When the two young men got to Hayle they spent an hour or so going over the basic construction of the carriage. Central to it all, of course, was the Trevithick boiler, built to the design of the master himself, though for another purpose, probably for a thrashing machine like the one he had more recently designed for Sir Christopher Hawkins. It had been found, cobwebbed and dirty, in a corner of the foundry, and Jeremy had at once seized on it and finally had been able to buy it for his own purposes. It seemed to him at the time of its discovery heaven-sent; but on his more recent visits he had realized there were certain disadvantages to its use. The chief of them was that instead of its being designed to fit a proposed road carriage, the road carriage itself had to be designed to fit the boiler. This had seemed at first a minor obstacle, since the carriage they proposed to construct would only need to be lengthened by two feet to something like ten feet overall in order to accommodate the boiler. Richard Trevithick himself on several occasions had done just this sort of thing, namely used one of his engines constructed for a stationary purpose to move a carriage on wheels. At the moment a few more difficulties were emerging, chiefly to do with the fact that you cannot manipulate or alter cast iron once it has been cast. The cylinder and many other working parts would necessarily now have their situation predetermined.
Still, progress was being made. With the help of two workmen loaned by Mr Harvey, the wooden frame of the engine had been constructed and the wheels were to be made and fitted next month. Other parts were in process and would be assembled as they were required. The fourway steam cock was to be worked by a rod from the cross-head; side connecting rods were to be attached to this cross-head at the top and would activate the crank pins fixed in the driving wheels. One of these driving wheels would have a spur wheel cast with it to be driven by a gear fixed to the crankshaft.
Jeremy was not above learning from any source, and he had spread out on the bench before him drawings he had borrowed from Lord de Dunstanville, made by William Murdock, the Scottish engineer and inventor, who had been Watt’s agent in Cornwall until 1799. These admittedly were of a model only; but it had been built and had worked as a model, and Lady de Dunstanville herself remembered seeing it in action some years before Trevithick’s first engine had run. Jeremy had also copied out some designs he had found illustrating work by William Symington and James Sadler.
This was all a bit out of Ben Carter’s depth, but he was someone to talk to and Ben had a shrewd practical approach to the work that was often useful.
They were making calculations as to the size of the fly wheel when a voice said behind them:
‘Well, my dears, making proper progress, are ee?’
A big shambling man, tall even by Jeremy’s standards, with intent blue eyes in a gaunt but fleshy face, black hair streaked with grey that looked as if it had not seen brush or comb for a week, a blue drill shirt open at the neck, a wide leather belt holding up shabby breeches, grey woollen stockings and patched boots.
Jeremy recognized him instantly, and swallowed with shock.
‘Mr Trevithick!’
‘Aye. I know you, boy, don’t I? Met you last in London when you was a tacker. Came a ride on my engine, you did. You and your father and your mother. Mr Jeremy Poldark, eh?’
They shook hands, Jeremy’s thin sensitive hand disappearing in the bear-grip of the older man. Ben Carter was introduced.
Trevithick had aged much in six years, and he did not look well, but he talked with all the verve and vigour Jeremy so well remembered. After a few moments he turned and stared at the partly completed construction behind him.
‘What’re we about here, then, eh, my dears? I think I recall that boiler. A father always recognizes his child. Twas made here five or six years gone, but never have I seen him so smart and shiny. Never used yet, so far as I know. Putting him into an exhibition, are ee?’
Jeremy explained, though he was pretty certain that Trevithick knew all about it. Now the Cornish inventor was back in Camborne it was unlikely that Henry Harvey, who was his brother-in-law, had not mentioned the sale of the boiler to Jeremy and Jeremy’s ambition. Indeed it was not unlikely that, Trevithick happening to turn up that day, Harvey had suggested he should go into the works and see for himself.
Embarrassed at allowing his hero to see the construction in so rudimentary a state, Jeremy stumbled over the explanation. Trevithick put one or two questions, then asked to see the draft drawing that Jeremy himself had prepared. He fumbled it in his big fingers, screwing up his eyes the better to apprehend the fineness of the sketches.
