Perhaps I am not the best person to comment on the Whitby Gothic Weekends. I have attended the October occasions (there are ones in April too) now for two years running, but in both cases I have been working on a stall so have spent my days busily selling people stuff and the evenings falling asleep very early, so missing out on the broader experience, in particular the bands and cabaret. However, being in one of the prime trading venues of the weekends, I do get to see a large portion of the people attending. I also pop out to get fish & chips and so do get the chance to see something you are unlikely to see anywhere else, which is a town which (even if for three days) appears to have a population which in the main is Goth. Of course, that is just the Goth visitors (and there are others notably caravan enthusiasts but they are often indistinguishable from the resident population) laid on top of the people who live there the rest of the year. This fantasy is made more realistic by the age range of Goths at Whitby, you can see every age from Goth babies to Goth elderly people. I think for a Goth you never feel anywhere as at home as in Whitby over these few days.
I was told by locals that more people attended than ever before. I have no way to judge the accuracy of that, but it was certainly well attended. Sunny weather on the Friday and Saturday meant it was easier to promenade in your full glory. Sunday morning had very heavy rain and winds remained strong in the afternoon even when the sun came out. However, the reasonable weather (in contrast to the hail that lashed me as I unloaded last year) helped bring things alive, though I have to sympathise with the leatherwear trader who has a tent outside the leisure centre which blew away.
Looking around Whitby you would have the feeling that Gothic culture is alive and well. Though there are always people you have seen before, it is very heartening that there always seem to be people for who are coming to the event for the first time. In addition, it is good to see in this age when chav culture seems so dominant among young people that there are Goth teenagers, there is another generation following on behind us, we are not the last.
Goths tend to be well off and they save up for the Whitby Gothic Weekend and this may counteract any damage that the recession is doing to the sale of Goth items. Sales seemed no less vigorous than last year (on the stall I worked on, in fact much better). The range of items always seems to expand and this year I saw Gothic style collars for cats and dogs as a new area. Clothing is obviously an important part of the business as is jewellery but it is good to see Gothic artwork around too in terms of pictures and sculptures. The number of Goth bands releasing both CDs and DVDs seemed undiminished. Though I did not get to it, I noted that there was a Goth wedding fair on. I know that Goth styling is leaking into muggle wedding styling too, so it is nice to see that we can make a proper claim from where it came from, because, of course, Goths are romantic and Romantic and a lot of muggle couples could learn from the intimacy, the passion and the caring that you see in many Goth relationships.
One of the highlights of attending the Whitby Goth Weekend is to see the outfits that people are wearing and the range was certainly impressive once again. Clearly black is the dominant colour, but this year dark green, especially on some Victorian dresses and some jewellery was making an appearance. After a brief appearance in mainstream fashion a couple of years back, it was probably not surprising to see numerous fascinators on show, not least, as one woman told me, they stay in place in better in high winds than standard hats. I also noted that there was more 18th century garb alongside the more usual 19th century outfits, many of which, especially on the women, were stunning. Talking with wearers, it is clear that many make their own outfits and it is good to see that the Gothic culture is keeping alive such skills. I doubt you will attend many events where people are working with sewing machines on their stalls, these days. Of course, the spectrum is wide, and at one end you have the futuristic techno outfits and there did seem to be more gas masks apparent than before, giving a truly alien appearance to the wearers. At the other end is the 18th century stylings. Whilst tricorns are far from rivalling top hats, they did seem more numerous than last year with long coats, waistcoats and breecher to match; as a adjunct there were quite a few Jack Sparrow-styled men. This may be an area for expansion for Gothic culture in the coming years. Steampunk has been growing in significance among Gothic culture. In the USA it is large enough to be having its own events, but in the UK it comes in alongside the 18th centuryers. The distinction tends to be that the leather is brown rather than black and with ubiquitous brass goggles. Paired couples in complementing steampunk outfits were quite numerous; stunning were various steampunk 'angels' wearing folding metal wings, some stretching a metre above their heads. Not easy to manoeuvre in a busy trading area but impressive all the same; apparently they were made by people local to North Yorkshire.
Of course, traders come and go, but it was good to see the bulk of the long-standing ones there. It was a shame that there was no charity stand as there was last year, but running a stall needs a lot of commitment and energy. I would liked to have seen some literary input. I know there was a poet trading in the Rifle Club last year, but it would be good if there was an event bringing together Gothic authors and poets. There might have been one, but I was oblivious to it. A session of readings and Gothic writers and poets talking about their work would be excellent, though I have heard that the bookshop in town gets rather pestered with such writers wanting book launches there, perhaps another venue could be found. Crime and romance writers seem to be welcomed in every town, I feel an outlet for the numerous Gothic writers out there would be a real plus.
I heard criticisms that the cabaret had too much burlesque and not enough variety in performers. Not having seen it myself (by then I was asleep) I cannot comment directly, but imagine it is difficult to find Gothic style performers. It would be good if the Circus of Horrors or even some of their performers could come to Whitby during the weekend to perfom, but I guess they make enough money playing larger towns and mainstream venues. Perhaps a Gothic talent show could be instituted.
There was discussion of a new Gothic event in York in July, DV8. I suppose it depends on the weather, because whilst the winds will be lower, the heat is liable to be higher, rather sticky for Goth outfits. Saying that, York is a lot easier to reach than Whitby. You can get from London to York in under 2 hours on the train but the remaining sixty-four kilometres to Whitby can take another hour or more; even driving up from Scarborough, the next nearest town to Whitby, twenty-five kilometres away, can be rather tortuous. The centre of York has suitably historic streets and the town has numerous hotels, just like Whitby. The key problem is, in July York has numerous mainstream tourists and the Gothic hordes will be competing with them for hotel rooms and street space. However, there are insufficient Gothic events in Britain and any addition is all for the good.
I know there has been tension among the different organisers of the Whitby event, but I guess that is inevitable when something has been running since 1994. I was glad to find that the rumours that a Christian group equating Gothic culture with unChristian viewpoints had tried to book out the venues usually used by the event, such as the Metropole Hotel, were actually unfounded and the non-use of some venues simply came from disagreements with individuals. However, after what was a very successful year, it seems that the weekend will continue to prosper. I thoroughly enjoyed my time there and recommend it to all Goths, book now for 2010. Hopefully one time I will be able to indulge in more of the events and not simply see all the excitement from behind a stall.
Thursday, 5 November 2009
Are Britons Only Socialist in Times of Crisis?
Many people argue that the British population is inherently conservative and for most of the time, Conservative, i.e. supporting the policies of the Conservative Party. I suppose that most people who are generally comfortably off, no matter where they live have a tendency not to want that disrupted and to keep out others from enjoying what they and their families have. It is a trend even in states such as China, which is Communist and founded on revolution and in which a lot of things still need to change, let alone countries, that whilst suffering from a recession currently, are far better off than those countries where the bulk of the world's population lives. Recently I have noted people who whilst they want to reduce pressure or upset for themselves actually want other people to suffer more 'for their own good'. Of course, the standard thing about pressurising unemployed people to take low-paid work and uproot and move right across the country or face punishment have been wheeled out again as the level of unemployment has risen. However, I have encountered people saying Sweden is now lagging because its policies of equality means there is no 'edge' to drive people to work harder. These people love having the whip cracked as long as it is on other people not themselves.
You might ask, well, 'what has this to do with Socialism?' You may ask 'what is Socialism, anyway?' It is a term that even the Labour Party dropped more than a decade ago. The wealthy actor, Alan Cummings, when interviewed recently listed it as the extinct thing he would like see revived. A lot of people equate it with Communism and they think that died the day the Berlin Wall was knocked down in 1989. Of course, saying all Socialists are Communists is like saying all Conservatives are Fascists: inaccurate and ignorant of how the political spectrum works. Of course, that was how many people have liked it. In particular, Margaret Thatcher (British prime minister 1979-90), who, on more than one occasion said she wanted the elimination of a spectrum of political parties and preferred to have simply two very close to each other as is the case in the USA, often equated not only Socialism but the Labour Party (which often had more Liberal than Socialist policies) with the Communist. In that way she could portray them as a the 'fifth column' or 'the enemy within', in league with the USSR to undermine democracy in the UK during the Cold War. Of course, Socialists are passionate defenders of democracy as are most Conservatives.
What is Socialism? Well, the key word is 'social', it is a political philosophy which sees the benefit of the whole of society as the key driving force. Of course, Margaret Thatcher argued that there was 'no such thing as society' and emphasised that it was individuals' desires and units no greater than families who should drive what happened politically and economically. Socialism argues that people are different, they have different needs and abilities but they should be looked after when they cannot look after themselves (such as when ill, pregnant, unemployed or elderly) but also that they have responsibilities to the rest of the community and that whilst they are free to make their own way in the world and make profits (this is crucially where Socialism differs from Communism) they should not do so by exploiting people whether in their own country or in other countries. This means employers should pay decent wages, have reasonable working hours and conditions and listen to the people that they are employing. A key objective of Socialism is that everyone has equal opportunity, whether it is in terms of access to health care or education or to get on in their lives. Vitally Socialism is against people being barred from certain jobs or other opportunities simply because of what social class they come, what gender, age or ethnicity they are. In the 1960s this approach, seen with the creation of numerous new universities to allow people greater opportunity to go into higher education, was condemned as 'meritocracy', i.e. that people with ability could succeed. Of course, this has been turned around from a negative term to a positive one. As I have noted regularly on this blog since the 1980s we have moved too far away from a meritocracy to too many people simply getting good positions because of what family they were born into or which elite school they attended. Opportunity is now less than it was thirty years ago.
A lot of Socialist principles overlap with Liberal ones and probably the most Socialist governments in British history, those under Clement Attlee 1945-51 actually pursued a Liberal policy. Rather than having a controlled economy in line with what Socialism advocates, after 1948 they used Liberal Keynesian approaches, manipulating rather than directing the economy, notably through shifting interest rates. In terms of health and social welfare, though they created the National Health Service, they permitted private, fee-taking doctors to continue practising and rather than funding a lot of health and social welfare from direct taxation as you would expect a Socialist government to do, they widened welfare insurance, which had been introduced in the 1910s and created National Insurance in line with what the Liberal, William Beveridge had advised during the war. The idea is that you pay into national insurance as you would any insurance so that you build up a fund that you can draw upon when you need it, for example, when ill or elderly or out of work. Of course, as with all insurance, some people never make a claim whereas others claim often, but that reflects the diverse needs of our society and that is not something we should try to restrain.
The most Socialist element was nationalisation of key sectors of British industry. The focus was on the 'commanding heights', i.e. those sectors of the economy that fed through into many others. Thus, coal mining and the railways were nationalised. The fact that these industries had been run poorly or inefficiently before was a good reason for the state to take over. Gas extraction and provision; electricity generation; water supply; coach transport; airlines; freighting and later steel manufacture were all nationalised; though some steps, such as with airlines had been taken before the war. Other countries, notably France did the same kind of thing. The British, however, even with nationalisation, tempered Socialism with Liberalism and had a very 'arms length' control by the state of these industries and did not direct them in the ways they should stimulate the economy the way that even right-wing governments in France did especially with the largest state-owned company in France, Electricite de France (now EDF Energy). Often, as with the example of gas and water supply what we saw in the UK was really just grand 'muncipalisation'. Many suppliers had been established by city councils in the 19th century and the regionalised approach to gas and water supply (and some water regions, such as City of York, were very small) was continuing this 19th century approach rather than moving to a really Socialist method.
In later years nationalisation in the UK was not used as a way to try to stimulate the economy but rather to bail out failing companies such as Rolls Royce in 1971 (nationalised by Edward Heath's Conservative Government), British Leyland car manufacturers in 1976 and British Aerospace made up of a number of aeronautical manufacturing companies and British Shipbuilders, the same for that industry, in 1977. It is unsurprising that nationalised industries that had failed continued to suffer but it meant that nationalisation was now seen as a failed economic policy and this was at the time when New Right ideas were rising both in the USA and the UK emphasising the reduction of all state control or even regulations and clearly nationalised industries were an anathema to such thinking (notably the economic viewpoint held by Margaret Thatcher). Ironically Thatcher's government nationalised collapsed chemical company, Johnson Matthey in 1984.
Despite the emphasis on nationalised industries the state sector was never larger than 20% of the economy compared to 90%+ in Communist countries. In the 1980s and 1990s the nationalised industries were sold off by the government which brought revenue to the state. The idea was ownership would be held by numerous small shareholders but generally they were bought out by large companies and increasingly ones from abroad. Whilst there have been regulators of these former nationalised industries control over prices and profits and trying to keep up quality has not really worked; many have a near monopoly and as has been seen in the past couple of years attempts by government to stop them charging high prices and providing poor service have failed.
Conservative propaganda about Socialism has always been pretty successful. In 1992, Labour did not win the election after a successful campaign arguing that its policies would lead to higher taxation, a view that even Labour supporters seem to come to believe. In the 1950s the Conservatives argued that Labour's nationalisation was akin to a command economy and though Winston Churchill shot himself in the foot in 1945 likening the Labour approach to the Gestapo by the 1950s the Conservatives were successful in portraying themselves as the party of freedom against Labour's restraint and austerity. In the late 1940s, of course, the public had been used to both restraint and authority so that argument had little impact. In addition, Labour does seem to offer solutions to ingrained problems and in 1945 the public had been really voting on the problems of 1931 rather than the post-war era.
The reason why Tony Blair was so focused on manipulating the media was because he knew from history how long it had been manipulated against anything Labour had done. However, he went so far in making the Labour Party seem acceptable to the media that he sheared it of the bulk of its Socialist principles. Clause 4, the part of the Labour Party constitution which advocated nationalisation, was scrapped in 1994. On coming to power in 1997, Labour in fact went further than the Conservative governments by denationalising the Bank of England and so giving up even Keynesian control over interest rates. I believe that Tony Blair was neither a Socialist or really a Conservative, he was a Blairite and created a personal party out of the shell of the Labour Party; using Christian Democrat principles as the covered, but really based on his own ambitions and simply what he felt was 'right'. This is why people feel Socialism is dead in Britain, but in effect we probably have not even seen a mildly Socialist government in Britain at least since 1976 if not since 1970 and that is the way company bosses like it.
The key problem for Labour, aside from the fact that the financial sector always tries to make a run on the pound and destabilise the economy, in fear of what constraints they will be put under, is that trade unions see an opportunity to get the deals that they have battled to achieve under a Conservative government. Now, as in 1978/9, they are busily undermining the Labour government with demands and strikes that make it appear to voters, ironically most of whom will be workers, that the government has no control. Of course, part of the problem is that no British government has been able to tackle the greed and huge profits of those who run business, so it is unsurprising that workers want more. If the utility companies had been compelled to pay a windfall tax and bankers to limit their vast bonuses, ironically I think we would be seeing less industrial action.
Anyway, having cantered through Socialism, you might be thinking why is that relevant now? Well, it is my suggestion that the British population while Conservative most of the time, turns to Socialism when things are going wrong. In 1945 Socialism was seen as the way to avoid a return to the Depression of the 1930s and the economic slump that had followed the First World War. In 1964 Socialism was seen as the way to stop Britain's industrial stagnation, unwillingness to modernise and thus its slipping competitiveness from worsening. In 1974 Socialism was seen as a way to heal the sharp rifts in society and especially in industrial relations. Of course, there has always been ambivalence as the elections of 1951, 1964 and 1974 showed and the wealthy always pull out the stops to prevent the advent of a truly Socialist government. This is one reason why Gordon Brown who, unlike Blair, is a Labour leader, has come under sustained media attack throughout his term in office. However, it is clear that the British public is drifting back in a Socialist direction once more.
Of course, it is not pure, unadulterated Socialism, there are other trends such as blaming problems of immigrants, which are an anathema to Socialism but almost seem to have become a norm in much discussion. However, adherence to the National Health Service and a national innoculation programme to combat swine flu is one characteristic of a more Socialist outlook. People do not seem to realise that in the USA they would have to have health insurance for things they currently get for free and once they were elderly they would find it difficult to get cover. Most likely they would be paying for innoculations. I know prescription charges have risen but no-one pays for innoculation and the elderly and people like me with a lifelong condition, diabetes, who need constant medicines, do no pay.
There are, in fact, demands that the NHS expands it role and does more to provide treatment for the elderly, and for example, one-to-one care for premature babies. Such things are costly and perhaps people are unwilling to tolerate the tax to pay for these. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, whilst re-inforcing pride in the military among the British population, are seen increasingly as hopeless and people are calling for an exit. The Conservatives argue that Labour has not provided the military with the equipment it needs, something I agree has been a problem, but how does anyone expect David Cameron with all his emphasis on cutting public spending to be able to afford to send even one more helicopter to Helmand province?
