In my haste and excitement, I had forgotten one important detail, and as the heavy studded door of Wood’s house in Merton Street was dragged open I remembered that Sarah Blundy was employed by the family. To my great relief, however, it was not the girl who opened, but Wood’s mother, who looked not at all pleased to see me, even though it was not late.
‘Jack Prestcott’s compliments to Mr Wood, and he would beg the indulgence of an interview,’ I said. I could see she was half-minded to tell me to go away, and return only when an appointment was made, but she relented and instead gestured for me to enter. Wood came down to meet me a few moments later, also looking not best pleased. ‘Mr Prestcott,’ he said when all the bowing was done, ‘I am surprised to see you. I wish I could have had more time to prepare for the honour.’
I ignored the rebuke, and told him that it was a matter of urgency. I was in town only for a short while. Wood grumbled like the fusspot he was, pretended that he had so many matters of import to deal with, then gave way and led me to his room.
‘I am surprised not to see that Blundy girl here,’ I said as we climbed back up the stairs. ‘She does work as a maid for you, does she not?’
Wood looked uncomfortable. ‘We discussed the matter’, he said, ‘and decided it would be best to dismiss her. Probably a sensible decision, and certainly the best for my family’s reputation. But I am not content with it, none the less. My mother was very partial to her. Remarkably so, in fact; I could never account for it.’
‘Perhaps she was bewitched,’ I said as lightly as possible. Wood gave me a look which indicated something of the same had passed through his mind. ‘Perhaps,’ he replied slowly. ‘Strange how we all end in thrall to our servants.’
‘Some servants,’ I said. ‘Some masters.’
A suspicious, furtive look showed he had seen the criticism but wished to deflect it. ‘You are not here to talk about the difficulty of hiring reliable maids, I think,’ he said.
I told him of my problem, and something of my interview with Dr Grove. ‘I know this evidence, presumably the same material Lord Mordaunt told me about, was made known to the world by Sir William. I now know he had them via Sir John Russell from someone called Morland. Now, who is Morland?’
‘That, I think,’ he said as he scurried around the room like a lost mole, searching through one pile of papers after another until he came on to the pile he needed, ‘that, I think is not a great mystery. I think this must be Samuel Morland.’
‘And he is . . .?’
‘He is now, I understand, Sir Samuel. Which is in itself quite remarkable, and gives much food for thought. He must have rendered a very signal service to be so favoured, considering his past. Unmasking a traitor in the king’s ranks might well qualify.’
‘Or passing forged documents which purported to do so.’
‘Oh, indeed,’ Wood said, nodding his head and snuffling. ‘Indeed, for Morland was noted for what you might call his pensmanship. He worked in Thurloe’s office for some time, I believe, and even tried to succeed him when Thurloe was thrown out in the last days of the Republic, if I remember the story properly. Then, I think, he threw in his lot with the Royalists. His timing was impeccable.’
‘So the idea of forged documents does not strike you as being absurd.’
Wood shook his head. ‘Either your father was guilty, or he was not. If he was not then some device must have been employed to create the illusion of culpability. But the only way you will find out, I think, is to tackle Morland himself. He lives somewhere in London, I imagine. I was told by Mr Boyle that he concerns himself with hydraulic engines for drainage schemes and suchlike. They are said to be most ingenious.’
I almost fell on my knees to thank the silly little man for the information, and had the grace to admit that Thomas had been correct in recommending him to me. As quickly as was decent, I left that house. The next morning, after a night made sleepless by my fevered excitement, I coached to London.
Chapter Eleven
* * *
I HAD NEVER been in a large metropolis before; Oxford was by far the grandest town I had ever entered. Most of my life had been spent either on country estates where the largest habitation was a village of a few hundred souls, or small market towns, such as Boston or Warwick, with populations of only a few thousand. London (so I am told although I do not believe anyone knows for certain) contained then some half million people. It sprawled over the landscape like a vast, bleeding pustule on the face of the earth, sickening the land, and poisoning all who lived in it. I was at first fascinated, as I pulled up the leather to peer out of the coach window, but this amazement turned to disgust as I perceived the shocking meanness of life in such a place. I am not (as must be clear by now) much of a bookman, but there is a line in a poem which I was forced to construe by Dr Grove in my youth, which has stuck with me. I do not recall the poet, but he was obviously a wise and sober man, for he said, ‘I cannot live in the city, for I have not learnt to lie.’ So it always will be; the honesty of the countryman is at a disadvantage in the town, where duplicity is prized, and straightforwardness scorned, where all men look after only themselves, and generosity occasions only laughter.
