Jeremy looked at Simon Pole, who pursed his lips and made a noncommittal face.
‘You mentioned it to Mr Harvey again?’
‘Oh yes. I told ’im what you said.’
‘And he said?’
‘Didn’t say much. I reckon he was halfy-halfy.’
They were staring at a boiler propped up on wooden trestles where they had lifted it two weeks ago. The fourth young man was Ben Carter and they were standing in a corner of Harvey’s Foundry, which was fifteen-odd miles south along the coast from Nampara.
Jeremy said: ‘Well, there’s no doubt this is exactly what we want – what we need. That it should be sitting here, neglected, all these years . . . Let’s go through it again. Have you the dimensions, Simon?’
‘Four and a quarter feet in diameter and eight from end to end.’
‘Go on.’
The parchment crackled in Pole’s fingers as he unfolded it. ‘The casting be 1½ inches thick overall and the flange is secured by 26 wrought-iron bolts. The interior diameter will be about 48 inches.’
Jeremy wiped his hands on a piece of waste. The monotonous clanging of a hammer stopped as a workman nearby paused to ease his muscles.
‘Well, from what you tell me – or from what I’ve learned here – the cohesive strength of cast iron has to be 15,000 lbs to tear apart a bar one inch square. So . . .’ Jeremy took out a pencil and a piece of paper on which he had been working at home. He stared at it. ‘You’d need an internal pressure outwards of over 900 lbs per square inch to make this boiler burst. The safety-valve is loaded to what?’
‘Fifty lbs per square inch.’
‘God save us! So it would require steam accumulated to near on twenty times the elasticity determined by the safety-valve to burst the boiler.’
‘The cylindrical part, yes,’ said Paul. ‘What about the flange bolts and fire tubes?’
‘Well,’ said Jeremy. ‘The safety of the fire tubes particularly has to be considered. But I’ve made calculations. Perhaps you ought to check the result with your own figures.’
Paul took the paper over to a table and began to do sums of his own.
‘This is all too much fur me,’ said Ben. ‘It seems to me the safety be ample for any purpose that we’d want.’
Pole looked round. ‘It is as much as you want. But I reckon twill be another matter to get it.’
‘Somehow we must get it,’ said Jeremy. ‘You can’t afford to turn down gifts from on high!’
Jeremy joined Paul, and after a long consultation they returned. ‘It comes out roughly the same. The bolts are five-sixths of their diameter solid iron. So it would seem to need around 750 lbs pressure per square inch to carry away the end of the boiler. Fifteen times the load on the safety-valve. The margin of safety is beyond any normal precautions . . . We could well re-set the safety-valve to 120 and raise the steam pressure to 100 without the slightest risk. Even then we’re covered seven times over.’
‘Tis five years old. Mr Trevithick has not been here to look at him in all that time.’
‘Well, it no longer belongs to him,’ said Jeremy. ‘I must see Mr Harvey again. Do my best to persuade him.’
‘Think there’s a chance?’ said Paul.
‘Yes . . . I’ve a card up my sleeve I didn’t have last time.’ The others stayed in the foundry: by common consent any negotiations were left to Jeremy, for he was genteel born.
It was raining slightly in a light east wind. He skirted the forges, the boring mill, the fitting shops, the coal yard, on the way to the two-storey timber building that served as offices. He knocked on a door and was told to enter.
Henry Harvey was thirty-six, a stocky man with straight hair worn in a downward quiff over his forehead, corpulent in a dark serge tail suit and a cream silk neckcloth. He did not look too delighted when he perceived who was calling on him.
For the best part of a year now Jeremy Poldark, first introduced by Andrew Vivian, had been visiting his foundry about twice a week. With the name of Captain Poldark still one to conjure with in the county, he’d welcomed the son and looked with pleasure and surprise on the way the boy had actually got down to practical work. It wasn’t usual. When he’d said yes to the idea he’d expected young Poldark to be interested only in the theory like most gentlemen, and unwilling to soil his hands. Let the engineer-inventor do the work while the gentleman watched and encouraged. But not at all. Poldark had worked like one of his own men in the foundry and in the ancillary shops, marrying theory with practice all through.