After a while he set it down on the bench and there was silence.
‘Nice drawing,’ said Trevithick. ‘Proper sketching. Proper job.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jeremy.
‘Wish I could do ’em as tidy as that. Me, I was never so neat. I belong to scribble and scrawl.’
‘To good purpose,’ said Jeremy.
‘What? Oh, aye. Yes, I’d agree on that . . .’
Another silence. Trevithick thumbed his chin, which rasped for lack of a recent razor. Then he slowly shook his head.
‘It won’t do, Mr Poldark.’
Jeremy looked at him inquiringly but did not speak.
‘It won’t do,’ said Trevithick.
‘In what way, sir?’
‘The boiler. Tis all wrong.’
‘It is your own boiler, Mr Trevithick. You have just said so.’
‘Oh, tis my boiler sure ’nough.’
‘It is one you designed for – for thrashing, I believe. Isn’t it? I thought it just the high-pressure boiler we needed. Is there something wrong with it?’
‘Not wrong.’ Trevithick rubbed his chin again. ‘Not for its purpose. But for your purpose, tis too big, Mr Poldark, that’s all.’
‘I don’t understand. You have often—’
‘Well, I tell ee. And there’s none who knows better.’
They waited. Trevithick screwed up his eyes again.
After a few moments Jeremy said: ‘That one you built in Pen-y-daren in Glamorgan . . . did it? . . . Have you not said often that there is little difference betwixt a boiler you have designed for stationary work and one which moves?’
‘Quite true. Quite true. In principle there’s little to choose. What matters be the power you generate.’
‘So is that not—’
‘Wait. Wi’ a moving machine that is necessary, but that be not all. Look ee at that there boiler again, boy! Regard it. Fill it with water. My Pen-y-daren engine weighted upwards of five tons. This would be more. And Pen-y-daren was on rails.’
Jeremy had flushed deeply. Ben Carter was staring at Trevithick as if he didn’t take in what was being said.
‘I’ll tell ee about the Pen-y-daren engine, boy. I built it for a wager. That ye may know. Sam Homfray, the ironmaster, wagered five hundred sov’reigns that I could build an engine which would haul a ten-ton load for ten miles down the Tramway. And so I did. Twould have pulled thrice the weight. Easy! We did it in four hours. We should have done it in half the time but the rails kept breaking or spreading under the weight. See? The weight was too great. What d’you suppose would happen to this machine ye are building on the common roads of Cornwall? Twould be bogged down every hundred yards! And the tramroad you ran on in London, the Catch-me-who-Can: d’ye know why twas abandoned? Because the rails kept breaking.’
‘But . . . you succeeded in Cornwall – eleven years ago.’
‘Oh yes, my son, and could again – and more so. More so. But who wants it? Who’ll pay for it?’
Because he did not know what else to do, Jeremy began picking up and folding away the designs of the other engineers he had been examining.
Trevithick said: ‘That’s a Murdock drawing, isn’t it? Good man, Murdock. Might have done a deal for steam travel but Watt would not let him. Dog in the manger. Cat in the manger, Watt is. Oh, he’s an engineer, an inventor – I give ee that. Separate condenser. Clever in his way. But cautious, ca
nny, suspicious, niggardly, mean . . . What has he done for the boiler? He found it a hot-water tank. He left it a hot-water tank. Or would have done. If he had his way twould never be anything more. Know what he said ’bout me, eh? Said I deserved hanging for introducing high-pressure steam!’ Trevithick laughed. ‘D’ye know he once tried to get an act passed through Parliament forbidding the use of high-pressure steam! Did ye know that?’
Jeremy listened to the clank and bang of a distant hammer.
‘But you still believe in steam travel?’