Before I made enquiries for Sir Samuel Morland, I decided I needed as much to collect myself and prepare myself for the interview which lay ahead. So I took my pack and walked across the great thoroughfare which links London with Westminster (although there is so much construction it will soon be completely impossible to discern where one city ends and the other begins) and took myself northwards to find a place which sold something to eat and drink. I soon came to a piazza (as it is called, though square should be good enough for any Englishman) which I am told can stand equal with any in Europe. It did not seem so grand to me; the buildings were ruined by the squalor all around, of women selling vegetables and dirt and waste trampled underfoot. There were eating houses there, but the prices were such that I removed myself in horror at the audacity of the owners. Round the corner was another street which seemed much calmer, although again I was deceived, for this Drury Lane was accounted one of the most vile and dangerous in the city, full of bawds and cut-throats. All I saw was the theatre, shortly to open, and witnessed the actors in the uniforms which won them protection from the law, and mighty ridiculous they looked.
From Covent Garden I walked to London, diverting only up a squalid alley near St Paul’s Cathedral to leave my possessions in a dingy little tavern I had been told was both cheap and honest. It was so, but unfortunately did not accompany these virtues by being quiet and clean as well. The blankets were crawling with lice, and such evidence as there was indicated that my future bedmates were less than genteel. But I had lice in my hair anyway, so decided there was little point in spending my money on better. Then I began to make enquiries about Sir Samuel Morland. It did not take long to find his address.
It was an old house in an ancient street near Bow church and, I don’t doubt, was one of those burnt to the ground a few years later in the fire, for it was an ancient construction of wood and thatch which would have been the more attractive had any care been taken on its upkeep. That, of course, is another problem with city life, as when owners are not the same as inhabitants, then no care is taken of buildings, and they moulder and decay, casting a distemper on the streets and becoming a breeding ground for vermin. The lane itself was narrow and dark from the overhanging storeys above, and a riot of noise from the traders who plied their wares up and down its length. I looked for the sign of an ox as instructed, but it was so discoloured that I walked up and down twice before I realised that the tattered and broken piece of wood above one door had once carried such an image on it.
When the door opened, I was not even asked my business but was invited in with no ceremony at all.
‘Is your master at home?’ I asked the man at the door, who was as disgraceful looking a servant as ever I had come across, covered in dirt and dressed in the foulest of clothes.
‘I have
no master,’ said this creature in surprise.
‘Forgive me. I must be at the wrong house. I am looking for Sir Samuel Morland.’
‘I am he,’ he replied, so that it was now my turn to look astonished. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is . . . ah . . . Grove,’ I said.
‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Grove.’
‘And I yours, sir. I am sent by my father. We own some marshland in Dorset, and have heard reports of your ingenuity in drainage . . .’
I could not even finish my lie, for Morland grabbed me by the hand and pumped it up and down. ‘Excellent,’ he said, ‘excellent indeed. And you wish to see my engines, do you not? Use them to drain your land?’
‘Well . . .’
‘If they work, eh? I see your mind perfectly, young man. What if this inventor is a fraud? Best to spy out the land, so to speak, before committing funds. You are tempted, because you know of the ingenuity of the Dutch, and how they have increased the yield of their land an hundredfold, and turned marsh into the richest pasture, but you do not fully believe it. You have heard of the Fen drainage, and the use of pumps there, but do not know if they would be appropriate for you. That is the case, is it not? Do not bother to deny it. It is well for you that I am not a suspicious man, and freely show my designs to all who desire to see them. Come,’ he said cheerfully, grabbing my arm once more and pulling me to a door, ‘come this way.’
In some bemusement at this behaviour, I was dragged from the small entrance hall into a large room beyond. I guessed it had once been the house of a woollen merchant and had been used for storing bales. Certainly it was very much larger than the frontage of the house suggested (these merchants always play poor and hide their wealth from public view) and sweet and fresh from the wide-open doors at the end, which gave in so much light despite the time of year that I was briefly dazzled.
‘What do you think? Impressive, eh?’ he said, mistaking the hesitation this caused for astonishment. When I could see clearly again, though, I was indeed astonished, for I had never seen such a collection of bric-à-brac in my life. A dozen desks, and each one overflowing with strange instruments and bottles and casks and tools. Bits of wood and metal were stacked up against the walls, and the floors were covered in shavings and pools of greasy liquid and cuttings of leather. Two or three servants, probably those artisans able to make up engines to his designs, were at work at benches, filing metal and planing wood.
‘Extraordinary,’ I replied, as he clearly wanted me to express some approbation.
‘Look,’ he said enthusiastically, again removing the obligation to speak. ‘What do you think of this?’
We were standing in front of a finely carved oak table, which was empty save for an extraordinary little device, scarcely bigger than a man’s hand, of beautifully wrought and engraved brass. On top were eleven small wheels, each one carved with numbers. Below, in the body of the machine, was a long plate which evidently concealed other dials, for small holes cut in the surface revealed yet more numbers.
‘Beautiful,’ I said. ‘But what is it?’
He laughed in delight at my ignorance. ‘It is a calculating machine,’ he said proudly, ‘the finest in the world. Not, alas, unique, as some little Frenchman has one, but’, he lowered his tone to a confidential whisper, ‘his doesn’t work very well. Not like mine.’
‘What do you do with it?’