The key area where we are seeing a return of Socialism is, ironically, in terms of the previously most controversial aspect of the ethos, nationalisation. We now have a larger nationalised sector in the UK than at any time since about 1986. The British government took over the Docklands Light Railway in 1997 and effectively the railway track of Britain is run by Network Rail a company without shareholders but underwritten by the government. In 2008 Northern Rock building society and the mortgage lending part of Bradford & Bingley building society were nationalised. The government took over 60% of the Royal Bank of Scotland and 40% of the HBOS-Lloyds-TSB banking conglomerate giving it a large slice of the British banking sector, especially in mortgage-lending which has always been a key element in shaping the British economy.
It is unlikely that even Clement Attlee would have been able to control such a large aspect of the financial sector. The closest we came was when Roy Hattersley, deputy leader of the Labour Party said around the time of the 1992 election that the investment group 3i would be nationalised under a Labout Government to form the basis of state investment in private industry. The uproar was such that the idea seems to have been entirely forgotten almost immediately. Interestingly, this year, finally, the government is compelling credit card companies to raise the minimum repayment level on the amount people owe. This should have come in at least 10 or 15 years ago and could have restrained some of the overheated consumption and massive debt that amounted during the late 1990s and early 2000s that has distorted the economy in an unhealthy way.
All of these steps have been taken with no dismay from the general public. When there is a crisis they expect the government to step in and sort it all out for them. The rest of the time they whine about over-regulation, the 'nanny state', that taxes are intolerable and so on, not realising that lack of regulation has led to much of the crisis we are now in and that expensive bail-outs can only be funded by taxes. Again nationalisation, which seems such a dirty word in most years, is seen as the solution. Again, however, as in the 1970s, it is being used to catch falling businesses. This is the wrong way to approach the economy. Northern Rock should have been nationalised before it started its mad approach to mortgage lending. I would have taken it over in 2005 at the latest and then, rather than it being a drag on the British economy it could have been used to stabilise house prices and provide stimulus to new business.
With the first £1002 train ticket for the journey from Newquay in Cornwall to Kyle of Lochalsh in western Scotland, a distance of 2,720 Km (a round the world air ticket can be bought for £800 and you can travel from London to Zurich on the luxury Orient Express for £1000 or from Moscow to Beijing on the Trans-Siberian Railway - 5,806 Km for only £995) and most inter-city rail fare prices having trebled in the past 15 years, a period in which inflation has been below 3%, it seems apparent that if we want a mobile population using the greenest form of transport around, i.e. electric trains, then we need the whole rail system back in state control. You find that the only people who praise the privatisation of the railways are people who never travel on trains.
So, are we seeing a Socialist conscience developing among the British population, wanting a tax on bankers' bonuses, limits on the pay of the wealthy, better value public transport and a health service expanding its scope combined with a tolerance, possibly even an enthusiasm for privatising what are now the controlling sectors of the British economy? People would argue, as historian Corelli Barnett did in the 1980s that the British have become too used to the 'teat' of state intervention and would be traumatised to have it taken away from them and left to fend for themselves. However, of course, with Thatcherite policies a great deal has been taken away and yet there are still billions of pounds of benefits that people who are entitled to them do not claim. Britons are an independent people that still like to make their own way as best they can, despite all the propaganda about benefit swindlers and dole scroungers. Ironically no-one goes after the tax defrauders who owe millions in total to the British economy but they have taken out to tax havens. We need to go after these people and make them contribute the way I and the large bulk of ordinary British people do. We have no choice about paying or not paying tax, so why should the wealthy get to make that choice? Hopefully people are beginning to realise that only a tiny fraction of the population are ever going to win the lottery or set up a business we can sell for millions or become a pop star or some other kind of celebrity, so instead of thinking it is alright for the rich to get away without pulling their weight because one day we might be one of them, more of us need to make sure there are opportunities for a decent life for all.
The veteran Socialist politician Tony Benn often recounts when he was on a train that broke down and how it suddenly seemed as if people were becoming Socialist, sharing out the food and other supplies they had, working together to make the best of a bad situation. When the train was running smoothly of course they did none of this. People often refer back to the 'wartime spirit' when people supposedly collaborated in the way that Benn saw them do on that train. Historian Nick Tiratsoo has shown that a lot of that was exaggerated and we know that 'outsiders', often Jews, were kept out of air raid shelters and whilst the bulk of the population was struggling to feed their families on rations, those who could afford to, could eat unrationed food in restaurants. However, though it might have been exaggerated it does seem that, possibly counter to what you might expect, in crises Britons become less rather than more selfish. It is a shame that they cannot maintain that attitude in the better times. I know David Cameron thinks he will walk into being the latest Conservative prime minister but the recession has reawakened the dormant Socialist tendencies in the British population and if Labour appeals to those rather than trying to be a pale version of Margaret Thatcher's Conservative party, it may win at the next election.
You might ask, well, 'what has this to do with Socialism?' You may ask 'what is Socialism, anyway?' It is a term that even the Labour Party dropped more than a decade ago. The wealthy actor, Alan Cummings, when interviewed recently listed it as the extinct thing he would like see revived. A lot of people equate it with Communism and they think that died the day the Berlin Wall was knocked down in 1989. Of course, saying all Socialists are Communists is like saying all Conservatives are Fascists: inaccurate and ignorant of how the political spectrum works. Of course, that was how many people have liked it. In particular, Margaret Thatcher (British prime minister 1979-90), who, on more than one occasion said she wanted the elimination of a spectrum of political parties and preferred to have simply two very close to each other as is the case in the USA, often equated not only Socialism but the Labour Party (which often had more Liberal than Socialist policies) with the Communist. In that way she could portray them as a the 'fifth column' or 'the enemy within', in league with the USSR to undermine democracy in the UK during the Cold War. Of course, Socialists are passionate defenders of democracy as are most Conservatives.
What is Socialism? Well, the key word is 'social', it is a political philosophy which sees the benefit of the whole of society as the key driving force. Of course, Margaret Thatcher argued that there was 'no such thing as society' and emphasised that it was individuals' desires and units no greater than families who should drive what happened politically and economically. Socialism argues that people are different, they have different needs and abilities but they should be looked after when they cannot look after themselves (such as when ill, pregnant, unemployed or elderly) but also that they have responsibilities to the rest of the community and that whilst they are free to make their own way in the world and make profits (this is crucially where Socialism differs from Communism) they should not do so by exploiting people whether in their own country or in other countries. This means employers should pay decent wages, have reasonable working hours and conditions and listen to the people that they are employing. A key objective of Socialism is that everyone has equal opportunity, whether it is in terms of access to health care or education or to get on in their lives. Vitally Socialism is against people being barred from certain jobs or other opportunities simply because of what social class they come, what gender, age or ethnicity they are. In the 1960s this approach, seen with the creation of numerous new universities to allow people greater opportunity to go into higher education, was condemned as 'meritocracy', i.e. that people with ability could succeed. Of course, this has been turned around from a negative term to a positive one. As I have noted regularly on this blog since the 1980s we have moved too far away from a meritocracy to too many people simply getting good positions because of what family they were born into or which elite school they attended. Opportunity is now less than it was thirty years ago.
A lot of Socialist principles overlap with Liberal ones and probably the most Socialist governments in British history, those under Clement Attlee 1945-51 actually pursued a Liberal policy. Rather than having a controlled economy in line with what Socialism advocates, after 1948 they used Liberal Keynesian approaches, manipulating rather than directing the economy, notably through shifting interest rates. In terms of health and social welfare, though they created the National Health Service, they permitted private, fee-taking doctors to continue practising and rather than funding a lot of health and social welfare from direct taxation as you would expect a Socialist government to do, they widened welfare insurance, which had been introduced in the 1910s and created National Insurance in line with what the Liberal, William Beveridge had advised during the war. The idea is that you pay into national insurance as you would any insurance so that you build up a fund that you can draw upon when you need it, for example, when ill or elderly or out of work. Of course, as with all insurance, some people never make a claim whereas others claim often, but that reflects the diverse needs of our society and that is not something we should try to restrain.
The most Socialist element was nationalisation of key sectors of British industry. The focus was on the 'commanding heights', i.e. those sectors of the economy that fed through into many others. Thus, coal mining and the railways were nationalised. The fact that these industries had been run poorly or inefficiently before was a good reason for the state to take over. Gas extraction and provision; electricity generation; water supply; coach transport; airlines; freighting and later steel manufacture were all nationalised; though some steps, such as with airlines had been taken before the war. Other countries, notably France did the same kind of thing. The British, however, even with nationalisation, tempered Socialism with Liberalism and had a very 'arms length' control by the state of these industries and did not direct them in the ways they should stimulate the economy the way that even right-wing governments in France did especially with the largest state-owned company in France, Electricite de France (now EDF Energy). Often, as with the example of gas and water supply what we saw in the UK was really just grand 'muncipalisation'. Many suppliers had been established by city councils in the 19th century and the regionalised approach to gas and water supply (and some water regions, such as City of York, were very small) was continuing this 19th century approach rather than moving to a really Socialist method.
In later years nationalisation in the UK was not used as a way to try to stimulate the economy but rather to bail out failing companies such as Rolls Royce in 1971 (nationalised by Edward Heath's Conservative Government), British Leyland car manufacturers in 1976 and British Aerospace made up of a number of aeronautical manufacturing companies and British Shipbuilders, the same for that industry, in 1977. It is unsurprising that nationalised industries that had failed continued to suffer but it meant that nationalisation was now seen as a failed economic policy and this was at the time when New Right ideas were rising both in the USA and the UK emphasising the reduction of all state control or even regulations and clearly nationalised industries were an anathema to such thinking (notably the economic viewpoint held by Margaret Thatcher). Ironically Thatcher's government nationalised collapsed chemical company, Johnson Matthey in 1984.
Despite the emphasis on nationalised industries the state sector was never larger than 20% of the economy compared to 90%+ in Communist countries. In the 1980s and 1990s the nationalised industries were sold off by the government which brought revenue to the state. The idea was ownership would be held by numerous small shareholders but generally they were bought out by large companies and increasingly ones from abroad. Whilst there have been regulators of these former nationalised industries control over prices and profits and trying to keep up quality has not really worked; many have a near monopoly and as has been seen in the past couple of years attempts by government to stop them charging high prices and providing poor service have failed.
Conservative propaganda about Socialism has always been pretty successful. In 1992, Labour did not win the election after a successful campaign arguing that its policies would lead to higher taxation, a view that even Labour supporters seem to come to believe. In the 1950s the Conservatives argued that Labour's nationalisation was akin to a command economy and though Winston Churchill shot himself in the foot in 1945 likening the Labour approach to the Gestapo by the 1950s the Conservatives were successful in portraying themselves as the party of freedom against Labour's restraint and austerity. In the late 1940s, of course, the public had been used to both restraint and authority so that argument had little impact. In addition, Labour does seem to offer solutions to ingrained problems and in 1945 the public had been really voting on the problems of 1931 rather than the post-war era.
The reason why Tony Blair was so focused on manipulating the media was because he knew from history how long it had been manipulated against anything Labour had done. However, he went so far in making the Labour Party seem acceptable to the media that he sheared it of the bulk of its Socialist principles. Clause 4, the part of the Labour Party constitution which advocated nationalisation, was scrapped in 1994. On coming to power in 1997, Labour in fact went further than the Conservative governments by denationalising the Bank of England and so giving up even Keynesian control over interest rates. I believe that Tony Blair was neither a Socialist or really a Conservative, he was a Blairite and created a personal party out of the shell of the Labour Party; using Christian Democrat principles as the covered, but really based on his own ambitions and simply what he felt was 'right'. This is why people feel Socialism is dead in Britain, but in effect we probably have not even seen a mildly Socialist government in Britain at least since 1976 if not since 1970 and that is the way company bosses like it.
The key problem for Labour, aside from the fact that the financial sector always tries to make a run on the pound and destabilise the economy, in fear of what constraints they will be put under, is that trade unions see an opportunity to get the deals that they have battled to achieve under a Conservative government. Now, as in 1978/9, they are busily undermining the Labour government with demands and strikes that make it appear to voters, ironically most of whom will be workers, that the government has no control. Of course, part of the problem is that no British government has been able to tackle the greed and huge profits of those who run business, so it is unsurprising that workers want more. If the utility companies had been compelled to pay a windfall tax and bankers to limit their vast bonuses, ironically I think we would be seeing less industrial action.
Anyway, having cantered through Socialism, you might be thinking why is that relevant now? Well, it is my suggestion that the British population while Conservative most of the time, turns to Socialism when things are going wrong. In 1945 Socialism was seen as the way to avoid a return to the Depression of the 1930s and the economic slump that had followed the First World War. In 1964 Socialism was seen as the way to stop Britain's industrial stagnation, unwillingness to modernise and thus its slipping competitiveness from worsening. In 1974 Socialism was seen as a way to heal the sharp rifts in society and especially in industrial relations. Of course, there has always been ambivalence as the elections of 1951, 1964 and 1974 showed and the wealthy always pull out the stops to prevent the advent of a truly Socialist government. This is one reason why Gordon Brown who, unlike Blair, is a Labour leader, has come under sustained media attack throughout his term in office. However, it is clear that the British public is drifting back in a Socialist direction once more.
Of course, it is not pure, unadulterated Socialism, there are other trends such as blaming problems of immigrants, which are an anathema to Socialism but almost seem to have become a norm in much discussion. However, adherence to the National Health Service and a national innoculation programme to combat swine flu is one characteristic of a more Socialist outlook. People do not seem to realise that in the USA they would have to have health insurance for things they currently get for free and once they were elderly they would find it difficult to get cover. Most likely they would be paying for innoculations. I know prescription charges have risen but no-one pays for innoculation and the elderly and people like me with a lifelong condition, diabetes, who need constant medicines, do no pay.
There are, in fact, demands that the NHS expands it role and does more to provide treatment for the elderly, and for example, one-to-one care for premature babies. Such things are costly and perhaps people are unwilling to tolerate the tax to pay for these. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, whilst re-inforcing pride in the military among the British population, are seen increasingly as hopeless and people are calling for an exit. The Conservatives argue that Labour has not provided the military with the equipment it needs, something I agree has been a problem, but how does anyone expect David Cameron with all his emphasis on cutting public spending to be able to afford to send even one more helicopter to Helmand province?
The key area where we are seeing a return of Socialism is, ironically, in terms of the previously most controversial aspect of the ethos, nationalisation. We now have a larger nationalised sector in the UK than at any time since about 1986. The British government took over the Docklands Light Railway in 1997 and effectively the railway track of Britain is run by Network Rail a company without shareholders but underwritten by the government. In 2008 Northern Rock building society and the mortgage lending part of Bradford & Bingley building society were nationalised. The government took over 60% of the Royal Bank of Scotland and 40% of the HBOS-Lloyds-TSB banking conglomerate giving it a large slice of the British banking sector, especially in mortgage-lending which has always been a key element in shaping the British economy.
It is unlikely that even Clement Attlee would have been able to control such a large aspect of the financial sector. The closest we came was when Roy Hattersley, deputy leader of the Labour Party said around the time of the 1992 election that the investment group 3i would be nationalised under a Labout Government to form the basis of state investment in private industry. The uproar was such that the idea seems to have been entirely forgotten almost immediately. Interestingly, this year, finally, the government is compelling credit card companies to raise the minimum repayment level on the amount people owe. This should have come in at least 10 or 15 years ago and could have restrained some of the overheated consumption and massive debt that amounted during the late 1990s and early 2000s that has distorted the economy in an unhealthy way.
All of these steps have been taken with no dismay from the general public. When there is a crisis they expect the government to step in and sort it all out for them. The rest of the time they whine about over-regulation, the 'nanny state', that taxes are intolerable and so on, not realising that lack of regulation has led to much of the crisis we are now in and that expensive bail-outs can only be funded by taxes. Again nationalisation, which seems such a dirty word in most years, is seen as the solution. Again, however, as in the 1970s, it is being used to catch falling businesses. This is the wrong way to approach the economy. Northern Rock should have been nationalised before it started its mad approach to mortgage lending. I would have taken it over in 2005 at the latest and then, rather than it being a drag on the British economy it could have been used to stabilise house prices and provide stimulus to new business.
With the first £1002 train ticket for the journey from Newquay in Cornwall to Kyle of Lochalsh in western Scotland, a distance of 2,720 Km (a round the world air ticket can be bought for £800 and you can travel from London to Zurich on the luxury Orient Express for £1000 or from Moscow to Beijing on the Trans-Siberian Railway - 5,806 Km for only £995) and most inter-city rail fare prices having trebled in the past 15 years, a period in which inflation has been below 3%, it seems apparent that if we want a mobile population using the greenest form of transport around, i.e. electric trains, then we need the whole rail system back in state control. You find that the only people who praise the privatisation of the railways are people who never travel on trains.