‘Bless you, my dear, of course I do! Twill come – and at not too distant a date. But wi’ small boilers, ever smaller boilers. Higher and higher pressure. A hundred and fifty pounds! If ye are ever to produce a boiler to run an engine on the roads ye should have one no bigger than a big bass drum – such as ye might see in a military band. Why, the one I built in Coalbrookdale nine years gone – twas not dissimilar from that! Four foot diameter, cylinder seven inches with a three-foot stroke – working forty strokes per minute, needing three hundredweight of coal per four hours, and working a miracle. So they said, all the other engineers. They said twas impossible such a small boiler should work so much steam! D’ye know, twas then I first turned the exhaust steam up the chimney and found that the harder the engine worked the greater the draught up the chimney, and so through the grate, the hotter the fire would burn!’
Jeremy said miserably: ‘So this boiler, you think, is no use.’
‘Nay, boy, tis a handsome boiler if put to its proper purposes . . . But not for providing power for a vehicle for the common roads.’ Trevithick glanced at Jeremy. ‘Ye could use it as a specimen, no doubt – up and down a few hundred yards? . . . Twould attract some attention. Or if ye are set upon doing something, seeing as you have got so far, maybe ye could approach those infidels running the Portreath–Poldice tramway and see if they can be persuaded out of the use of horses. The machine ye are building no doubt would work there – if the rails was strengthened.’
‘Have you approached them yourself?’
‘Nay, I have other fish to fry.’ Trevithick took a deep breath. ‘This building of Plymouth breakwater . . . And the high-pressure beam engine for Dolcoath . . . And the plunger pole high-pressure engine . . . And I have plans for a vertical Barker’s mill to drive a ship . . . Then there’s a cultivator to think on. And an improved thrashing machine. Nay, I can spare no time for road travel. There’s no money to it, Mr Poldark. As for you, you’re a gentleman and can afford the money to experiment. But me – not long since adjudged a bankrupt – I have better fish to fry.’
There was silence. The distant hammering had stopped. A workman went past with an empty wheelbarrow. A sudden rainstorm lashed upon the dirty window of the foundry.
‘Well, Ben,’ Jeremy said. ‘It seems we have been making fools of ourselves . . .’
‘On the contrary, boy.’ Trevithick gripped his arm as he was turning away. ‘This be a new age just beginning. Doing what you’ve done be valuable experience. You start off ’gainst most other folk with a head start! You’ve a talent, I can see that – the way even in those drawings ye’ve foreseen obstacles and made provision for ’em like not many would do . . . Look ee . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Let’s see those drawings. Got ink, have ee?’
‘No. There’s this pencil.’
‘Right. Mind if I draw on the back?’
Jeremy shook his head.
‘Now look ee here.’ Trevithick began to sketch in broad lines, but with the clumsiness of a child. ‘This is the type of engine ye need. Like this, like this, like this. Not just a boiler wi’ water but a boiler wi’ tubes. Many tubes with the water in ’em. Many, many tubes. Like a man’s intestines, see? Ye build it small, small, wi’ endless tubes top and bottom wi’ the fire box in between. Then ye put up the pressure to maybe two hundred pounds per square inch! Then ye’ve got nigh on limitless power in a small space – and light in weight, light in weight, see . . .’
‘Yes,’ Jeremy said. ‘If—’
‘That’s the boiler of the future, boy – especially when it has to go on wheels, has to travel. There’s one drawback yet . . .’
‘What?’
‘If I was building that now, who’s to make the design sound enough, accurate enough? There’s no one here – yet. Twill come. But tis not the design that’s lacking, tis not the idea; tis the execution. This be a constructive problem, boy, not an inventive one. I can do the inventing. Others have to carry it out . . . Maybe in London or the Midlands – precision making – like making watches and clocks. That’s what we need. But we haven’t got it yet. They’re improving every year. Tis only a matter of time. A decade maybe. Maybe less. Then you’ll have your horseless carriage, boy. And I shall ask permission to be the first to ride in it with ee!’
Chapter Seven
I
Soon after her return from Truro Clowance met Stephen at the Gatehouse. She told him about the play as they wandered hand in hand round their future house. When Dwight had occupied it he had made it a comfortable little house and had kept one servant. They looked up now at the castellated turret where the two main bedrooms were, stopped and peered in through the narrow gothic windows of the parlour. It was all decayed but superficially so. Like Trenwith, it was built of granite and even the Cornish weather could do little to hurt it.
