly at his sides and a leather satchel stowed between his feet. He pursed his lips, glaring at Brunel with vehemence.

  “It is an honour, Your Majesty.” Unlike Nicholas, Isambard seemed calm, collected. He sat upright in his chair, mimicking the King’s strict posture. “If it pleases His Majesty, I wondered why you have called two lowly engineers into your presence today?”

  Nicholas cringed at his easy use of that loaded descriptor. He did not wish to claim any such title for himself, especially not when he knew exactly what the King wanted. Banks’ eyes flashed with anger, but King George did not seem to notice.

  I’m sorry Isambard. I didn’t want to drag you into this.

  The King smiled, sending a chill down Nicholas’ spine.

  “Many of my current ministers,” the King shot Banks a filthy look, “have dismissed your broad gauge railway as quackery, but I’ve been reading your papers with interest. It has not escaped my attention that you’ve entered my engineering competition, and although I cannot reveal the winner of that contest before Thursday’s Royal Society meeting, I would urge you not to miss that meeting.”

  What? Did he just say … Brunel is …

  Not even the presence of royalty could keep the boyish glee from Isambard’s face. “Your Majesty, it is an honour.”

  “It is still not decided,” Banks snapped, freezing the smile on Isambard’s face. “The Council are not yet in agreement.”

  The King dismissed Banks with a wave of his hand. “Don’t mind Joseph. Eventually, he comes around to seeing things my way. However, the matter I’d like to discuss today is of a different nature. The plans, please Joseph?” The Prime Minister handed the King a set of drawings, who spread them out on the table, positioning weights over the corners to keep them flat. Nicholas squinted at the delicate lines, trying to comprehend.

  “I want you to build me a railway,” said the King. “Build it as fast and as well as you’re able, and if I like it, I shall give you the authority to build railways all over England.”

  Brunel sucked in his breath, and he grabbed Nicholas’ arm as though he might fall over at any moment. Nicholas stared, dumbfounded, from his perch, wondering how such a remarkable fortune could have fallen into Brunel’s lap.

  “But Your Majesty,” Brunel’s voice came out high-pitched. “Why?”

  “I intend to move my household and affairs of state into Buckingham House, in the heart of the city. I want Windsor Castle to remain a religious centre, a place where I can find respite with my gods, and where pilgrims might travel to give offerings at St. George’s Chapel. But my main residence shall be moved to Buckingham, and I need a railway to transport the court and my furnishings between these residences. I intend to run it through these old sewer tunnels,” the King rapped his finger against the map. “So they will need widening and reinforcing. And I need the entire length of track to be secure — I don’t want any threat of assassination. But most of all, I want it to be fast. So fast I can make the trip to Windsor before a messenger could arrive at Somerset House on horseback.”

  “No, I mean, why me? Surely choosing me over Stephenson will cause friction on the Council?”

  “The nature of this project requires absolute secrecy, Mr. Brunel. Not a single citizen must know of this railway’s existence until I declare it so, do you understand me? Stephenson would not comply with this. Also, his standard gauge just won’t reach the speeds I require, and I feel he has designs for England that don’t comply with my own. I would not worry yourself about Stephenson — despite the animosity on the Council, you have a lot of support in the Royal Society.”

  Isambard leaned over the table, his eyes taking on that glazed look Nicholas recognised from the pump house all those years ago. Nicholas felt sure the task was impossible, but Brunel, unblinking, took in every inch of the proposed line, all twenty-six miles of track, the tunnels to be constructed and reinforced, the complexities of secrecy on such an ambitious project. Finally, he settled back into his chair, and smiled.

  “I will need to make improvements, of course,” he said. “Will I be given a workforce?”

  “You will pull men from the Stoker workforce — men who can be trusted. I will pay you whatever you need from the Royal Purse. It will fall upon your shoulders to ensure this railway remains hidden.”

  “What is the completion date?”

  “Four months from today.”

  Nicholas sucked in his breath — that deadline was impossible. But Brunel said nothing, merely bending his head towards the King, and continued the conversation in hushed tones.

  Nicholas, who had not even seen a railway before, let alone had any experience of building one, sat back in his chair, trying to calm his thundering heart. You’re safe, Nicholas old chum. For now, at least. But you must be more careful. If you’re going to work for Isambard, you’re going to have to be invisible—

  Something interrupted his thoughts. A noise, like a muffled screaming, came from some far-off wing of the castle. He raised his head to the door, straining to hear. There it was again — a short, sharp scream, cut off abruptly by another sound, almost like the snarl of an animal. Banks met his eyes and shook his head, but Nicholas stood up and walked toward the open door, listening intently.

  Another sound; closer this time. It came from one of the rooms on the corner of the hall. A snarl, low and menacing, definitely some kind of animal. A dragon, perhaps? But how did one get in here? And why can I not hear its thoughts? He turned to tell the King something was in the hall, when out of the corner of his eye he saw a shadow move across the tapestries. He jumped.

  “Nicholas, what’s wrong?” Isambard looked up from the table, his eyes concerned.

  “I heard a noise.” Nicholas turned back to the hall. “A scream … a snarl … like an animal … and when I looked into the hall, I saw—”

  Banks frowned. “You’re seeing things, Mr. Rose. There’s nothing in the hall.”

  “No, there’s definitely something moving—”

  A figure dashed across the hall.

  His heart pounding, Nicholas stared down the dim hall. “It’s a man!”

 
With lightning speed Banks crossed the room, shoved Nicholas aside, and slammed the doors to the audience chamber shut. “Of course it was a man,” he said, his eyes flashing. “You probably saw one of the servants trying to snoop on the King’s private audience. They do like their games.”

  “He was naked,” Nicholas insisted. “And that doesn’t explain the snarling—”

  He was interrupted by the King, who let out a gasping breath and collapsed across the table. Blood splattered across the plans, causing Brunel to leap back in alarm. Banks dived for His Majesty’s body, pulling it back onto the couch and bringing his face into the light. As Banks pulled at the King’s high collar, Nicholas could see George’s eyes — bleak and bloodshot and tinged with green. In fact, his very skin seemed to give off a pallid green tinge. Banks ripped the collar open, and more blood pooled from a large scab that burst in his neck.

  “Get out!” Banks screamed, shoving the King across the couch and reaching for his medicine bag. “Both of you!”

  Their eyes locked on each other, Brunel and Nicholas did what they were told: they bolted for the door and ran.

  ***

  “What was that?” Nicholas asked, his shaking fingers clutched around a chipped teacup.

  Brunel had taken the carriage back to London to begin preparations for the King’s railway, but Nicholas, still shaken by the events at the castle, now sat with James Holman in the dining room of Travers College, a modest building outside the walls of Windsor Castle that housed Holman and the other Naval Knights of Windsor.

  “He has been ill these past months, but I was told he’d made a full recovery. There have been some very peculiar happenings around the castle recently,” said Holman, carefully setting down his own teacup and pouring the boiling water. He used a finger hooked over the rim of the cup to check the liquid level.

  “You never said anything before.”

  When Holman had been forced from the Navy after his illness had ravaged his joints and left him blind, he’d returned to England and, not wanting to live the life of a beggar, had applied for a post in the Naval Knights. The order consisted of seven superannuated or disabled Lieutenants, single men without children, “inclined to live a virtuous, studious and devout life.” The Naval Knights were expected to live out their days in the modest rooms at Travers College; their only duty was to attend mass at St George’s Chapel twice per day.