So, are we seeing a Socialist conscience developing among the British population, wanting a tax on bankers' bonuses, limits on the pay of the wealthy, better value public transport and a health service expanding its scope combined with a tolerance, possibly even an enthusiasm for privatising what are now the controlling sectors of the British economy? People would argue, as historian Corelli Barnett did in the 1980s that the British have become too used to the 'teat' of state intervention and would be traumatised to have it taken away from them and left to fend for themselves. However, of course, with Thatcherite policies a great deal has been taken away and yet there are still billions of pounds of benefits that people who are entitled to them do not claim. Britons are an independent people that still like to make their own way as best they can, despite all the propaganda about benefit swindlers and dole scroungers. Ironically no-one goes after the tax defrauders who owe millions in total to the British economy but they have taken out to tax havens. We need to go after these people and make them contribute the way I and the large bulk of ordinary British people do. We have no choice about paying or not paying tax, so why should the wealthy get to make that choice? Hopefully people are beginning to realise that only a tiny fraction of the population are ever going to win the lottery or set up a business we can sell for millions or become a pop star or some other kind of celebrity, so instead of thinking it is alright for the rich to get away without pulling their weight because one day we might be one of them, more of us need to make sure there are opportunities for a decent life for all.
The veteran Socialist politician Tony Benn often recounts when he was on a train that broke down and how it suddenly seemed as if people were becoming Socialist, sharing out the food and other supplies they had, working together to make the best of a bad situation. When the train was running smoothly of course they did none of this. People often refer back to the 'wartime spirit' when people supposedly collaborated in the way that Benn saw them do on that train. Historian Nick Tiratsoo has shown that a lot of that was exaggerated and we know that 'outsiders', often Jews, were kept out of air raid shelters and whilst the bulk of the population was struggling to feed their families on rations, those who could afford to, could eat unrationed food in restaurants. However, though it might have been exaggerated it does seem that, possibly counter to what you might expect, in crises Britons become less rather than more selfish. It is a shame that they cannot maintain that attitude in the better times. I know David Cameron thinks he will walk into being the latest Conservative prime minister but the recession has reawakened the dormant Socialist tendencies in the British population and if Labour appeals to those rather than trying to be a pale version of Margaret Thatcher's Conservative party, it may win at the next election.
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Catch Me Who Can: Part 5 - Steampunk Novella
Catch Me Who Can
Part FiveThe ‘Whitby Walker’ came to a final halt with a sharp exhalation of steam from the whistle. Then Ernestine shut the air vents to the firebox. In a short while the lack of oxygen meant the fire would die. Albert hooked the ladder on to the gondola. Isaac and the others joyfully pulled up their goggles and freed their mouths of their scarves. First Ernestine then Samuel and Isaac stepped down the ladder on to the hard-based grass. Albert was waving his cheap pocket watch at them and Isaac guessed that even if he had been too busy to watch their progress he had been measuring it in his own way.
“You beat the Japanese.” Albert repeated as if that was victory enough in itself.
Isaac realised he had worried that they would fall behind even the slow speed of the ‘Buckingham Prince’ but to have gone faster, even just slightly, than the sleek ‘Tsuru’ did seem an achievement. Then he saw Kaori hurrying over to them. He looked stunning in the dark brown coat he wore, decorated with the patterns that made it seem a sturdier version of the robe he had been in the night before.
“Messrs. Waddington, Mrs. Waddington, congratulations on such a successful, erm, progression. Come join us. We have sake, erm, rice wine, and tea too.”
The Waddingtons each shook hands with the Japanese; he seemed to have adopted the gesture and happy to use it to emphasise his congratulations.
“I’ll go and see how the other crews are progressing. I don’t think that Birmingham lot will do any good, but the Germans, well.”
“Yes, Albert, that would be useful.” Samuel responded.
Albert hurried off back towards the race course while the Waddingtons let themselves be guided to the tent beside the ‘Tsuru’. Isaac was reluctant to engage in any premature celebrations; he knew their official time had yet to be announced. He remained apprehensive that those who had been so hostile to Ernestine’s involvement might find some way to penalise or disqualify the ‘Whitby Walker’. As he walked with his wife’s arm through his, he wondered if the Waddingtons could use the issue of the uncleared oil as leverage against whatever petty-minded officials of the Society might try.
As they entered the tent, Count Otomo and Mr. Sato both dressed to match Kaori, rose from their seats.
“Messrs. Waddington, Mrs. Waddington, warm congratulation on your race. I hear you have beaten us by eight seconds.”
“Thank you, Mr. Otomo.” Samuel responded, seemingly a little at a loss as to how to react.
Isaac had heard that the Japanese took defeat badly, but he had nothing on which to judge that statement. In fact, bar some sailors, he was sure that no-one he knew had actually ever met someone from Japan and, even if they had, he wondered if they could have told them apart from a Chinese. Of course, Count Otomo seemed to embody the Japanese who had embraced influences from Europe, but Isaac had a feeling that even if he had not, this man would be chivalrous no matter what the difference between the two pedestrians’ times had been.
A servant in an immaculate white uniform came forward from the rear of the tent. He carried a tray on which sat a number of cups without handles. Most seemed to contain a clear liquid; a couple something that looked like tea without milk, though large dark leaves were clear at the bottom. The servant offered the tray to Samuel first.
“Mr. Samuel Waddington, I believe you would like the tea.” Count Otomo gestured to the darker liquid and Isaac was conscious that he was keen to avoid his father suffering the kind of mix-up the Japanese had experienced back at the pub.
Samuel took the tea and Isaac and his wife the sake. The three Japanese crew gathered around and exclaimed something in Japanese that Isaac took to be a toast and drank their drinks. Rather more slowly the Waddingtons copied them. As Isaac sipped the wine he realised it had been heated. The taste was dry but with a tang. He wished his mother could have been here to see how far removed from life in Whitby they were now.
“The double casing, a piece of genius engineering, Mr. Waddington.” The count addressed Samuel.
“Erm thank you. It seemed to make sense. If you have run a pedestrian up out of Whitby you would know how difficult it is if you are trying to do it tipped back in your gondola.”
“And from what I hear, the way your pedestrian walks, a stiff gait, the gondola tilted, that too is an innovation.”
Isaac wondered if the count’s questions were more about gathering intelligence than sharing technical points with fellow engineers.
“And your gondola: wood and canvas?” Samuel asked, making it clear to Isaac that he had been concerned in the same way and at least sought a fair exchange. “The nature of your suspension of the gondola, these aspects are of interest too.”
“Yes, we have much to share. Only tell me what you wish to Mr. Waddington, anything you wish to remain a secret, that you decide.” The count seemed genuinely to want to reassure the Waddingtons.
Samuel laughed. “Well, there is not much that a knowledgeable spectator could not have determined from watching carefully. I am sure everything about both our pedestrians will be detailed in ‘The Engineer’ no matter what you or I might say.”
“Yes, Mr. Waddington, I guess you are correct.”
“But I have no secrets, Mr. Otomo, I will share my specifications with all, no matter whether they are British, German, Japanese or Mexican. Engineering advances only through the exchange of information and it is mankind as a whole which benefits then, not simply someone who jealously guards his ideas behind patents.”
“And what improvements do you plan for next year, Mr. Waddington?” Kaori asked.
“Next year?” Samuel laughed again. “I have given it no thought.”
“Surely you will return. You vehicle may win this race, and I think you will, at worst, come third. The Baden vehicle is too heavy; the ‘Conqueror’ perhaps too complex and prone to errors. I know the ‘Avalon’ has legs that deceive, they are longer than people think and the engine is light but very powerful. Even then, the machine is old.”
“You have done your research.”
The count bowed his head in acknowledgement of the compliment.
“It will be difficult to raise the funds to attend again and I have no desire for the ‘Whitby Walker’ to be plastered with half-a-dozen advertisements in order for it to run.”
“Given your performance this year, people will insist you race again.”
“It is a costly pastime.”
“Then we must run a joint crew. How about that? The first crew from two nations, your knowledge and skill with our machinery? The ‘Yuai’ will be our pedestrian, the ‘Brotherhood’.”
Isaac knew that there would be some who would see dealing with foreigners as some kind of betrayal of Britain, but, then again, pedestrian racing was hardly an arm of engineering likely to have much impact on the country’s capacity for either war or trade. Isaac could see where the views of the count and of his father coincided. They believed, possibly counter to many of their respective countrymen, that the sharing of technology would lessen the chance of conflict. Isaac was uncertain whether that was the case, but he could appreciate that noble sentiments motivated both men.
Suddenly another man dressed in a suit came in from what Isaac realised was a second room to the tent. He bowed before the count and said something in Japanese.
“Ah, the ‘Aston Canter’ has finished with a time of 20 minutes, 54 seconds. They were slower even than the ‘Buckingham Prince’. Your time has been confirmed officially now, 20 minutes, 9 seconds.”
“That is good, very good.” Isaac voiced his feelings.
He realised he had misjudged the time shown on the final clock. It seemed possible that without the oil spill they might have broken the twenty-minute mark.
“You were faster than the times both the ‘Avalon’ and the ‘Conqueror’ recorded last year.”
“You seem to be well informed, count.” Ernestine observed.
“Of course. Come through to the room of the times.” The count led them to the back of the tent and through into another space.
A man sat at the table there and next to him was the seat that the suited man had presumably been occupying. On the table were seven stop clocks the size of a man’s hand and in front of each, a number. The first four clocks showed times, the remaining three had yet to be started. Behind the table was a doorway and looking through Isaac could see another Japanese studying the skies. It was apparent that when the maroons went up he signalled to the men in the tent to start or stop the appropriate clock. It would not be as precise as if being triggered electrically but with the error presumably the same for each, it allowed comparison between the different pedestrians. As he stepped closer Isaac could see that on the table was also a chart. Though he could not make out what the Japanese writing meant he guessed it gave previous times, presumably at least those recorded in 1876, if not earlier ones.
As they stood there another of Otomo’s auxiliaries came through the doorway and hurriedly said something to the count.
“The ‘Grossherzog Karl Friedrich’ is in position at the starting line.” The count translated.
The messenger hurried from the tent and Isaac gathered that he was the runner who brought the news from the officials’ tent at the finish line.
“Will you go to see the German pedestrian finish?” The count asked.
Isaac was keen to see the last three vehicles come home.
“Yes, I shall. Ernestine?”
“Yes, that would be good.” She responded. “Sam?”
“I am happy here. Myself and Mr. Otomo have things to discuss, later it might be very busy and then we will have missed the opportunity. Come and fetch me when the race is done.”
“Mr. Isaac Waddington, may I accompany you and Mrs. Waddington?” Kaori asked.
“Of course, let us go. Father, we will see you later. Thank you, count, for your hospitality.”
The Japanese repeated the self-effacing gesture of before. Within a minute, Isaac, Ernestine and Kaori had left the tent through the nearest entrance and were making their way towards the finish line. Then the crack of the explosion from the foot of the hill sounded and they all looked to see the green maroon shoot into the sky: the Badeners were on their way.
With no vehicles currently active in this paddock and with a bare handful of people around the field was quiet with only the occasional sound of the crowd coming from the race course. Kaori led the way past the small collection of tents grouped in the pitch that would soon hold the ‘Avalon’ and on to the official tent.
They reached the area at the finishing line well before the ‘Grossherzog Karl Friedrich’ was in sight. The public was kept from the enclosure around the official marquees and from a few yards down the road from it so that there was sufficient space for all the M.P.O.S. members and local dignitaries to find a decent place from which to spectate the closing yards of each run.
Fortunately for the Waddingtons and Kaori Otomo, even if they had not been recognised their outfits alone seemed to be enough to smooth their path through this area. Isaac gratefully imagined that the officials who had caused them so much trouble the day before were too busy with running the race to be able to cause any difficulty today. Between them Ernestine and Kaori did provoke a little interest, but the developing race was proving a greater attraction for the curiosity of the privileged spectators in this area. The trio were able to get a good position at the edge of the enclosed area from where they could see well down the road. Isaac checked his watch and guessed that the German pedestrian must already be close to the half-way mark.
“Ernestine Waddington.”
A female voice came from behind them and a little reluctantly Isaac turned to see who was calling his wife’s name; the accent suggested she was local. Naturally Ernestine turned away from the road too and together they saw a tall woman in her late forties dressed in a dark blue outfit which seemed to be a stylised replica of the kind of garb the pedestrian crews wore. Even her hat, though decorated with pheasant feathers, was like the caps Isaac and Ernestine still wore.
“Lady Harding.” The woman introduced herself. “I see my girls delivered the posy as instructed.” She gestured to the metal flowers still in Ernestine’s belt.
“Erm, yes, thank you. They are very nice, a nice thought. Thank you Lady Harding.”
“Call me Lydia, I hope you do not mind if I call you Ernestine?”
“Of course, that is fine.”
“When I heard last night that a woman was an operator, well, I had to make sure it was recognised. I would have been here anyway, but I sent for one of our posies from Aylesbury. We give them in recognition for the achievement of women engineers in our district.”
“Ah, I see.” Ernestine seemed to be relaxing a little. “Erm this is my husband, Isaac, our combustioneer.”
Lady Harding extended her hand for Isaac to shake.
“A pleasure to meet you. Well done on an excellent time. I am sure you must be very proud of Ernestine.”
“Erm, yes, yes I am.”
“That is good. We need more men like you. Too many think that allowing women a full role in engineering somehow weakens their own standing, but here you have proven something different. Marriage is a collaboration, yes? Here a married couple work together to record an excellent time. You do not feel emasculated with your wife as operator do you, Isaac?”
“Erm, no, Lady, er, Lydia.”
“Good, good.” Lady Harding grinned in response. “And you had to pull off a difficult manoeuvre. From what I heard, that leap over the oil patch was very impressive. I’ve had a word with Charles about that, it was a bad show, they should have had it cleared after the ‘Buckingham Prince’ went by. But to adjust the gait and move across the road and all without toppling out, well, that is the news of this race already. And your double-cased gondola, pure genius. I doubt you would have been able to do that manoeuvre without it.”
Isaac had worried that Lady Harding was simply some wealthy woman who played at engineering as some kind of alternative to embroidery or riding to hounds; her outfit may have suggested that. However, it seemed she had a genuine knowledge of the subject and was truly delighted to have Ernestine here and racing.
“I had always hoped to take part, but no-one was willing to have me along as anything more than a passenger and, as you know, with the desire to keep down the weight, even they are a rare sight these days. As it was, the local machine, the ‘Buckingham Prince’, you beat it very soundly, well, I could hardly be seen in that. The A.D.L.E.S. are thinking of producing our own pedestrian for next year. With the race being run so close to us it seems ridiculous that we are not taking part. Finding the parts and the money, though, that is a challenge.”
“Yes, we found it so.” Ernestine agreed.
“But you overcame it and here you are, currently with the fastest time on the board. We will have to ask you down as an advisor, my dear. At least come and address the Society. You will do that, won’t you? We’d be delighted. Perhaps if your husband can spare you, you could be at the helm of our pedestrian, to share your experience.”
Inside Isaac felt a mix laughter and despair. At the rate things were developing the next year he would be seeing Ernestine in a women’s pedestrian racing his father in an Anglo-Japanese one.
“Yes, yes, I am sure, I could come and speak. As for racing, well, as I have said many times this week: I am the Operator of the ‘Whitby Walker’, but I am happy to share any experiences that would be useful for your crew.”
“Very loyal. Of course, that would be wonderful.”
Behind them the noise of the crowd seemed to be steadily rising and Isaac took that to indicate that the Badeners were coming closer. Lady Harding pulled a stop watch from her pocket.
“It’s going to be close, but they will need to gain speed in the last furlong, I believe, if they are to beat you.”
Now all attention was focused on the road. Isaac took Ernestine’s hand and they turned to look down the hill. Isaac realised this was the first time he had actually seen a mechanised pedestrian in a race, bar, of course, his own. Being down here as a spectator, it was different. The Baden flag appeared over the curve of the hill quickly followed by the burnished body of their pedestrian. Isaac remembered what Count Otomo had noted about the heaviness of the pedestrian. It did seem to have a large boiler and its engine appeared to be labouring to move the legs. Their thickness contrasted with the slender limbs of the ‘Tsuru’. Isaac wondered why he had not noticed such things before and guessed that it had simply because concerns regarding the ‘Whitby Walker’ had dominated his thoughts.
Within a couple of minutes the quadruped had covered the final yards and broke the finishing tape. Isaac hurried to the face of the final furlong clock. The time was 20 minutes, 23 seconds. He went quickly back to Ernestine.
“They are behind the ‘Tsuru’; 20 minutes, 23 seconds.”
“And, as I anticipated, behind you. You can come no worse than third now. You realise that if you had recorded your time last year, you would have been the winners.” Lady Harding outlined.
“Yes.” Isaac responded.
He did not feel bitter about that fact. He had mulled over it since the count had confirmed their time. He consoled himself with the fact that there had been no chance that they could have had the ‘Whitby Walker’ ready twelve months earlier and, even if they had, perhaps it would not have run as fast as it did now.