‘I’ll move in in two weeks,’ Stephen said. ‘These here rooms are good enough, and I can work on the rest better if I’m living in. The summer is coming, and I’m not one to shrink at the first touch o’ damp.’
‘I’m sorry it is not better, Stephen. Not better for you.’
‘I’m sorry tis not better for you – but as for the rest, why ten years ago this’d have looked like Windsor Castle to me!’
She squeezed his hand. ‘Can you get along with Wilf?’
‘He’s no great talker, is he. Just nods and grunts. A miller I used to know near Dursley, he was just the same. Mebbe I shall get that way, nod at you, grunt at you when I want anything.’
‘You’d better! But Wilf’s amiable enough.’
‘Amiable? I wouldn’t go so far as that. No harm in him, I’m sure . . . His wife’s got more to her than he has.’
‘Mary? Trust you to notice. She’s a great church worker. Don’t know what the Odgerses would do without her. Pity they have no children.’
‘Captain Poldark spoke as if this might advantage me, but Wilf’s no great age at all. Doubt if he’s more’n ten year older than I am. It will be long afore he is likely to have thoughts of retiring.’
‘It is a beginning, Stephen.’
‘Yes, it is a beginning. I believe after all I would have gone down a mine again to get you.’
‘Well, you haven’t had to, have you . . .’
‘D’you know what I did Sunday and yesterday while you were away?’
‘No?’
‘Didn’t Jeremy tell you I borrowed his pony? Well, I went so far as Penzance. It was a long way – for the pony – so I spent the night under a hedge. Got back only in the forenoon of yesterday. Clowance . . .’
She looked at him. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘No. Not betwixt us . . . Clowance, do you have any money of your own? Cash.’
‘A little. How much do you mean? Shillings or pounds?’
‘Pounds.’
‘Is it for the Gatehouse? To pay for repairs?’
‘No. Oh no.’
‘But you want it for something?’
‘How much do you have?’
‘In the bank, thirty pounds. Out of the bank, six pounds five shillings.’
‘Would you lend it me?’
‘All of it?’
‘All of it.’
‘Of course.’
He stroked her hand. ‘There’s trust for you. How soon could you get it?’
‘I could get the six pounds at once. It is under my bed. The other I would have to withdraw from the bank. I would have to go into Trur
o, or send someone in. When did you want it?’
‘Next Monday at the latest.’
Clowance pulled at her hair. ‘I believe Zacky Martin is going in on Friday for my father. He is the sort of man who would do it quietly – as a favour. Or do you not mind my father knowing?’
‘I mind. You see . . .’
‘What?’
‘I have invested in Wheal Leisure, as you know. I bought me two shares, for forty pound. But when the engine started there was another call. They’d warned me when I first invested but I took the risk. Well, that second forty pound drained me out. Doubt if I’ve more’n ten pound left in the world. Now I want to borrow some, and your father’d not approve of me taking it from you.’
‘Well, I’ll ask Zacky. I know he’d do that for me. How would you want it?’
‘Cash if possible. Some notes will do if they’re Bank of England. But all guineas would be best.’
‘All right,’ said Clowance. ‘I’ll ask Zacky in the morning.’
There was a low wall beside the front gate, and he pressed her gently against it, kissed her.
‘Don’t you even want to know what I want it for?’
‘Of course. I am dying with curiosity. But I know you will tell me in due course.’
He kissed her again. ‘Wonderful girl. I’ll tell you now.’
Which he did.
II
By chance a fierce gale blew up towards the end of the week, shattering the quiet of the April weather, totally destroying Demelza’s garden. It was when she stood at the window watching her flowers being maliciously beheaded one by one . . . that was the only time in her life when she was thoroughly irritable. The whole family knew and understood this and walked carefully in her presence. It was so ghastly to Demelza because the wind never stopped, not until every petal had been twisted off and was gone. Obscene stalks waving in the wind were left. It was as if the climate derided her efforts, brought things on with sunshine and mild air and then, like an evil child, in one day destroyed the lot.