‘You calculate, of course. The principle is the same as Napier’s bones, but far more ingenious. The two sets of wheelwork register numbers from one to ten thousands, or from halfpennies up, if you wish it for finance. The handle engages this by a series of cogs, so that they turn over in the correct proportion. Clockwise for addition, anti-clockwise for subtraction. My next machine, which is not yet perfected, will be able to calculate square roots and cubes and even perform trigonometry.’
‘Very useful,’ I said.
‘Indeed. Every counting house in the world will shortly have one, if I can find a way of telling them of it. It will make me a rich man, and experimental science will advance in leaps and bounds when it is no longer confined to adepts in mathematical calculation. I sent one some time ago to Dr Wallis at Oxford, as he is the best man in that business this country has.’
‘You know Dr Wallis?’ I asked. ‘I am acquainted with him myself.’
‘Oh yes, although I have not seen him of late.’ He paused and smiled inwardly to himself. ‘You might say we were by way of being in business together once.’
‘I will send your salutations, if you so wish.’
‘I do not know that he would greatly welcome them. My thanks for the offer, none the less. But it is not what you are here for, I know. Come into the garden.’
So we left his arithmetical engines, thank heavens, and I followed him out into the open air, where he paused in front of what seemed to be a large barrel with a tall tube coming out of the top. This he regarded with a sad, wistful look on his face, then shook his head heavily and sighed.
‘Is this what you wished to show me?’
‘No,’ he said regretfully. ‘This I have reluctantly abandoned.’
‘Why is that? Does it not work?’
‘Far from it. It works too well. It was an attempt to harness the power of gunpowder to the problem of pumping. You see, it is a great problem in mining. The distance below the earth of mines these days – sometimes four hundred feet or more – means that the effort required to extract water, which means raising it by an equivalent distance – is formidable. Do you know the weight of a tube of water four hundred feet high? Of course not. If you did, you would be astounded at the audacity of man in even thinking of the idea. Now you see, my conception was to get a sealed container above earth filled with air which descended into the water below ground, with another linked tube coming up into the open.’
I nodded, although he had largely lost me already. ‘In the container, you explode a small measure of gunpowder, which causes a great rise in tension within. This rushes down the one tube, and forces the water up the other. Repeated often enough, you would get a constant flow of water upwards.’
‘Sounds splendid.’
‘It does. Unfortunately, I have not yet thought of a way of ensuring explosions of the right quality and consistency. Either the tube bursts, which is dangerous, or you get a single plume of water fifty feet high which then stops. I have a patent on the idea, so I am in no danger of being overtaken by rivals, but unless I figure out the solution a very good idea may well be wasted. I have considered using heated water, because water turned into vapours demand a much larger space – some two thousand times, did you realise that? – and acquire irresistible strength in the process. Now, if some way could be made to force the vapour down the tube, or into some pumping mechanism, then the strength required to lift the water would be there.’
‘And the problem?’
‘The problem is making the hot vapours go in the direction required, rather than in any other.’
I understood scarce a word, but his animation and enthusiasm were such that I could imagine no way of shutting off the flow of words from his mouth. Besides, my willingness to listen seemed to endear me to him, and thus rendered him more likely to give me the information I required. So I plied him with questions, and affected the gravest of interest in all those matters which normally would have excited nothing but my contempt.
‘So you do not have a pump which works, is that what you are telling me?’ I asked eventually.
‘Pumps? Of course. Pumps aplenty. All sorts of pumps. Chain pumps and suction pumps and cylinder pumps. I do not yet have an efficient pump, an elegant pump, which will perform its allotted task with simplicity and grace.’
‘So what about these Fens? What is used there?’
‘Oh, that,’ he said almost scornfully. ‘That is a different matter entirely. Of little interest at all in matter of technique.’ He glanced at me, and remembered, again, why I was there. ‘But, of course, all the be
tter an investment for that, as it requires no novelty. The problem is a simple one, you see, and simple problems should best have simple solutions. Do you not agree?’
I agreed.
‘Many areas of fenland’, he said, ‘lie beneath the level of the sea, and properly should actually be underneath the sea, very much as the greater part of the Low Countries should be, because, if not, they would have to change their name.’
He chuckled at his little joke awhile, and I joined in politely. ‘You know this, of course. Now, it is easy enough to prevent more water from entering by building dykes; the Hollanders have been doing this for centuries, so it cannot be very difficult. The problem is to evacuate the water that is already there. How is this to be done?’
I confessed my ignorance, which pleased him.
‘Rivers are the simplest; you cut a new river, and the water flows away. Pipes are another. Wooden pipes underground which collect the water and allow it to flow off. The problem with that is that it is both expensive and slow. What is more, the land around (you remember) is higher, as is the sea. So where is this water to go?’
I shook my head again. ‘Nowhere,’ he said with vehemence. ‘It cannot go anywhere, for water will not flow uphill. Everyone knows that. This is why much of the fenland has not been completely drained. With my pumps, you see, the problem can be overcome and in the contest between man’s wishes and nature’s desires, nature can be made to yield a victory. For water will indeed flow uphill, and be carried off, leaving the land useful.’