Isaac, Ernestine and Lady Harding watched as the German vehicle walked to the paddock; Kaori had disappeared somewhere among the press of people. Though the crew’s faces could not be seen, the men appeared tired and Isaac felt rather sorry for them. However, he imagined they could console themselves in having run a good race and, like all the losing competitors over the years, could go back and work on their design. After such work, some losers, of course, such as Stowell and Mordaunt, had then gone on to win the race.
The Waddingtons continued chatting with Lady Harding who had a range of questions both about the ‘Walker’ and Ernestine’s involvement in its creation. Then Kaori reappeared and Isaac introduced him. Now Lady Harding had a whole new series of questions about Japan and its approach to engineering. Isaac saw that, like himself, she recognised that these days with so many serious engineers gathered in one place presented a unique opportunity. As the discussion continued she did, however, have a servant bring some collapsible chairs and cups of tea for them all.
It seemed that very little time had passed when they all heard the crack and saw the green maroon that signalled that the penultimate pedestrian to race, the ‘Conqueror’ was setting off. Both Kaori and Lady Harding seemed knowledgeable about the difficulties in running a vehicle with so many legs. Early on the Waddingtons had dismissed such an approach for their vehicle so they had not really explored the workings of a hexaped. Isaac realised that coming here was not simply allowing him to see probably the fastest mechanised pedestrians on the planet but also educating him in specific areas of engineering he had never touched upon before.
“My dear, ah, Mr. Waddington, Mrs. Waddington, Mr. Otomo. You have assembled a fascinating party here, Lydia.” A man said as he came up to Lady Harding.
Isaac remembered that this was Charles, presumably Lord Harding or Sir Charles Harding or something. He found he was glad that Lady Harding was married to the official who had at least seemed willing to allow Ernestine to race at least under the letter of the regulations as they stood, rather than one of the other, more hostile, officials.
“I gather together the best, the most exciting people around me, Charles. I doubt you could find assembled any better set of engineers at this moment between here and St. Petersburg.”
Isaac admired how she gave more compliments to Kaori and the Waddingtons without being overblown or patronising nor simply commending them as a group because they were exotic or even just atypical.
“Well, you have done a useful task for me, my dear. Mr. Waddington, Mrs. Waddington, it is clear that whatever happens now, the ‘Whitby Walker’ will be at worst in third place. That means you will be awarded medals. I wonder if you could collect your father and begin making your way to the officials’ marquee. The presentation will be there, then there is a procession back down the hill for the crowds to see.”
“Bring on the ‘Land Leviathan’.” Lady Harding muttered.
“‘Like a railway locomotive without tracks’.” Ernestine seemed to be quoting.
Lady Harding laughed. “Quite, you’ve heard of it?”
“I saw it in ‘The Engineer’. A large traction engine which pulls the three fastest crews in three wagons down Peters Hill.”
“Yes, the skill in piloting it is not so much in its strength, but in its ability to descend this hill slowly. You’ll be interested in the design of the wagons too; the control to prevent them diverging from the road or buffeting against the wagon in front is very clever.”
Ernestine seemed excited by the thought of being paraded through the crowds behind an over-sized traction engine and down back into Princes Risborough. Isaac imagined his father, not a man for ostentation, might be less happy about the prospect and he wondered how the Society officials would feel with Ernestine so prominent. They would hardly be able to reject a woman on any pedestrian crew after such an obvious recognition of the success of one in the race. Saying that, of course, it seemed that Ernestine’s presence may have only accelerated the plans that Lady Harding and her A.D.L.E.S. had already had in motion.
“Well, go and fetch Sam.” Ernestine said. “I am sure Lydia will take me the way we have to go. I will meet you two at the officials’ tent.”
Isaac felt it was rather in the manner of a command, but his wife’s suggestion made sense. More people seemed to have gathered at the top of the hill now and it took some minutes for Isaac to get through them and back towards the paddock. Here too, with five of the seven pedestrians in place, there was far more activity than when Isaac had left earlier that afternoon. The Germans did not seem overly disheartened at their placing and had a barrel of beer out and were standing around it drinking from clay tankards. Isaac found his father in the main part of the Japanese tent in deep conversation with the count.
“I said you would be at worst third.” Count Otomo reminded them joyfully. “You might still improve on that, though I hear the ‘Conqueror’ is exceeding the speed it made last year.”
Isaac was eager to get back to the course and see the hexaped come home. However, he knew that he had duties to fulfil in order to ensure that his father was given his medal and the photograph of him receiving it. However, Samuel seemed in no hurry and instead appeared determined to finish his discussion on the efficiency of different types of coal mined across British, United Netherlandish and Prussian fields. The conversation was finally broken by the crack of the maroon signalling that the ‘Conqueror’ had finished.
“Father, we must go. I am sure you and the count can continue your conversation later.”
“Yes, yes, sorry I have been selfish. Mr. Waddington, accompany your son. I believe you have a ride back down to Princes Risborough after that. I imagine they cannot refuse you entry to the dinner this evening, but perhaps you would prefer to share a meal here with us. I have already sent an invitation to the Burggraf and his crew.”
“Thank you, Mr. Otomo, we will be most glad to.” Samuel responded.
He climbed to his feet and his son could see how tired he looked. However, he stirred himself and seemed to be refreshed enough from the tea and sitting with the Japanese to make his way briskly to the officials’ marquee.
As they walked past it, the cluster of tents associated with the ‘Avalon’ muffled the noise coming from the Badener group and, with the ‘Conqueror’ home, the cheers from the crowd along the race route had subsided too. As a consequence the sudden noise of someone vomiting startled the two Waddingtons. Isaac was immediately reminded of what he had heard the night before. He wondered if drinking heavily was a characteristic that Mordaunt’s auxiliaries copied from their master. It did seem rather early with little more than thirty minutes to go before the ‘Avalon’ would he heading to the start line to be celebrating.
“Sir? Are you alright?”
At that question, without thinking, Isaac and Samuel came to a halt, their curiosity driving them to look towards the tents. Between two of them was a tall man dressed in a canvas coat of the kind worn by the crews. Beside him was another, shorter man, looking something like a farm steward. As the tall man lifted his head, Isaac saw the Mordaunt insignia on this coat front. Then he realised that this was in fact Henry Mordaunt himself, appearing little better than he had done the night before.
“I am sure it was that blasted trout they served last night. I was not certain of it. Maybe it was that pâté that preceded it, was it raw? Or the cheese. Did I have the stilton after all?”
“Perhaps sir, it was the port.”
“Yes, the stuff in the town? I can’t think that Baxter would stock anything of poor quality.”
“Yes, sir, I could not suggest which of the three bottles you drank from it could have been.”
“I’ll swear off port.” Mordaunt said with a tone of weary determination.
The gentleman coughed and it looked like he was going to vomit again, but then he grasped the side of the tent and steadied himself. The coughing stopped and he stood straight once more, though his face was red from the effort.
“What time is it? I need to get down the hill. I need to race.”
Isaac stood fascinated by the scene he and Samuel were witnessing. It seemed like Mordaunt had been struck by food poisoning and he wondered how well he would be able to pilot the ‘Avalon’. Isaac felt uncomfortable with the fact that they might not get to race the best pedestrian of the past few years simply due to ill-health.
“No, sir, it is all organised. You’re not well. You need to come inside. I have some of that new milk of magnesia for you. You know how good it made you feel at Henley this year.”
“Yes, yes, take me to it.”
Mordaunt and his servant disappeared into a tent. Isaac’s mind ran with the implications of what they had seen. Now the men had gone from view it was if the two Waddingtons were released from some fascination and Isaac and his father walked on once more.
“If the ‘Avalon’ is to be absent from the race, father, do you realise that means the ‘Whitby Walker’ can come at second, perhaps even first? We must find out what time the ‘Conquest’ recorded.” Isaac said excitedly, though he felt guilty as he did as such a good outcome would only come as the result of the bad luck for the crew of the ‘Avalon’ not because the Whitby pedestrian or the piloting of it had been superior.
“I doubt that will occur.” Samuel said as they quickly came closer to the officials’ tent.
Isaac was rather surprised at how phlegmatic his father was being about these developments. It seemed as if something had irritated him; perhaps, though, Isaac thought, it simply stemmed from weariness.
As they entered the officials’ marquee Ernestine came over to them excitedly. “The ‘Conqueror’ beat us, they made 19 minutes, 53 seconds; the first pedestrian to break the 20-minute mark. That is an improvement of 48 seconds for them. Last year the ‘Avalon’ recorded 20 minutes, 14 seconds, so they will have to make an improvement of 22 seconds over their time last year to win.”
Isaac processed the information. He realised that before today he had not expected to come close to the speed of the ‘Avalon’ or the ‘Conqueror’. To find they were less than a minute slower than either of these machines was a great achievement.
“It means the worst we can come is third and perhaps even second.” Samuel said soberly.
Isaac could almost sense the debate going on in his father’s mind. Of course, it seemed he had long held the belief that the ‘Whitby Walker’ would win and, unlike for Isaac himself, only now was Samuel seeing that that was not going to happen. Isaac trusted that his father could still draw great pride from their achievement.
“Yes, you know it, we will be on the rostrum, father; we will win medals. Think: we could be stranded down there, watching the others come past us as we waited for the race to finish and for Albert to come and collect us.”
“Yes, son, you’re right, you’re very right. That Mordaunt didn’t even complete his first race and we are here and at worst in third place.”
“Mr. Waddington, Mr. Samuel Waddington, there is news. The ‘Avalon’, they have removed the fourth man. They proceed with a crew of three.” Kaori hurried up and reported almost frantically.
“They are racing?” Isaac asked.
It was clear that they were going to continue without Henry Mordaunt as pilot. There was no way even if he had been rushed to the foot of Peters Hill in the fastest steam carriage that he would be in place in time to race aboard the ‘Avalon’. Who was going to be the pilot? Could they provide the kind of skilled piloting that Mordaunt had demonstrated for the past two years? Perhaps the change would mean their time would slip and the Waddingtons would receive the iron medal rather than the bronze.
“Yes, yes, they race with three men. Is this a gambling, Mr. Waddington? They have one man less to operate but the weight in the gondola is reduced. Will it help?” Kaori asked, his mind seemingly buzzing with thoughts.
Isaac wondered if there was as much judgement in the change as that. The rules were that only registered members of the crew could be aboard during the race. Passengers were a different issue but they were not permitted to involve themselves at all in the operation of the pedestrian. If one of the crew fell ill a substitute could be brought in and would be registered, but Isaac imagined that would have to have happened, at the latest, in the past couple of hours, to be permissible. It seemed apparent now that the ‘Avalon’ crew had kept four men in the gondola until the last moment, hoping that Mordaunt would be able to make an appearance even then. As Isaac and Samuel had seen, that was not going to happen and rather than proceed with an unregistered man and risk incurring a penalty or disqualification, they had discarded the stand-in before they set off. Of course, as Kaori had suggested, reducing the weight might help them achieve the vital seconds they needed to retain the title.
“Messrs. Waddington, Mrs. Waddington, follow me.” A marshal, a thin man with glasses, said in a commanding tone as he bowled up to them.
Isaac, his wife and father hesitated for a few moments but there seemed little option but to comply.
“This way, please.” The man persisted in a slow voice, indicating a doorway at the rear of the marquee.
Isaac was keen to get back to the course and see the progress of the ‘Avalon’, however it now seemed that they were to be in the clutches of the officials and Samuel, Ernestine and himself were expected to proceed how they directed. It seemed that having accepted that the Waddingtons were going to be among the top three, they were apparently not going to let them out of their sight. Isaac found it irritating not least because the man assigned them seem to think they were simple and told them everything in a slow voice, repeating himself. The three Waddingtons followed where they were led.
Isaac had not appreciated how many structures had been erected along the road in the direction away from the paddock. As they were led on it became apparent that the main officials’ marquee was only the first in a series. Finally the three of them were brought to a circular marquee in which there were a number of small tables with chairs around them; at one were sat four men. From somewhere Isaac could hear an engine and it sounded like there was a small workshop.
“That is for the medals. There are engravers waiting. They pride themselves on how fast they can put the appropriate names on them once the final results are known.” Ernestine explained and, not for the first time, Isaac appreciated the breadth of knowledge she had gained from issues of ‘The Engineer’.
“Wait here.” The marshal said, indicating a particular set of chairs before he left.
Samuel ignored this man and walked briskly across the room. “Mr. John Scott, I presume.”
Using the baron’s surname rather than his titular name, he was addressed the older of the four men sat there dressed in dark green coloured canvas coats. This man was probably in his mid-fifties, had a broad forehead, large eyes and heavy jowls that gave him a rectangle of a face. The other men with him were twenty to thirty years younger and Isaac took them to be sons or nephews of the baron.
“Lord Stowell.” The older man corrected rather sourly.
“I am Samuel Waddington, Pilot of the ‘Whitby Walker’.”
“I see.”
Isaac wondered whether Stowell was uncomfortable at talking with a worker or simply at a loss as what to say in response to Samuel’s energetic approach.“This is my son, Isaac and my daughter-in-law, Ernestine.”
So prompted they came forward but Stowell seemed in no mood for shaking hands.
“I heard there was a woman in one of the crews.”
The baron continued in his gruff voice but it was not clear whether he was just observing the fact or if he was as unhappy as the officials had been the previous day.
“My youngest daughter-in-law will now insist on a place in the ‘Conqueror’, don’t you know. Assuming I ever race again.” The baron observed, not disguising his bitterness.
Isaac wondered if it was the potential advent of a number of women racers in the competition that was making Stowell doubt if he would continue or the fact that he was sitting here wondering whether he had done enough to recover the standing he had held three years earlier.
“I am Peter, this is my elder brother, George, and my cousin, John.” One of the young men, who seemed in his late twenties, said.
His father shot him a look and the brief burst of enthusiasm faded.
“Congratulations on your time.” Samuel said, not to giving up on engaging these men in conversation.
Isaac wondered if having got on well with Count Otomo, and Thomas Goddard the night before, whether he now expected all crews to happy to converse with him.
“It must be a challenge to operate a hexaped.” Samuel continued.
For a moment Peter Scott looked like he was going to enter into a discussion about it.
“That’s our damned business.” Lord Stowell snapped and turned away taking his watch from his pocket as he did.
The message seemed to have got through to Samuel now and he walked away in a desultory manner. The tent was devoid of anything to distract them and ultimately he simply slumped in a chair as far from the baron as he could sit. Isaac and Ernestine now joined him. Samuel took his Bible from his pocket and turned to a page at random. Isaac fetched out his pocket watch and looked at the turning numbers. Being back here he had missed precisely when the ‘Avalon’ had set off so he had to imagine it would have been precisely on 4.30 p.m. Of course, in this race, as had again been proven the case in the past three hours, seconds mattered and the pedestrian would have started some number of those seconds later than that precise time. How many later, frustratingly, Isaac did not know. He wondered if he should go and find Lady Harding or Kaori or anyone else milling around outside and ask. However, as he took in the numbers his watch showed, he realised it was now only eight minutes to five o’clock and unless there had been some disaster along the route, the ‘Avalon’ would have already crossed the finish line; the race was over.
“It’s 4.52 p.m.” Isaac said in a subdued voice. “It’s over.”
“Amen.” Samuel said as if it had been a service, rather than a competition they had been participating in.
Isaac jumped to his feet, impatient to find out the result. Suddenly a man, apparently not a marshal, rushed in and went straight to Lord Stowell. He stood. The two conversed too quietly for Isaac to hear. Given the baron’s expression it quickly seemed apparent that his crew had come second once again, though he chose not to share that information with the Waddingtons. The messenger left the room but moments later the thin, bespectacled marshal returned.
“Crew of the ‘Whitby Walker’, if you will follow me.”
There was nothing to do but comply. They now went a different route to the one they had followed before but this brought them back into the official marquee. In front of it stood the podium with a set of wooden steps leading up. Isaac was irritated that he had not found out the time the ‘Avalon’ had recorded, though, like the ‘Conqueror’ it had to have broken twenty minutes.
The band, which it seemed had been rushed up the hill by a different route while the ‘Avalon’ was climbing it, now broke into ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’, which at least had the effect of raising Isaac’s spirits. He waited for Samuel and Ernestine who had been compelled to follow in single file as the official had led them here, to catch up. He grasped both their hands for an instant. Samuel looked sombre, but Isaac imagined he was battling with a wide range of emotions. Ernestine was grinning, though tears were also emerging. She lifted her hand and waved and following her line of sight, Isaac saw his wife’s leading enthusiast, Lady Harding standing alongside her husband among the leading M.P.O.S. members.
The music came to an end and the marshal who had led them back and forth now gestured for them to climb the podium. Isaac made a point of sending his wife up first and then his father. As they came on to the podium a cheer rose from the crowd. With the race over, all the spectators had been allowed beyond the finishing line and they were now clustered in a semi-circle across the peak of the hill all focused on the podium. Sir Reginald Baxter was already there but stepped back a little as the Waddingtons came up beside him. Without embarrassment, Ernestine waved to the crowd throwing up a shrill response especially from a cluster of women pressed close to the podium that Isaac guessed were from Lady Harding’s Society. Samuel looked rather disorientated for a moment then looked skyward and lifted his hand. It was clear where he felt their success had stemmed from. This action raised more restrained applause and it pleased Isaac to feel that there would be many in the crowd who would share his father’s sentiments.