With him had come two other young men who’d also studied and worked – though they had conformed more nearly to type: the slender one called Kellow tending to stand back from the harder labour, the bearded one called Carter matching his rougher clothes and voice. Anyway, they had worked alongside his own men, and Mr Harvey, with enough troubles and disputes on his hands, had not been displeased at the free help offered him; and the young men got on well with his own work-force, which was important. With a law-suit hanging fire and influential friends not too thick on the ground, Mr Harvey had also felt that a Poldark on his side would do no harm at all. That Jeremy asked him not to mention his visits Mr Harvey took to be an example of youthful modesty that could be easily thrown off if need be.
But recently Mr Poldark had been spreading his wings. He had admitted to Mr Harvey that his chief interest was not so much in mining machinery as in locomotive travel. He had, it seemed, followed Mr Trevithick’s career from an early age and was fascinated by his achievements and not at all put off by his failures.
So he wanted – he asked – if he might be given leave to construct in Harvey’s foundry the basic four wheels, frame and carriage which eventually might grow into a locomotive vehicle like Trevithick’s. He would, he said, pay for the ironwork and woodwork, etc. if they could be permitted to spend part of their time constructing it. Henry Harvey had agreed and had looked in once or twice to watch the progress.
It was still a long way from any sort of completion; but two weeks ago, rooting about the works, Jeremy had unearthed this boiler which with some adjustment of the carriage might serve. It was covered in dirt and muck and more than a trifle rusty and had lain unregarded in a corner of the foundry for several years; but they could hardly believe their luck as they hauled it out and began cleaning it. It was a strong steam ‘breeches’ boiler – so named from the shape of the wrought iron tube within it – and designed by Trevithick himself, probably for a threshing machine. It lay now on its trestles like a fat baby whale that had lost its mother.
Jeremy had seen Henry Harvey last week and asked him if he would ‘lease’ the boiler to the three young men for their experiment, since they hadn’t enough money to buy it. On this Henry Harvey had not been encouraging. Privately he thought all this secrecy was overdone and that Captain Poldark, if approached, could well afford to pay for his son’s whims.
‘Have you a few minutes of your time, Mr Harvey?’
‘Well, Mr Poldark, there is pressing business to attend to; but it can wait the few minutes that you suggest. Pray sit down.’
Jeremy took the edge of a chair. ‘I expect you’ll know from Mr Pole earlier this week that we have cleaned and examined the boiler even more thoroughly, and it so fits our requirements that we can hardly believe our good fortune in finding it.’
‘Pole told me what was going on,’ Harvey said cautiously. ‘All the same, it hardly removes the prime obstacle . . .’
‘In fact,’ Jeremy said, ‘it is not about that that I actually came to speak to you, sir. It’s related, of course, because we have been trying, as you know, experimentally to construct this carriage, but the lack of a high-pressure boiler was one of the greatest problems. If this can be providentially solved we can . . .’ Jeremy paused and let the sentence float in the air.
Mr Harvey shifted. ‘Yes, well. Let me say I understand your position; no more. But you tell me that this boiler is not what you have come to me about . . .’
Jeremy looked out of the window. From here you could see the brig Henry lying drunkenly against the wharf, two of her sails still hanging from the masts like drowned butterflies. She had come in on the spring tide this morning, but the sea had all gone away and left a great expanse of sand threaded by three or four narrow snakes of shallow water twisting among the banks. In one of these little channels Nampara Girl was anchored so that they could escape at any time. But the brig, unless she could be got away on the morning tide, might be imprisoned here until the new moon in two weeks’ time. Over in the distance were the great Towans where the blown sand reached pinnacles two hundred feet above the sea. It was a crying pity that this natural harbour, the safest along the north coast, should be virtually unusable because of the sand.