A man appeared behind Sir Reginald and clasped his arm then he pressed a small box into the palm of his left hand. Isaac gathered this held their medals, presumably with their names now etched upon them. In seeking awards that reflected the mechanical nature of the competition, Isaac knew the organisers eschewed the traditional gold, silver and bronze medals for the three top-placed crews and instead had steel, iron and bronze. In fact the ‘bronze’ was cupro-nickel and the steel an untypical alloy of iron with chromium that would give it an enduring shine.
Suddenly to their left a voice rung out and Isaac saw that they had been joined by another one of the marshals, this time a barrel chested man carrying a megaphone. Without waiting for any signal, he declared, “With a time of twenty minutes and nine seconds, the crew of the ‘Whitby Walker’ win the bronze medal: Mr. Samuel Waddington, Pilot; Mrs. Ernestine Waddington…”
At the declaration of Ernestine’s name the uproar from certain sections of the crowd led the man to halt. For an instant Isaac worried some of it was hostile, but it was quickly apparent that many in the audience welcomed the naming of the first woman competitor in the race. As the noise subsided the marshal continued.
“Operator and Mr. Isaac Waddington, Combustioneer.”
Isaac realised that many on the hill would have little idea of how fast any of the pedestrians had travelled though he guessed news about who was the victor would have spread quickly. Samuel stepped forward and Sir Reginald shook his hand and lifting the medal over his head straightened it on his chest. He did the same for Ernestine and then Isaac. To him, it felt that now no-one could reverse what Ernestine had achieved and nor that together they were the first crew entirely of working people to win a medal at this event.
As they waited for their third official collodion-calotype in three days to be taken, Isaac watched his father looking repeatedly at the medal that hung around his neck. The design on the obverse was fantastical, showing some kind of metal man, probably some twelve feet tall, striding past a cheering crowd lined up the lower reaches of Peters Hill with the rooftops of Princes Risborough in the background. On the reverse was embossed the name of the race and the date; below on Isaac’s medal was etched his name: I.G. Waddington. He ran his fingers along the carved letters and wondered if the engraver had even known that in cutting ‘E.A. Waddington' he had been producing the first such medal to be worn by a woman.
The proceedings over for them, the Waddingtons stepped back down and were shown to a seat in the official marquee. Lady Harding came and joined them and together they watched the rather sombre figures of Lord Stowell and his men come and receive their iron medals. They were then sat at the next table to the Waddingtons but gave them no acknowledgement. Finally it was the turn of the crew of the ‘Avalon’.
Of course, like the Waddingtons, all of the crews tended to wear goggles, usually brass-rimmed, peaked caps and scarves across their faces while racing. These were sensible precautions given that they were riding in the open and in close proximity to one or more steam engines. However, Henry Mordaunt had taken the facial protection further, and typical of his style, each member of his crew wore matching medieval style helmets. Isaac hoped that they were not of real iron and that the visibility from them was better than it appeared from the outside. He had to admit, however, that wearing these and the surcoats bearing the Mordaunt crest, the crew were distinctive and he imagined that this added greatly to the interest and support that they attracted.
Whilst the Waddingtons and Stowell’s crew had removed their goggles and scarves, as was traditional they had kept their caps on for the presentation. For the ‘Avalon’ crew such a distinction between the different components of what covered their heads and faces was difficult and so they came in with their helmets still in place. Perhaps on purpose they did resemble some band of knights returning to their lord’s great hall. As Isaac saw the three men enter, he now understood what Samuel had realised back at the paddock. Only one of these men was tall enough to be Henry Mordaunt, but,of course, it seemed clear, at least to Isaac and Samue,l that he had never raced that day. The explanation of so much became apparent, why the fourth man had been dropped at the foot of the hill and why Mordaunt’s servant had said ‘it is all organised’. Thomas Goddard had had to have been the pilot of the ‘Avalon’ none of the others were of Mordaunt’s height, but up here his master could easily be substituted especially as so much of each man’s features were disguised in their crew’s garb. No wonder Samuel had felt aggrieved, Henry Mordaunt would win another steel medal, an unprecedented third, without having even stepped aboard the ‘Avalon’ that day.
Then Isaac became aware of a buzz of conversation from the crowd and he looked up at the backs of Sir Reginald and the pedestrian crew.
“With a time of nineteen minutes and forty-six seconds,” it was a very good time though only seven seconds faster than the ‘Conqueror’, “the crew of the ‘Avalon’ win the steel medal: the Honourable …”
This time the marshal’s voice had not been halted by the applause, the man himself seemed stunned. Isaac saw that finally the ‘Avalon’ crew had removed their helmets and it was Thomas Goddard who stood on the podium beside two other men, clearly neither of whom were Henry Mordaunt.
“Erm, Mr. Thomas Goddard, Pilot …”
With the acclaim that came with the recognition that an ordinary man, a worker, the bulk of whose life had been bounded by the walls of an estate was the leading victor, Isaac knew that he had been a little arrogant to assume that the crew of the ‘Whitby Walker’ alone would shake the world of mechanised pedestrian racing. It was clear that 1877 was to be the year in which so many assumptions were challenged and he could only believe it would mark the start of a new era.
THE END.
Notes
• In our world, milk of magnesia (magnesium hydroxide suspended in water) was not invented until 1880 by Charles Henry Phillips. In the steampunk world with earlier chemical research it is already available in 1877.
• The first Henley Regatta, a 5-day event of rowing boat racing on the River Thames, was held in 1839. It is still run today.
• Scott was the family name of the 1st Baron Stowell, William Scott (1745-1836), who resembled the fictitious grandson shown here. In our world Stowell was married twice and had four children, but only one of them, a daughter survived him. With no male heir in our world the title became extinct. Male nobles, no matter what precise rank they hold tend to be referred to in the style ‘Lord Stowell’ using their title rather than their surname.
• Whilst chromium-iron alloys, something like stainless steel, were created in 1821 by Pierre Berthier, it proved difficult to marry low carbon content with a high level chromium and the alloys produced were brittle. It was not until 1912 that Harry Brearley patented stainless steel. In this story being only for a medal, so not experiencing burdens, a steel-chromium alloy is seen as suitable to provide the shiny metal finish required.
Catch Me Who Can: Part 4 - Steampunk Novella
Catch Me Who Can
Part FourThe Waddingtons pulled down their goggles and tugged their scarves in place across the lower part of their faces. Now they looked like a set of peculiar mannequins and it would take close observation to distinguish them by gender or age.
“Three shovels.”
Ernestine called, her voice only slightly muffled by her scarf. Isaac obeyed, bringing the first of the batches of coal to the firebox. The shovel was high sided to prevent coal falling from it as Isaac turned and walked the couple of steps to the fire. Ernestine pulled a lever among her set of controls and the doors parted. Isaac thrust his shovel in as far as he dared and tipped it. It was important to have a good spread of coal and flame across the firebox.
Isaac felt the blast of the heat even through his canvas coat and linen scarf but he quickly turned and loaded up another shovel, discharged and returned for the final one that his wife had ordered. He was conscious that leaving the firebox doors open altered the pattern of burning within and in the actual race this could be crucial. However, in the trials they had found the fuelling could be done more quickly and efficiently if the doors were not closed between each shovel. His work done for now, Isaac straightened and Ernestine closed the twin doors. She patted Samuel on the shoulder and he lifted the lever that released the brakes and then began to operate the leg controls.
Of course, the ‘Whitby Walker’ had already strolled perfectly back and forth the paddock that morning, but as they embarked now, Isaac still felt a burst of apprehension and the concern that something unexpected, dangerous even, would occur. However, in moments the pedestrian was well on its way to the gate and out on to the road. It was a short walk for the vehicle until it was entering in the preparatory area where the crew were compelled to bring it to a halt. Isaac and Samuel had repeatedly read the rules on what crews had to do in the race and it seemed more important than ever that they did nothing to violate the regulations so warranting disqualification. There were numerous officials standing around in this area, in fact simply a part of the road sectioned off by ropes along the verge and white paint on the road surface itself.
Three men, each with a marshal’s armband and a shiny M.P.O.S. badge now began circling the ‘Whitby Walker’. All of them held what Isaac could see were the basic specifications that he had sent in at the time of their original entry. Of course, this was to ensure that naturally, while crews were permitted to make minor adjustments, the vehicle they were racing had not been altered radically from the one they had proposed to race. In addition, it was a last moment check that nothing on the vehicle violated the technical regulations especially in terms of supports. After a couple of minutes the three men crossed to a short desk at the roadside behind which sat two other officials. They seemed satisfied with the ‘Walker’ and one man returned with two strips of calico cloth with laces running through them emblazoned with a ‘3’. This, Isaac knew was the final indication that they were permitted to race. He realised until that moment there had been a nagging fear that something would have been found to rule them out of the race even at this late stage. He took the calico strips and passed one to Ernestine. She tied it to the top of her control panel so it faced forward; Isaac lashed his around the struts that held the three pennants so it faced backwards. Generally this was just a formality as the pedestrians tended to come home in the order that they had set out. However, as with the ‘Indomitable’ and the ‘Mary Rose’ this was not always the case and it was important that the correct vehicle received the appropriate time.
“Crew! Crew! Crew of pedestrian number three!”
A shout came through a megaphone and all three of the Waddingtons looked in the direction of the voice. As they did they were dazzled by a bright light and it took a few moments for them to understand that the official collodion-calotype of them in their vehicle was about to be taken. Isaac imagined this was the easiest to pose for. With their faces concealed behind scarves and goggles there was no need to maintain a smile. He simply grasped the side of the scuttle. Ernestine moved a little closer to him and Isaac realised that it was so Samuel was not obscured in the image taken from the side and slightly above them. There was a sudden flash that left colour in Isaac’s eyes for some moments. Then the bright light went out and he blinked repeatedly, concerned that the process might make it harder for Ernestine to see her dials clearly.
A few moments passed and Ernestine and Samuel resumed their positions; their hands clasping the levers they would need to have their pedestrian take its next steps. An official now signalled for the ‘Whitby Walker’ to move forwards into the starting area. Isaac felt a shiver of excitement as he knew now, bar some severe malfunction, they would be racing some few minutes from now. Suddenly Samuel was working hard at the levers and the ‘Walker’ turned sharply. Ahead of them now stretched Peters Hill. Isaac gazed up it. He knew they had tackled hills as steep as this, many much longer and certainly in harsher conditions than now: a day lit by sunshine and cooled by the light breeze still coming from the West.
Isaac drank in all the sights and sounds of the moment. As combustioneer his work in the race would be intermittent. If Ernestine was happy with how the fire was burning then he would have the chance periodically to step back for a minute or so and to gauge how they were progressing. While he sought to remain focused on the task that lay ahead of them, Isaac kept finding himself imagining how he would recount today’s events to his friends, even to his children. He glanced over to the officials’ box to the left of the road. Hanging from its front were two lights, one red, one green; for now the red one shone. Samuel’s gaze seemed to be fixed upon it. As the pedestrian approached closer Isaac could see the man he recognised as Sir Reginald Baxter climbing to his feet. Then suddenly the sound of the band rang out. Isaac realised he had looked right past the musicians gathered on the right-hand side of the road. While Samuel did not alter his stance at all, Isaac allowed himself to look at them.
The brass band resembled one of many hundreds across England. Isaac had been told though, that whilst most adhered to a particular repertoire over the past decade this band had prided itself on being able to play any tune that a crew requested. Many crews apparently selected their national anthem especially if they were from overseas and Ernestine had heard from one of the local women the previous evening that the concern in the preceding weeks had been over what the Japanese would ask for. However, apparently aware of the challenge of replicating their style of music on western instruments, they had sent sheet music ahead from Rotterdam and were to embark to an established Dutch tune known in English as ‘We Gather Together’.In the past Henry Mordaunt had selected the British national anthem but now had some obscure tune, apparently associated with his family, played so that his supporters among the spectators higher up the hill would be alerted to the fact that it was his crew that was progressing.
It had been suggested to Samuel that he select ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ but he had eschewed the martial nature of that hymn and had chosen ‘To Be a Pilgrim’ instead. Thus, it was to the tune of that hymn that the ‘Whitby Walker’ proceeded right up to the start line. The music was echoed in Isaac’s ears by his father in full voice, close to him, singing the words. The emphasis on labouring and remaining focused on the intent seemed to Isaac now more poignant than ever before. He thrust his shovel with an intensity into the stack of coal, understanding now a little of his father’s sense that what they did was right, perhaps even righteous.
The brass band resembled one of many hundreds across England. Isaac had been told though, that whilst most adhered to a particular repertoire over the past decade this band had prided itself on being able to play any tune that a crew requested. Many crews apparently selected their national anthem especially if they were from overseas and Ernestine had heard from one of the local women the previous evening that the concern in the preceding weeks had been over what the Japanese would ask for. However, apparently aware of the challenge of replicating their style of music on western instruments, they had sent sheet music ahead from Rotterdam and were to embark to an established Dutch tune known in English as ‘We Gather Together’.In the past Henry Mordaunt had selected the British national anthem but now had some obscure tune, apparently associated with his family, played so that his supporters among the spectators higher up the hill would be alerted to the fact that it was his crew that was progressing.
It had been suggested to Samuel that he select ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ but he had eschewed the martial nature of that hymn and had chosen ‘To Be a Pilgrim’ instead. Thus, it was to the tune of that hymn that the ‘Whitby Walker’ proceeded right up to the start line. The music was echoed in Isaac’s ears by his father in full voice, close to him, singing the words. The emphasis on labouring and remaining focused on the intent seemed to Isaac now more poignant than ever before. He thrust his shovel with an intensity into the stack of coal, understanding now a little of his father’s sense that what they did was right, perhaps even righteous.
The start tape was replaced after each vehicle passed through it. Breaking it triggered the official clocks that timed the progress of the vehicle. This approach meant that it was up to the crew of the pedestrian as to when the timing would begin. Snapping the tape sent not only sent the electrical signal which started the chronometer on the officials’ desk at the end of the race and other clocks along the route, but also fired the small charge Isaac had already heard twice. This device meant that spectators, no matter where they were on the hill, were alerted to the fact the next pedestrian was setting off. Just in case it was not audible, a maroon was triggered rising into the sky so that even someone a few miles away could tell the next pedestrian was about to depart.
At each furlong a large clock resembling those at railway stations had been wheeled into place. These were wired into the circuit between the starting line and the officials’ chronometers. These large clocks gave the crowd an idea of how well the particular competitors were progressing. This meant, especially as the day wore on, that even those located well back from the finish line could join in the tension as they waited to see if the clock stopped before the previous best time.
The method of the starting line triggering the clocks had been adopted in the first few years of the race. It was welcomed by the competitors as it meant that if there was some last-minute delay or the fire or boiler pressure had not quite attained the necessary level they would not suffer a time penalty. Given that seconds separated the victors from the competitors who recorded the second time and even the third fastest times, crews were naturally eager not to suffer any loss of time. Of course, if the vehicle had not passed the start line within twenty minutes of the time it had been assigned then it was assumed it never would and the crew were out of the race. Isaac imagined there was nothing more humiliating for a crew than to come to the start line and yet find they could progress no further. Surely even the pedestrian falling over as it climbed the hill or the boiler bursting half-way up at least had the air of a serious contender only thwarted by bad luck or the conditions.
Samuel was still singing the words of the hymn but as the second verse finished he turned to Ernestine. “Are you ready, Ernie?” He asked briskly and though his voice was muffled by his scarf it did nothing to conceal his excitement.
She turned to face him straight on and gave a formal nod. Rather than waste time being asked the same question Isaac patted his father’s shoulder. Samuel then turned back to his controls and set his hands on levers. It was clear that he was waiting for the tune to finish. However, suddenly, Isaac was aware that something else had distracted him. Abruptly three girls appeared from behind the musicians and ran towards the ‘Whitby Walker’. The tallest, probably fourteen, waved at the Waddingtons. In her hand she carried something that looked like posy. She ran round to the front of the vehicle and clearly was trying to attract Ernestine’s attention. Isaac tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to the trio on the road. Ernestine quickly stepped to the edge of the gondola and reached down to take the posy. Ernestine straightened and read the ribbon tied to its base. As he looked on, Isaac saw that the posy was not of real flowers, but of copper, brass and iron ones. The stalks were springs painted pale green and the flower petals were shallow dishes of various beaten metals. The ribbon bore the words ‘Aylesbury and District Ladies’ Engineering Society’. Isaac could not see his wife’s face, but imagined beneath her goggles tears were gathering in her eyes. She thrust the posy into the belt around her waist and waved to the three girls. Then she turned back to the pedestrian’s controls.
Ernestine stood motionless for some moments, but then tapped Samuel’s arm firmly. He engaged the engine and held his hand on the brake lever. Isaac could see him look over to the officials’ box. Now, with the music finished, Sir Reginald Baxter stepped up to a large switch and pressed it. The red light died and the green light lit. The next stage was in Samuel’s hands. At the instant the green light was illuminated his hand was operating the brake lever. For a moment nothing happened, but then Isaac depressed one of the two motion levers and the right leg of the ‘Whitby Walker’ swung forward. As its steel snapped the starting line and the charge exploded somewhere behind the officials a green-coloured maroon shot into the sky above their heads, Isaac felt a sudden drop in his stomach as he realised that after the many months of preparation he was actually competing in the Peters Hill race. He sought to calm his excitement and keep his focus on his job. The left leg swung out gaining them some more distance. None of them had calculated how many steps it would take them to reach the summit, but now Isaac found himself curious about that fact.
It was vital to know how well they were progressing and if any steps needed to be taken to accelerate the vehicle to keep up with the leading times. Isaac now saw Samuel press the first button on his own stop watch and moments later, the second. The digits etched on ivory panels set within brass housing began tumbling, counting off the seconds. The watch had been a gift from Ernestine’s father and Isaac knew it was an item Samuel treasured. It consisted, in fact, of two stopwatches with the revolving number display, one set above the other. The second timing allowed the operator to compare another time, for example that of a competitor, or as now, to measure the time over an individual furlong without disrupting the indication of the overall race time.
As more steps were taken it was apparent that the ‘Walker’ was moving smoothly though not yet lifting its legs as high as it would once they reached the climb proper. The twin casing approach of the gondola was coping with the rhythmic progression of the pedestrian and Isaac wondered why he had worried that anything would be different now to what had happened in the trials. The hemispherical gondola had an inner casing that rode on highly oiled ball bearings housed in races fitted in the outer casing. The weight and balance of the machinery and crew in the gondola meant that as one leg and then the other swung forward with a gait driven from the ‘hips’, the inner casing would remain level and directed forwards. This had meant adopting flexible metal piping running to the pistons that pushed each leg but once that had been achieved the Waddingtons had been free to adopt a style of gondola that provided a far smoother ride for the crew than any that had preceded it.
Many mechanised pedestrians had manual adjustment for their gondolas so that the crew were not left struggling up a slope within their own vehicle trying to operate the controls nor, as each leg stepped, facing off at an angle sharply away from the line of the road. Such adjustment usually meant slotting the gondola’s frame into pre-determined settings and not only would this jolt the crew every time an alteration was made but on a hill with a varied incline could still leave the gondola at an awkward angle to the road. Of course, with their longer bodies, the issue of the angle of the gondola to the road was a greater challenge for the quadrupeds and hexapeds which had far less room for adjusting how the body of the pedestrian sat without it scraping on the road. As a result, Isaac wondered if the Japanese had given up an advantage by having a slender but lengthy gondola on the bipedal ‘Tsuru’.
“More fuel: three shovels.” Ernestine’s voice came to Isaac, bringing him back to what he had to do.
Isaac turned quickly to fill his shovel from the scuttle as if to make up for letting his mind wander. Rapidly he spread the steam coal inside the firebox then straightened again as Ernestine closed the doors. Suddenly Isaac was aware that they were now on the actual slope. Samuel was making the final adjustments to the controls of the cables which regulated the tension in each leg and their wide, flat feet. With a biped, each leg had to be strong enough and its foot sufficiently broad to enable either limb to support the whole vehicle while the other was lifted. Control of the legs’ motion was as important as that of the engine, particularly, as that journalist had noted, with bipeds for which stability would always be an issue.
For an instant the gondola lagged in adjusting to the rise and Isaac found himself pointing up to the Buckinghamshire sky: pale blue, touched only by wisps of cloud and, as yet, not edged with that golden tinge that signalled the onset of Autumn. Then the horizon seemed to rise steadily as the gondola adjusted and Isaac soon was back with the familiar perspective of the road during a climb.
Now Samuel was shifting the lever that set the angle of the outer casing of the gondola in relation to the ‘hips’. Isaac knew his father was convinced that not only preventing the gondola from tipping back as they climbed, but actually tilting it toward the road would benefit their speed uphill. With the twin cased gondola it was possible to attempt this in a way most other pedestrians could not even try. Isaac was rather sceptical of the approach, which his father claimed was inspired by how he had seen people climbing the famous steep steps up to the ruined abbey in Whitby. In turn, Isaac had pointed out that none of them adopted the ‘peg leg’ gait that the ‘Whitby Walker’ used. However, he was conscious that he was a young man and might one day race at Princes Risborough again, but for Samuel this could be the only opportunity the Lord gave him and Isaac was not going to do anything to prevent his father from running the race the way he felt was best.
The ‘Whitby Walker’ was now literally in its stride and Isaac took the opportunity to look away from the controls to what was going on around them. Ernestine had told him the previous morning that those with a genuine interest in the mechanics of pedestrians tended to gather at the foot of Peters Hill to see the vehicles in action before there was much chance of a break down. The general public, those there simply for the spectacle, were strung out right up the hill before the officials and dignitaries became the majority at the very peak. With this in mind Isaac looked at the people gathered along both sides of the road. Policemen, apparently from five constabularies, special constables and marshals were posted at regular intervals along the route. However, it seemed that the spectators had a healthy respect for these large stepping vehicles and the weight their feet pressed down so appeared, as far as Isaac to see, to keep to the verges.
In line with what Ernestine had said, it seemed that many of those stood within the first furlong of the course were men, and a few women, dressed seriously and gazing at the ‘Whitby Walker’ rather than cheering and whistling its progress. At most they gave gentle applause as the machine passed them at half a healthy man’s walking pace. From the mixture of clothes Isaac imagined that they ranged from aspiring and trained engineers perhaps right up to the owner of an engineering plant or at least his key lieutenant. As he looked beyond the boiler and chimney of the ‘Walker’ he could see that yards up the road, the composition of the spectators changed. Many there looked like they were locals, here with their entire family, presumably allowed the afternoon off by whichever farmer employed them. Others appeared to be shopkeepers or their assistants, and a few, workers from London, arrived here, no doubt, on a third class train ticket.
In line with what Ernestine had said, it seemed that many of those stood within the first furlong of the course were men, and a few women, dressed seriously and gazing at the ‘Whitby Walker’ rather than cheering and whistling its progress. At most they gave gentle applause as the machine passed them at half a healthy man’s walking pace. From the mixture of clothes Isaac imagined that they ranged from aspiring and trained engineers perhaps right up to the owner of an engineering plant or at least his key lieutenant. As he looked beyond the boiler and chimney of the ‘Walker’ he could see that yards up the road, the composition of the spectators changed. Many there looked like they were locals, here with their entire family, presumably allowed the afternoon off by whichever farmer employed them. Others appeared to be shopkeepers or their assistants, and a few, workers from London, arrived here, no doubt, on a third class train ticket.
“Three minutes, twenty-two seconds!” Samuel bellowed.
Glancing to the left side of the road, Isaac saw that they were indeed level with the first clock, meaning they had already covered a furlong. Of course, the first furlong would be the quickest; the last, on this hill the steepest, would be the slowest. Isaac wondered if they could average four minutes over each of the remaining furlongs. Could they really break the twenty-minute mark? It had become the objective of all serious competitors over the past few years but that symbolic time had remained elusive.
Isaac knew they had a good pedestrian. Whereas others had been content simply to refine established vehicles, the Waddingtons had gone back to the base to develop something new. However, now Isaac felt a chill run through him as he realised, at this moment, he could be in a vehicle set to make history.
“Fuel: two shovels.” Ernestine shouted.
His wife seemed to be indicating something to Samuel on one of the dials but he could not make out its significance. As he turned away and loaded his shovel, he wondered how much the ‘nose down’ approach adopted by his father was impinging on the consumption of coal and other aspects of the engine’s working. Ernestine stepped back a little as Isaac came up with the batch of coal. Quickly she opened the doors and he piled the steam coal in. In moments the second batch joined it.
As Ernestine closed the firebox doors and Isaac stood straight once again he became conscious of the cooling sweat across his body. The gondola was not spacious and it meant the three of them were stood close to the heat from the fire, the boiler’s steam and the working of the engine. Isaac was pleased that his cap absorbed so much of the sweat running through his hair. He knew how distracting stinging, salty perspiration was when it flowed into the corners of his eyes. He looked again along the road, sloping up away from them, seeking to make out the shape of the next clock but it appeared to be concealed by the press of spectators. Here they were standing two or three deep on the roadside and, in contrast to the applause at the foot of the hill, these people were cheering, whistling and waving hand flags as they would at the procession of some hero or perhaps even the Queen.
Isaac was then aware of a break in the crowd and as he looked to the roadside he saw something that looked like a tall milestone, at its foot were some small posies of flowers. His father had seen it too and the men removed their hats. Samuel turned to Ernestine but it was soon apparent she had seen what the men had done and whilst a woman had taken off her hat in solidarity with a fellow engineer. This was where Jonathan Murray had been killed during this race, just three years earlier. Isaac found that for all the confidence he had in the ‘Whitby Walker’ this marker reminded him that racing mechanised pedestrians was not without hazard. It felt as their passing of the site of Murray’s death was very prolonged. Isaac found himself turning his gaze away even while his cap remained from his head. Eventually he felt they had given sufficient respect and wiping his forearm across his head he replaced his cap. In the following moments Samuel and Ernestine did the same. It had been a peculiar pause in the frantic activity involved in racing, but Isaac felt a useful one to remind him, at least, that however much it dominated his current thoughts, there was far more to life than this competition.
Isaac worked his jaw, suddenly realising how intensely he had been gritting his teeth almost as if believing he could drive the ‘Walker’ to travel faster up the hill by the force of his will. Isaac wondered if it would have been worse, rather than racing against the clock for him to have been able to see their rivals alongside them as a man in a running race could. Here at Peters Hill, you could almost delude yourself, until the last step of the race, that it was possible to make the speed and win. Of course, conversely, a crew might record the best time so far, one they felt was very good, only to find themselves sliding down the rankings as subsequent competitors came home faster.
Someone had told Isaac that racing the clock was the ‘race of truth’ as you had to work flat out, driven only by your personal inspiration; there was no competitor steadily clawing ahead of you to encourage greater effort. He wondered if seeing your lead slipping away as the hours passed was worse than actually witnessing your rival pulling away from you in the race. He supposed that at least in the latter case it was no prolonged affair, you would know that you had lost immediately. However, it was going to be the chance of a drawn-out defeat that he was going to face in the next hours.
As they passed the second furlong clock, Isaac could see that their progress had indeed slowed. Their overall time was now just beyond eight minutes. Isaac knew that if they fell far below four minutes per furlong they would be slower than what was considered a reasonable speed these days. Now he worried that, ultimately, the Waddingtons would be proven to have deluded themselves and that they would even be behind an old-fashioned pedestrian like the ‘Buckingham Prince’, less a racing vehicle and more a moving advertising billboard. However, he reminded himself of the good times they had recorded in the trials and realised he only had to hope that they maintained such speed here; not even achieve anything greater.
“Fuel: two shovels.” Ernestine commanded and Isaac repeated the ritual as before.
He wished he could see the expression on his wife’s face to gain at least some clue as to how she felt the pedestrian was running. Ernestine’s body obscured most of the vital dials from his view and he felt a little frustrated at not knowing more.
“Oil!” Samuel shouted, pointing to the road.
“Oil!” Samuel shouted, pointing to the road.
Isaac stepped up beside his father, careful not to hinder his operation of the controls. In the sunlight Isaac could see what appeared to be a heavy lubricant oil spread across the road and only tapering off up the rise. Beside a very uneven or damaged road service, debris from other vehicles was the greatest hazard to a mechanised pedestrian. Knowing how well organised the event was, Isaac was surprised that officials had not seen to the clearing of the route. Isaac assumed the oil had leaked from the ‘Buckingham Prince’ which had preceded them up this stretch of the climb thirty minutes earlier. He wondered if they had suffered some serious rupture to have spilled so much lubricant like this. However, there had been no indication that the local quadruped had not arrived home safely.
With the hazard approaching quickly, Samuel busied himself with the leg controls. Now thinking it through, Isaac questioned whether this had been another attempt at sabotage. He felt confident that the ‘Whitby Walker’ could proceed through the oil, but there was always the risk that one foot would lose traction and the vehicle would slip over just as a human might on ice. Those attempting sabotage may have put more store by the alleged instability of bipeds than was in fact the case. Perhaps, however, they were well aware of that exaggeration but, given how widely accepted that view appeared among the general public, felt it would provide a feasible explanation for the accident which the ‘Walker’ would incur.
Samuel now turned his head and shouted over the noise of the engine. “Brace yourself. Ernie, Isaac; ready yourselves.”
Samuel now turned his head and shouted over the noise of the engine. “Brace yourself. Ernie, Isaac; ready yourselves.”
Isaac wondered what his father intended but followed his direction all the same. Then he saw the right leg lift far higher than it had ever done before. For an instant its ‘thigh’ seemed to be pointed straight out; at a right angle to the gondola. The leg below the ‘knee’ was at a shallow angle too. Then the pedestrian plunged down with the foot clanging against the road. If he had not been grasping the scuttle Isaac knew he would have been pitched forward against the boiler, perhaps even out of the gondola.
As the inner casing struggled to compensate for the abrupt change in angle Isaac was thrust back and his father held tightly to his controls. Ernestine staggered, but catching hold of the gondola rim managed to stay standing. A moment later the left leg rose and fell sharply, though in less an extreme manner than the right had done. As the gondola levelled again, Isaac realised that by overstepping on the right more than the left, Samuel had not only cleared much of the oil but had taken the pedestrian over to the left hand side of the road where the patch seemed narrower.
The next lift was still a severe one but less extreme than the two that had preceded it. Isaac worked quickly to adjust the tension in the legs and within a few steps the ‘Whitby Walker’ had not only passed the oil but was again following a straight course up the hill, albeit far closer to the left side of the road than before.
With the pedestrian back to a normal gait, Ernestine turned to her husband. “Isaac, alert the officials; show them.”
She gestured to the slick of oil they were quickly leaving behind. Isaac waved energetically at the crowd trying to see if any marshal or other race official was around. He pointed ostentatiously down to the road surface, but, for now, the crowd seemed to be too concerned simply with cheering the manoeuvre Samuel had just achieved and waiting to see if there was any more, to be able to pay any attention to whatever signals Isaac might be giving.
Then the harsh, sharp hoot of the steam whistle sounded. The device to vent excess steam also had the function of attracting attention. Ernestine sounded it again before looking back to see if it had brought any marshals. Isaac resumed gesturing to the oil patch but it seemed that all in the crowd just assumed the whistle’s sounding had simply been in celebration of the long strides the crew of the ‘Whitby Walker’ had just achieved. It was not until they were fifty yards from the spill that Isaac finally saw marshals emerge from among the crowd and, by the time sand was fetched to absorb the oil, those involved were small figures in his view.
“Fuel, three shovels.” Ernestine commanded once it seemed certain that Samuel was not going to make any more abrupt changes to the stride of their pedestrian.
Looking into the firebox his wife had opened, Isaac could see that with the large strides, the coals had shifted away from him in the direction of the front of the boiler. He reached for the rake, a tool he typically only used when the fire was out. He hauled the coals around, seeking an even spread which would achieve the most efficient burn. Isaac was dissatisfied with the result but knew he could not leave the firebox open indefinitely and Ernestine had already indicated that more coal was needed. He hurried to shovel more into the fire. As he stood back after the second shovelful and Ernestine closed the firebox doors, Isaac saw they had passed the third furlong clock; that meant they were passed the half-way point.
Though Samuel occasionally glanced at his stopwatch, he now seemed too concerned with the piloting controls to call out the timing. Isaac knew that in fewer than ten minutes their race would be at an end. He wondered if they had managed to maintain a decent speed and if ambulating around the oil had slowed them greatly. He pondered how quickly a mechanised pedestrian could cover this course if it could make every step as wide as the ones Samuel had achieved to get them clear of the oil. Such an approach might accelerate the passage of the vehicle but he knew it would need a radical new design for the gondola too if the crew were not to be tossed around inside like dice in a cup.
Over the final two furlongs Isaac continued following Ernestine’s direction in filling the firebox. They passed the fourth clock with it showing just over sixteen minutes. As he began scraping the last few lumps of coal into his shovel he worried that the would-be saboteurs may have pulled off a more subtle attack and denuded the scuttle just enough so that the ‘Walker’ would run out of fuel in sight of the finish line. However, as he thrust the final batch into the firebox and the doors were closed he stood up to see that they were fewer than sixty yards from where the tape marking the finish had been positioned.