Jeremy said: ‘Almost adjoining my father’s mine is one which has been derelict for years. We are thinking of reopening it. And though previously it was self-draining we shall now need an engine . . .’
‘Indeed.’
‘I believe, from what I have learned here, from the books I have read, and from my knowledge of the mine to be reopened, that I should have a pretty fair notion as to the size and sort of engine which would best suit us.’ Ross would have been surprised at the confidence with which Jeremy spoke.
‘It could be so,’ said Harvey.
‘And since I have this obligation to Harvey’s, it’s clear to me that we should wish to have the engine made here.’ Henry Harvey brushed the quill of his pen along his cheekbone. It was a habit of his when business loomed.
‘What had you in mind?’
‘Subject to agreement with my father and the other venturers, I thought a 36-inch cylinder to go, say, a 9-feet stroke. The boiler to be of wrought iron, something like 18 feet long by 5 feet with an oval tube 3½ feet at the fire end and maybe 3 feet at the chimney end. Weighing, I’d conject, about 7 tons.’
Harvey made a note. ‘And the pump rods?’
‘Of Dantzig pine. It is generally the most reliable.’
‘And the beam?’
‘I’d like it to be of cast iron.’
Harvey looked up. ‘That’s a departure, Mr Poldark. I know it has been done, but I’m not sure I should advise it for an engine of that size.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, largely the difficulty of manufacture. With good sound oak there is room enough for error. If it is of cast iron the dimensions would be critical.’
Jeremy bit his thumb. ‘Cast iron must be so much more efficient. A wood beam shrinks and expands, needs constant adjustment, as we all know. The bolts get out of truth. With iron – if the dimensions are once correct . . .’
‘Yes, if they are. I understand your feeling. But its size and weight make it a very awkward undertaking.’
‘You have the plant,’ Jeremy said; ‘in the new equipment brought in earlier this year.’
Harvey got up and went to the window, hands behind coat-tails. ‘You have me there, Mr Poldark. Well, I’ll discuss this with Mr West . . . Have you your father’s authority to place this order?’
‘No, sir. As I said, it is subject to his approval. I hope over the next few weeks to make a full series of diagrams and have them commented on by my father, also by the others I’ve mentioned. When we agree the plans I shall bring them to you and invite your advice. Also then we shall have to go into the costs.’
‘Who is to be your engineer?’
‘I hope to be.’
‘You?’ Harvey coughed into his fist to hide his surprise. ‘Well, yes, I must confess you’ve shown unusual aptitude . . .’
‘Naturally, I won’t be on my own. But if we dispense with a skilled engineer we shall save considerably on costs. We should probably have to pay twenty per cent on top of the costs for a good man – that’s including his design and supervising the construction. I believe we could do without him if all the parts were made here.’
Henry Harvey nodded his head at the compliment.
‘So your father knows now of these visits you have been paying us?’
‘Not yet. I expect he will have to know soon.’
‘Surely. Surely.’
‘In the meantime,’ said Jeremy, ‘I hope you’ll not dispose of the Trevithick boiler that we have been working on – at least without letting me know of another interest.’
‘Agreed,’ said Harvey.
‘I even might hope that, if this pumping engine is built, you could look more favourably on our wish to lease the boiler and certain other of the parts necessary to construct the carriage . . .’
Henry Harvey’s coat-tails swung as regularly as a metronome.
‘I seriously don’t think, Mr Poldark, that a leasing agreement would amount to a suitable arrangement on either side. But supposing this mine engine is built here, I would be prepared to sell you the boiler at half the price I paid Mr Trevithick for it six years ago. And all other material and labour at cost. Would that be a help?’
‘A great help,’ said Jeremy. ‘May I ask what you paid Mr Trevithick for the boiler?’
‘Well, in fact I made this boiler for Mr Trevithick under licence. Later I took it over from him in discharge of a debt. It was – a gesture of goodwill. He is, after all, my brother-in-law. I don’t think he would in any way object if I now sold it to you for thirty pounds.’
‘That would be a great help,’ said Jeremy.