Isaac tried to see over his Samuel’s shoulder to catch sight of the stopwatch but his father had pocketed it and had his attention purely on the controls. With officials clustered around the finish line, the podium on which the prizes would be given already erected and the official marquee pitched a short way beyond that, Isaac knew Samuel had to slow the pedestrian down pretty quickly once the race was complete to prevent it careering among the officials and these structures. In what seemed like bare seconds more they had sliced through the finishing tape, the charge banged and the bright red maroon went skywards signalling to all below that the ‘Whitby Walker’ was home safe. Isaac glanced at the final furlong clock. It had passed twenty minutes and it seemed apparent that in the final tens of yards, the steeper climb had slowed them even further from the target speed he had had in his head. How the Waddingtons’ time compared with that of the others had yet to be seen.
“You’ve beaten the Japanese.” A man shouted up from somewhere around them but Isaac could not make out who had said it.
Samuel was paying careful attention to the directions the marshals were giving him. They turned in front of the podium and walked steadily down the road to where another paddock had been laid out for the arriving pedestrians. As they approached Isaac could see that here rather than in two rows, they would be set out in a circle. Much of the field was already populated with tents and traction engines ready in place. The auxiliaries of the Baden team had erected a flagpole and it appeared as if small settlements of canvas structures had been established in the pitches that would soon hold the ‘Conqueror’ and the ‘Avalon’. The ‘Tsuru’ and ‘Buckingham Prince’ on their pitches, the first two slots round to the left. Whilst the local pedestrian seemed abandoned, a narrow but tall tent stood by the Japanese vehicle and Isaac wondered if the crew or just their auxiliaries were inside. Samuel headed the ‘Whitby Walker’ to the third slot, almost at the back of the field. The ‘Avalon’, assuming it arrived safely, would fill the seventh position, back close to the gate.
As a marshal waved them on further into the paddock, Isaac suddenly realised that the man coming up alongside them was Albert. “You’re faster than the ‘Tsuru’.” He shouted excitedly. “It’s close, seven maybe eight seconds, but, as it stands at the moment, we have the fastest time.”
Ernestine tore herself away from her controls as the ‘Walker’ took its final steps embraced her father-in-law. Isaac, now entirely free of duties, opened his arms and enclosed both his wife and Samuel within them. Then the moment passed and he let the pilot and the operator slow the engine and begin reducing the steam pressure. The ‘Captain Cook’ awaited them and as the ‘Walker’ pulled on to the plate alongside it Albert hurried to take the ladder from his traction engine. Isaac realised he had not given it any thought but guessed the ‘Cook’ had come up a parallel road, its thirty miles per hour easily beating the speed the ‘Whitby Walker’ could make.
Notes
• The hymn ‘To Be A Pilgrim’ also known as ‘He Who Would Valiant Be’ was written by John Bunyan in 1684 and features in his ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’. In 1906 the words were modified by Percy Dreamer and it was given a new tune (many hymns have more than one piece of music they are sung to) by Vaughan Williams based on the Sussex tune ‘Monk’s Gate’; it is also sung to the tune St. Dunstans to which Charles W. Douglas attached it in 1917. The version that would be played in 1877 would have been to the tune ‘Moab’ by John Roberts with the Bunyan words.
'Onward Christian Soldiers' was written by Sabine Baring-Gould in 1865 and the tune, St. Gertrude was composed by Arthur Sullivan in 1871, so it would be still a comparatively new hymn at the time of the race.
'Onward Christian Soldiers' was written by Sabine Baring-Gould in 1865 and the tune, St. Gertrude was composed by Arthur Sullivan in 1871, so it would be still a comparatively new hymn at the time of the race.
‘We Gather Together’ is a Dutch hymn (‘Wilt Heden Nu Treden’) written in 1597 by Adrianus Valerius to celebrate the Dutch victory over the Spanish who had ruled them. In 1877 it was given a new tune, called Kremser after the composer, Eduard Kremser. Christianity had been suppressed in Japan as part of the Kaikin policy and it is unlikely Count Otomo would have been a Christian and is likely simply to have picked up a rousing tune that was popular in the United Netherlands when he visited it. In the setting of this story it is likely to have been performed to the original Dutch folk tune.
• The first traffic lights were invented in 1868 by Briton J.P. Knight. They used oil lanterns and were installed in front of the Houses of Parliament in Westminster, London to control the flow of horse-drawn carriages. They used red for stop and green for go. The first automatic system, using signs rather than lights was invented by American Earnest Sirrine in 1910. In 1912 another American, Lester Wire, developed an electric system that used the red/green combination; amber did not appear until 1920. In the steampunk world with motorised vehicles in the 1870s, it is likely that such innovations would have been introduced earlier, but I assume that the red/green approach would still have been used.
• A maroon was the name for a distress rocket used at sea to draw rescuers to where a ship was going down. They burn with a bright light that falls slowly back to the sea and were often the colour maroon but could come in different colours.
• The first digital watch was invented in 1972, but there is no reason why there could have not been clockwork digital watches before then, working the way mileometers did.
• Ball bearings appear to have been known to the Romans in the 1st century CE and both Leonardo Da Vinci and Galileo described ball bearings. The first ball race was invented by Welshman Peter Vaughan in 1794 and modern versions were not patented until 1869 and then by Frenchman Jules Suriray and were first used in bicycles. The main challenge even once the principle of ball bearings was understood was producing strong ball bearings which were sufficiently similar in dimension to allow smooth movement.
• With walking robots, the approach that Samuel Waddington favours in the story, with a stiff gait propelled from the hips and with the body tilting into the slope has been proven to be best at providing the fastest speed on walking up an incline.
• Third class train tickets were introduced in Britain in 1838; in 1844 legislation compelled train companies to provide a roof for third class carriages. Third class tickets and associated third class toilets were provided for entrants to the Great Exhibition of 1851. Midland Railway abolished second class travel in 1875 upgrading third class carriages to the second class standard but retaining the name ‘third class’; other train companies followed suit. In 1956 third class was renamed second class by the nationalised British Railways, this later became standard class.
Catch Me Who Can: Part 3 - Steampunk Novella
Catch Me Who Can
Part Three
Isaac Waddington rose from his camp bed. He cast a glance at his wife, Ernestine, who still slept, in the bed closest to the side of the tent. He saw his father’s shadow cast by the watery morning sunlight on to the tent. Samuel Waddington had long been a martyr to insomnia, though Isaac knew that sometimes he saw it as a blessing in disguise as it allowed him to spend more time with his beloved machinery. Furthermore, if he was summoned in the middle of the night to attend to some serious malfunction on one of the large whale lifters down at the harbour, more often than not the man sent for him would find him already awake.
Isaac and Ernestine shared the terraced house with Isaac’s parents. Her own parents, the Milners, lived on the other side of Whitby, their house invisible through the smoke rising from the whale butchering and oil canning plants but close enough to allow regular visits. Like the Waddingtons, the Milners were Methodists and he had seen Ernestine at the Skate Lane Chapel down the years. As she had become a young woman, Isaac had wondered a little at her interest in engineering. However, he guessed it was not that surprising given her father was a clockmaker and she had grown up with that machinery all around her. He had found that with time he had welcomed the Milners’ increasing visits to the Waddington house and remembered the day he realised that Ernestine had come not to see the latest design Samuel was producing, but to visit Isaac himself. Soon, like other couples in the town they would not walk out to see the latest addition to the winding houses but instead go along the cliff tops and head to Sandsend and even down to Robin Hood’s Bay. It was thus natural, that, in time, he would propose to her and it was a decision he had never regretted. The fact that she was here, a full part of the crew, excited him. She was not one of these passive women who would not be seen outside the house rather she was intelligent and skilful and always keen to learn. His Ernestine seemed an ideal woman for the coming years; a colleague as well as his wife.
Sometimes Isaac worried that their world was bounded by the top of the cliffs that hemmed Whitby. Of course, these days the cliffs themselves were being built along and maintaining the great lifts and cranes that brought the semi-processed whale carcases or fully cleaned skeletons up from the ships, provided a lot of work for Isaac and his father. With its North-facing harbour Whitby had grown quickly on the back of the whale industry, and, yet, it still seemed isolated. If you stood at night-time, say, up by the ruined abbey, blackness seemed to be all around: out over the North Sea and inland to the North York Moors. It was rarely possible to be able to see light from along the coast, either to the North-West from Middlesbrough let alone Hartlepool or from the South-East at Scarborough. The location of the town of Whitby had been determined by the River Esk carving through the cliffs and making something like a mouth on the teat of the sea. Without the bounty of the sea, as the minister often reminded them, Whitby would be barren. Now, of course, the river had been supplemented with railways and wagon after wagon of tinned whale meat, cans of whale oil and crates of whalebone travelled down that gullet to York, Sheffield and beyond.
Naturally, these days with newspapers from London and telegraph connecting anyone to the wider world, no man in a British town could say he was truly isolated. However, it did not stop Isaac relishing this trip, to get away from his corner of Yorkshire and see a different landscape free of the smells stemming from processing whales. As they had travelled South on Jowett’s traction engine, it had been through industrial centres but also those rural landscapes where steam machinery was also common, but horses and livestock remained very apparent.
Putting aside these thoughts, Isaac pulled on a clean shirt over his vest, attached the collar and cuffs his mother had put in his carpet bag especially. He knew that the shirt and the rest of his clothes would soon be soot covered and sweat soaked but he would strive to keep them clean at least until the traditional pre-race collodion-calotype picture of them in the pedestrian had been taken. Isaac pulled his braces up over his shirt and checked his dark canvas trousers were sitting comfortably. He liked this pair: they were robust enough for working on the pedestrian but had been cut in a style that mimicked that a clerk may have worn. He stepped from the tent and found his father, his hand resting on the long-armed spanner as he smoked his pipe as he looked out over the first stirrings of the camping field’s residents.
“Morning.” Isaac said.
“Good morning, son.” Samuel turned, smiling.
Isaac could sense the real excitement that was in his father and it pleased him. Around them many others were rising too and with each head that emerged from a tent he felt the atmosphere of anticipation increasing. Many men this day would be directing all their efforts, all their attention, into ensuring that a particular vehicle ran its best. Some said humans had an electrical current within them and here Isaac could truly imagine that they did and it was generated by hard work and the force of concentration. Of course, such surroundings carried a contagion of thrill-seeking even to the Waddingtons. Isaac felt that, perhaps for them, it was stronger still as he knew that neither he nor Samuel nor Ernestine cared if they came last in this race or even if the ‘Whitby Walker’ exploded within the first furlong. Rather, fact that they were here and entered into the competition was an achievement in itself.
“We’ll do the society, the Whitby one, that is, and the town proud.” Samuel noted.
“Yes we shall, father.”
Isaac pondered his father’s conversion to the civic element of their participation in the race. Samuel had always been an independent and headstrong man, and his son knew that if he had been able to have done so, he would have funded the construction of the Walker and his entry into this competition himself. Of course, to put his hand on the guinea entry fee and the many pounds it had cost to build the Walker, even out of scrapped metal and cast-off parts from the Elwick & Sadler Works, would have been impossible. The contributions of the Whitby Engineering Society of which Samuel had long been a leading light and, at the last, from Whitby Borough Council itself, had been vital. Consequently the ‘Doubtless’ had become the ‘Whitby Walker’ with an alliterative title that seemed to appeal to these sponsors.
“Is Ernie awake?” Samuel asked.
“No, I do not think so. She slept through all of last night’s adventure too.”
“Are you tired after the disruption to your sleep?”
Isaac shook his head. He imagined that even if he had spent the whole night awake he would still feel as energised as he did this morning. He had heard that that was the case for men on the hunt for whales. His neighbour Asa Benson who had performed in music halls in his youth had said much the same about how he had felt before going on stage.
“Wake Ernie and have her dress. The bakery is open.” Samuel nodded to the town where smoke was rising and the aroma of baking bread wafted in their direction. Isaac wondered how long it would be before that scent was replaced by the smell of steam and smoke from the coal burning fires of the pedestrians.
“It is best that we have a decent breakfast inside us before we go and see what damage was inflicted on the ‘Walker’. Albert should be back soon. It will take him less than two hours to drive here from Kilburn and if he leaves early he will be on the roads before those heading into London begin crowding them.”
In the next thirty minutes they did as Samuel had suggested. Ernestine had been alarmed to hear about the attempted sabotage the night before, but Isaac succeeded in reassuring her that it had probably been nothing but mischievous youths. To himself, he had to confess, however, that he did not believe the story he was suggesting. He guessed it did not matter now, with the race only a few hours ahead of them, it would all soon be over. By then, any ill-intentioned actions being considered would pass the time within which they would make any sense. Anyway, he doubted the machine breakers would try anything in daylight especially with so many policemen, special constables and marshals around.
At the bakery, they proved to be celebrities and rather than the Waddingtons simply collecting food and eating it back at their tents they were sat down in front of the shop and served with tea and toast. Samuel was clearly embarrassed with the attention they attracted; Isaac shared his discomfort and was glad that passersby were generally too preoccupied with their own concerns to give three ordinary-looking people much attention.
Already people were making their way from the railway station to where the race would be run. Isaac had attended a couple of county fairs in his life and as the population of Princes Risborough swelled the atmosphere seemed increasing like that at those events with adults and children alike chatting and laughing as they strolled along, for a short while, unconcerned with everyday matters. For a moment Isaac felt unease about being some form of entertainment for these crowds. Then again, he reflected, it would be good to hear the cheers from the people along the roadside and, if it inspired some young man to involve himself with engineering, then that could not be a bad thing. With breakfast over they were compelled to step into the flow of people in order to return to their tents.
“They are not all as supportive.” Ernestine said, seemingly reading her husband’s mind as she came into step beside him. “Some protest that the race encourages engineers to make the countryside just like the cities, filled with smoke and covered with soot. They,” Ernestine pointed to a soberly-dressed group of people carrying a banner, “believe we mock God by building machines that resemble living creatures. They condemn what they call ‘artificial creation’. Try to keep Sam away from them; I think he will be disconcerted if he heard their condemnation. They take out advertisements in ‘The Engineer’ warning of the sinfulness of such activity, though I doubt many among the readership of that journal would lend a sympathetic ear to the ‘Fellowship Against Artificial Creation’.”
Now he saw the initials F.A.A.C. emblazoned across the banner Isaac realised he had encountered these people before. One Sunday they had been outside the Methodist chapel that the Waddingtons and the Milners attended. Isaac tried to remember if they had appeared after Samuel had lodged his entry to this race. It seemed likely that his father had encountered the views of the Fellowship already, but he accepted Ernestine’s point that it was best not to allow Samuel to be plagued by doubts about this venture at a time when many other concerns would be troubling his mind.
Other competitors seemed to have taken less time in breaking their fast and by the time the Waddingtons reached the paddock the air above it was already filling with the sight and scents of smoke and steam; with the noisy clank and motion of machinery mixed with the shouts and even curses of men. It was typical to warm the engine and get the metal of the vehicle expanding as soon as possible to give the chance for any flaws to become apparent. Those with ample stocks of coal, Isaac imagined, might even make last moment test runs the length of the paddock. Of course, it would reveal the way their vehicle moved and any weaknesses and improvements in the machine’s working. However, those vehicles like the ‘Avalon’ and even the ‘Buckingham Prince’ were well known and it would be a real surprise if something extraordinary had been added since their last outings. Perhaps it was the newcomers such as the Waddingtons and the Japanese, the Badeners too, who had more to keep concealed. Isaac did not really care, he knew their ‘Walker’ was the best it could be and on that they would win or lose; there was little they could do in terms of the mechanics to alter it now. As for piloting, well, little of that would be revealed even with a prolonged test run, it would only show through during the race itself.
Daylight revealed numerous footprints around the ‘Whitby Walker’; patterns repeated in soil on the metal plate on which the pedestrian stood. Seeing this as he approached, Samuel rushed to the machine. The oilcloth that covered the vehicle had been unlaced and pulled back. Samuel widened the gap that had been created by the saboteurs and it exposed the pedestrian’s left leg. He ran his fingers around its ‘knee’ joint.
“Here, look.” Samuel said abruptly.
Isaac went to his father and stooped as Samuel pulled back the oilcloth even further. The daylight showed Isaac clearly what his father’s fingers had felt. Someone had tried to damager the panel which sat like a washer between the inner head of the joint bolt and the body of the ‘thigh’ section of the leg.
“Who do they think we are that we would not check every part of this vehicle before the race?” Samuel asked indignantly, seemingly more irritated by how the saboteurs had seen him than with the damage they had done.
“Perhaps they thought we would not have the time or the materials to replace that plate. I imagine they hoped it would shake loose during the race or at least mean the left leg moved slower than the right.” Ernestine suggested.
Different legs of a pedestrian, particularly a biped, getting out of step with each other was a problem that quite often occurred in the race. It could be caused by a difference in power reaching one of the legs, some flaw in the gearing, even just from grit in the mechanism or, as here, from damage sustained by one leg. Such problems did not necessarily mean that the vehicle would come to a halt or be forced to withdraw. However, correcting an overstep or understep on one leg to prevent the vehicle heading off diagonally to the direction of the road used more fuel and meant the operator had to constantly focus on making the adjustments rather than on maximising speed.