Harvey turned, showing his stomach in profile. ‘You’ve never explained to me the cause of this secrecy between you and your father. Why you adopt this subterfuge of coming by sea on – what is it? – a so-called fishing expedition? By coming for one week in six and staying in Hayle you would have accomplished the study in half the time. Is your mother party to the deception?’
‘She knows nothing. The reason is, my father forbade me to have any dealings with high-pressure steam.’
‘Oh . . . But why?’
‘For one thing, your elder brother, Mr Harvey.’
The other stared. ‘Francis? Oh, you mean the danger. Yes, it’s true he was killed by a bursting boiler, but that was in one of the earlier experiments.’
‘My father knew your brother. Then there was the explosion at Woolwich when a boiler burst killing four – was it? – and gravely injuring three or four others. And only a year or so ago the tragedy at Wheal Noah with so many scaldings from the exploding steam . . .’
Harvey looked across at his visitor. ‘All that you may say. But still . . . A man may fall from his horse and break his neck; that does not condemn horse-riding.’
‘It is what I would say to him if it came to an argument. But I thought this was a way of avoiding the argument – at least until there is something to show.’
Henry Harvey went back to his seat. ‘Yes, well.’ The thought occurred to him that when Captain Poldark knew of his son’s disobedience he might come into disfavour instead of receiving the compliments he’d expected. ‘Well, I must go now, Mr Poldark. We’re trying to unload and reload by the morning. It will mean working most of the night, but we shall have a moon. Kindly bring me the diagrams when you have drawn them and they’ve been approved, and I’ll work out an approximate costing.’
Jeremy rose. ‘In a few weeks, I hope. It depends how quickly other things move.’
‘What is your new mine to be called?’
‘Er . . . Wheal Maiden.’ Just in time Jeremy remembered that he had once seen Sir George Warleggan at the Hayle Foundry and that Wheal Leisure was still not officially in their hands.
II
They left soon after. The sun would set around six-thirty and with a light following breeze they would reach Nampara in about two hours, which would allow them ample daylight. They had done what they had come to do and were ready to go.
Jeremy was in great spirits. The steam carriage had come nearer. And if the mine went ahead, there would be further interesting work and all the adventurousness of constructing the engine and reviving the old workings. But his chief reason for being anxious to get home was to see
if Cuby’s mother had yet replied to his mother’s invitation for her to come and stay at Nampara. That was the most exciting prospect of all.
Once they were out of the Hayle Estuary and out of sound of the land, Jeremy opened a firkin of ale and led his friends in singing ribald songs. After they had used these up Ben changed the mood by starting them off on hymns, and that lasted for half an hour longer. Then Jeremy, feeling drunkenly sentimental on very little liquor, sang them the song which was a favourite of his mother’s.
I’d pluck a fair rose for my love;
I’d pluck a red rose blowing.
Love’s in my heart, a-trying so to prove
What your heart’s knowing.
I’d pluck a finger on a thorn
I’d pluck a finger bleeding.
Red is my heart a-wounded and forlorn
And your heart needing.
I’d hold a finger to my tongue
I’d hold a finger waiting.
My heart is sore until it joins in song
Wi’ your heart mating.’
They too joined in song while the little gig cut steadily through the quiet sea, and the soft drizzle fell on them all.
Book Three
Chapter One
I
By the beginning of May startling news reached England. British and Portuguese troops had not only broken out of the narrow confines of the fortifications around Lisbon but, after a series of manoeuvres and counter-manoeuvres interspaced with some of the bloodiest battles of the war, had driven the French totally off Portuguese soil. Massena, one of France’s greatest generals, in command of the largest army Napoleon had ever entrusted to one of his lieutenants, had been comprehensively defeated. In four weeks the British had advanced 300 miles and inflicted 25,000 casualties on the enemy for a loss to themselves of about 4,000. In a characteristically dry proclamation Lord Wellington announced to the Portuguese that the cruel enemy had retired across the Agueda and the inhabitants of the country were at liberty to return to their homes.