“Yes, yes, how dare they?”
Samuel was a man rare to anger but Isaac could tell by the way his eyes jerked all around the place and how he spoke that a fury was building inside him.
“This was not simply to slow us, this was to harm us.” Samuel insisted. “If the plate twisted and that leg jammed, well, on a biped we would be dashed to the road.”
Isaac felt his father was rather exaggerating the situation, but he had to admit it was not an impossible outcome.
“They sought to kill Ernie, to kill you.” Samuel continued, now staring at the damage intently.
Isaac held back from adding that Samuel himself, as the oldest member of the crew, would have been at most risk. He knew great men often took personal danger as a fact of their lives but were utterly affronted by threats against their family members.
“But, our Lord, he awoke you and you saw off the saboteurs.” Ernestine observed.
The effect was immediate and Isaac loved his wife for how she had altered the situation.
“Yes, Ernie, yes he did. In my wrath I did not see that which you my beautiful, astute child perceived so clearly. Oh, my obsession, it blinds me from what is important, how the Lord is at work in this world even now; aiding those who love him truly.”
With this statement, Samuel straightened up and seemed a greater man. He lowered his head and Isaac and Ernestine did likewise. Isaac waited for his father to speak some prayer, but understood it was not necessary and in his own mind he was thankful that the threat was not severe and even more than that his father’s temperament had been calmed by his wife’s sensitivity. He ended simply thanking God for the pair of them.
“Sam, we can have this sorted out very quickly. There are spares in the trunk, but I do not think the damage is severe enough to warrant that.” Ernestine said, focusing their minds on the tasks in hand. “You tap it to make sure, then I will buff it to make it look as good as new.”
“Yes, Ernie, that sounds a good plan.”
Their attention was now filled with rectifying the damage and then with getting the ‘Walker’ ready. By the time they had pulled off all of the oilskin and Isaac was shovelling the first coal into the firebox, Albert appeared, hurrying over to them, presumably having left his engine parked close to the tents.
“Morning, morning.” Albert said eagerly.
The man seemed very excited and like the Waddingtons was clearly in his smartest clothing, ready for the big day. Ernestine quickly filled him in on what had happened over night which seemed to provoke anger in Albert, but with the fire in ‘Walker’ soon alight and the pressure rising, all of their thoughts turned away from what had happened to what remained to be done.
By the time Isaac looked at his watch it was approaching noon. The ‘Walker’ seemed to be working perfectly. They had run it up and down their patch of the paddock without problem. Doing so had attracted attention from the other crews and auxiliaries around. Isaac wondered what they thought of the stiff-legged gait of the ‘Whitby Walker’ and whether they had noticed that the hemispherical gondola was double cased. He guessed that on the flat these elements would not be apparent. He wished he had had more time to see the other pedestrians at their morning ‘exercises’. Many crews he knew employed a man or even a small team to watch their competitors’ machines and report back in case some new technical development, or in particular, a specific way of piloting the pedestrian, had been introduced. The basic specifications of the pedestrians were lodged with officials of the Mechanised Pedestrian Operators’ Society so it could be verified that they did not violate any of the technical regulations of this particular race. The specifications were only shown to a specific panel, but seeing how close Henry Mordaunt now appeared to be to Sir Reginald Baxter, Isaac did wonder if, occasionally, such information would be passed on, however unconsciously to the pilot of the ‘Avalon’. Isaac supposed that even with knowledge of the basic specification not everything would be revealed and even the best engineered pedestrian would perform poorly in the hands of an incompetent pilot and operator.
“Coal?”
Isaac was stood in the gondola, Ernestine beside him. Now Isaac’s attention was snatched back from his thoughts by this shout from below. He thought it must be Samuel checking whether Isaac needed to bring any more coal on board. However, as he looked down he saw that his father and Albert were with another man. This newcomer was dressed in overalls emblazoned with ‘Blaenavon Steam Coal Company’. Beside him stood a handcart powered by a small two-wheeled engine. On the cart were sacks of coal with the company’s brand upon them.
“The man’s offering some free coal. Do you need it?” Albert asked.
“A free half-hundredweight of highest quality South Wales steam coal.” The man in the overalls said eagerly.
The Waddingtons used Thorncliffe thin seam coal and had brought down a good stock with them .Isaac was going to ask what was the catch in accepting the free coal, but quickly realised that if they took it then he need do nothing else to make this man happy. If the Waddingtons won the competition then the Blaenavon Steam Coal Company could simply claim that their coal had fuelled the victorious pedestrian of the Peters Hill race. He was sure the Thorncliffe company would claim much the same, but he had a longer relationship with them and they were, after all, Yorkshiremen.
“Thank you, but we have sufficient.” Isaac called.
Ernestine was beside him now and from how she rested her hand in the small of his back, he knew she would have done the same; as Samuel had noted earlier, she was an astute woman.
“Thank you for your troubles, Mr. Probert,” Samuel said. “but we have enough.”
“Suit yourselves.” Probert replied a little tersely.
The coal man slipped the brake on his engine and set off in the direction of the Japanese with his cart following behind him. Isaac wondered what kind of reaction Probert would get from Count Otomo. Had the Japanese brought coal with them? It seemed more likely they had bought it in Rotterdam or even in Southampton. Perhaps Otomo’s agent in Britain had arranged it all in advance. Isaac turned away, he had more than enough to do without concerning himself with how other crews were fuelling their pedestrians.
“Have they announced the order in which we are to race?” Ernestine asked; Isaac turned to face her.
Behind Ernestine the fire of the ‘Walker’ burned but with the test run complete the engine was idle and they could communicate at a normal volume.
“No, I imagine they did that first thing, but I forgot about it entirely. I know we cannot be last.”
“Yes, yes, not until next year.” She smirked, then continued. “We haven’t luncheoned and there is a big difference if we are to race at one o’clock or if we are not drawn to race until four o’clock.”
Isaac imagined Ernestine was eager to know, but despite her bullish response yesterday, she guessed she would be a little apprehensive about returning to the officials’ tent herself to find out the running order.
“Albert, go and find out when we are drawn to race.” Isaac called and was rewarded by a kiss to his cheek from Ernestine.
“Certainly, certainly.” Albert said and hurried off up the paddock clearly pleased to have an errand.
Isaac smiled as he watched the man go: he seemed to be more excited than a child on Christmas Eve. Whilst he was away Isaac and Ernestine finished their last checks. Then Samuel came aboard and cast his eye over every lever and dial even those that would fall within Ernestine’s realm of activity during the race. Seemingly satisfied they all stepped down and looked up at their machine for some moments.
“You are running third.” Albert called loudly as he came in earshot of the Waddingtons; Isaac imagined all the crews, even if they had been oblivious before, now knew that fact.
“That means we go at two o’clock.” Ernestine said. “We will need to be proceeding to the start line half-an-hour before that, so we have just over an hour to eat.”
Albert, breathless, was now with them. “The Japanese are going first, then the ‘Buckingham Prince’, us, the men from Birmingham, then the Germans, the ‘Conqueror’ and finally the ‘Avalon’.”
Isaac wondered if the officials genuinely determined the order of the racers at random or allocated them in a way that would heighten the excitement of the crowd. The passage of the ‘Tsuru’ would attract the spectators’ attention. It was a beautiful machine with the attraction of being crewed by a crew that to the people of Princes Risborough and even to those who had come from London, would appear exotic. The Badeners and the previous winners would seem, to most observers, to be the serious competitors for the title. Whilst they would not be racing side-by-side having them in sequence would generate the greatest tension among the crowd. Isaac was determined at least to beat the local pedestrian and the outdated one from Birmingham, anything better than that would be a bonus.
“Right, right.” Samuel said briskly. “Ernestine, can you return to the baker’s and buy us some lunch? We will eat it back at the tents, I think it will be better than walking back into town and then here again.”
“Mr. Waddington, no need to worry about the luncheon, Betty, my sister, she has made some for all of you; it’s on the ‘Cook’, ha, ha.” Albert chuckled at the pun. “I can boil the kettle on the firebox. It will not be a banquet, but a fine meal all the same.”
“Albert, you must thank your sister; that is very considerate of her.”
“She would have loved to have been here; it’s the least she could do.”
Setting off back to the tents, Isaac was pleased to see that the good weather had continued. The temperature had risen as the day had progressed but he knew it was unlikely to get hot enough to make operating the ‘Walker’ unbearable nor impact on the road surface. The wind that there was, seemed to be coming from the West so would blow left to right across the road as they headed North-East up Peters Hill. Though the funnel of the ‘Whitby Walker’ lifted the expended steam and smoke clear of the gondola, Isaac knew from the trials that in the strong winds of Whitby gusts in the wrong direction could envelope the crew in a cloud of steam, smoke and soot.
Approaching their tents, Isaac thought about all the people who like Albert’s sister, could not be here but without whose effort they could not have reached the competition or if they had, would have had to spend more money or expend more effort. Once they reached the ‘Captain Cook’, Albert pulled out a chest that turned out to hold a series of pasties, jars of pickled cabbage and eggs and an entire loaf of bread with a pat of dripping to spread on it. There was even a fruit cake. As promised, Albert stoked up the traction engine’s firebox. He found out the tin cups they had used on the journey down from Whitby and with the milk he had bought somewhere on the way they were soon all drinking refreshing cups of tea.
As he finished another pickled egg, Isaac worried he had eaten too much and feared he would be sick once the ‘Whitby Walker’ was moving at top speed. However, as Albert had promised, this was a very pleasant meal and being here with the crew and their friend he felt happy and that made the worries of the morning seem so distant.
“Mr. Waddington?” A man, probably in his late forties and dressed in light coat over a mass-produced suit, said as he approached.
“Yes?” Samuel asked with a polite tone; rising, wiping his hand on a piece of linen used to wrap the pasties.
After the events of the previous day, capped by the response at the reception last night, Isaac sensed that his father was feeling rather irritated by the officials and it seemed, that like himself, Samuel thought this was someone sent by the M.P.O.S. to pester the crew of the ‘Whitby Walker’ this afternoon. Were they going to dare to ask the Waddingtons to withdraw from the race? Isaac himself felt they had a right to be here, as much as any of the other competitors. However, it was very clear that their very presence and, especially, the involvement of Ernestine, was not welcomed by all of those involved with running the competition and perhaps, more broadly, by many who simply took an interest in the event.
“I am Frederick Townsend, Mr. Waddington. I am pleased to be able to shake your hand.”
The man’s accent was not that different from their own; Isaac guessed he was from Sheffield. Townsend proffered his hand and Samuel took it. Isaac was a little surprised, the way the man had started suggested his motives were very different from what he had feared would be the case. He imagined now, however, that for those individuals who resented the Waddingtons’ involvement there had to be some who welcomed it. Isaac laughed to think that they could attract partisans just as Henry Mordaunt had done in increasing numbers over the years. He wondered how his father would react if members of the crowd began holding portraits of Samuel aloft and cheered him as he passed. He pondered too, what Ernestine’s response would be if Isaac himself, became the target of the kind of shouts that some of the young lower class female spectators were reported to bellow at the dashing Mordaunt.
A badge of Townsend’s coat lapel caught Isaac’s attention. As he took in the initials: ‘U.K.A.O.T.’ he realised the man was not a race official but a member, and he quickly suspected, a representative of the United Kingdom Alliance of Organised Trades. Older than the Trades Union Congress, the ‘Alliance’ as it was popularly called, appealed to those workers who sought more radical solutions to relations between workers and employers than the Congress would countenance. Opponents condemned the organisation at best as Owenites and more severely as the direct heirs of the Chartists. Of course, this man might be both an Alliance member and separately a supporter of mechanised pedestrian racing; one did not preclude the other. However, now he had identified the man’s background, Isaac felt a little apprehensive and moved closer to his father.
Isaac had long known that Samuel had no truck with radicals and even looked upon trades unions as upsetting the proper order in society. He resented exploitative owners as much ad the next working man, but Samuel put his faith in the Lord and the efforts of each man himself to alter unfavourable circumstances.
“It is admirable that working men, and women, should be here demonstrating the best that workers can achieve. When we heard a crew entirely of those drawn from the working class was to compete against these powdered lords and portly owners myself and many of my brothers knew we had to come here and support you. We wondered if you would do us the privilege of carrying our pennant as a mark of our esteem for you.”
“You? Your brothers? What organisation are you from?” Samuel asked abruptly taking a step back from Townsend.
“The Alliance, the United Kingdom Alliance of Organised Trades.” Townsend said unashamedly, he grasped his lapel to highlight the insignia he wore. “Sorry, I assumed you knew. Did you not receive our letter?”
“Well, I admire your candour, Mr. Townsend, I had felt you trying to lead us into supporting you without revealing who you were.”
Isaac had shared his father’s concern, but guessed Townsend was not a man to deceive, he had no need of that, but it was clear that had assumed he was not entirely unknown to Samuel.
“I am sorry, I had assumed you had received my letter and anticipated me coming to speak with you.” Townsend said, taking a simple pennant with the acronym and the symbol of his organisation upon it from his coat pocket.
Isaac almost felt a little sorry for the man, but still wondered if this was not some kind of affectation. Then again, it all seemed a genuine mistake and if he had sought to wheedle his way into gaining recognition from the Waddingtons, surely an official of the Alliance would have been more canny in his approach.
“Mr. Townsend, I have received scores of letters every month since we entered this competition. I am, as you noted, a working man and do not have the leisure to read, let alone respond to, such correspondence. My wife Dora has been responsible for handling all the letters and bringing my attention to those she felt were of importance. I imagine she would have disposed of yours Mr. Townsend, knowing full well, that I have no interest in working men’s combinations and particularly federations of those combinations; ones which seek to throw down the Lord’s natural order for mankind.”
Now Isaac felt a little sheepish and stepped back a little. He had been a member of the Amalgamated Society of Engineers since the previous summer but had not been able to bring himself to confess this to his father. Unlike Samuel he saw benefit in men working together to defend their interests and drew a clear distinction between the A.S.E. with its emphasis on defending the position of engineers, above all, with prudence and respectability, and radical bodies like that which Mr. Townsend represented, which did seem to wish to turn the world upside down.
“Would you not want your descendants to have at least as good opportunities as you have had?”
“My son already has and not because of bullying by some combination, but through his faith in the Lord and his hard work. A man makes his own place in this world.”
“And how much of an impression were you able to make at yesterday evening’s reception Mr. Waddington? Did you not try to gain access through your own efforts only to have it denied simply because of what class of employment you have rather than what type of man you are? Henry Mordaunt gained access yet he is a drunkard and a gambler who simply reaps the prize for the work of his men. You are a better man by far than him, yet you were shut out from the mayor’s company.”
Isaac wondered at how quickly report of last night’s events had come to Mr. Townsend’s ears and he had to conclude the man had at least one agent among the staff who had waited at the mayor’s reception.
“I know my station. I prove my worth through the results of my labours.” Samuel gestured to the ‘Whitby Walker’. “You and your kind, Mr. Townsend, want to throw us into chaos and that is something all engineers abhor. What have the nations that have followed your Chartist principles experienced? France’s revolution ended in blood running in the streets and tyranny; America has seen slavery persisting and been plagued by many years of war. Is that what you would seek to bring to this country along with this ‘democracy’ that you vaunt so vehemently?”
Townsend stood silently for a few moments. “Mr. Waddington, though I disagree with your opinions, I accept your right to hold them. I admire your strength of conviction and I can see clearly in the vehicle you have created that the force inside you does produce astounding results. I hope that in that spirit you will not turn aside my regard for your labours and that you will allow me pride in the achievements of a working man.”
Townsend offered his hand again. Isaac did admire the radical’s astuteness. He was not going to pursue a cause in which he knew now he would not succeed, but his retreat in the face of Samuel’s reaction did nothing to temper what was clearly a sincere appreciation. For a moment Samuel gazed at Townsend’s face and at his hand then took it.
“No, I will not turn away the respect of any fellow man, no matter how misguided I may feel he is. I pray that the Lord will guide you to seeing the error of your ways. In the meantime, I trust that you will enjoy the race.”
Samuel’s words seemed to hearten Townsend. Isaac stepped forward and shook the man’s hand as did Ernestine.
“I am proud to have met you this morning and wish you all that you most rightly deserve.” Townsend concluded.
Samuel’s face now looked neutral as if trying to untangle the aspects of all that had transpired. Ernestine seemed more enthusiastic about the interest Townsend had shown.
“It is fascinating that people across the country have an interest in our work.” She said as they watched the Alliance man walk away.
“Don’t let it go to your head, girl.” Samuel chided. “Be careful that they do not want your face as their representation of Lady Liberty and all the blood that they would shed in her name. It’s simply their flattery to mislead you; pride comes before a fall.”
Samuel turned to his tent but then hesitated as if he had changed his mind about something. He consulted his pocket watch and then came back to the others.
“It is time to ready ourselves.” Samuel said simply. “Shall we pray?”
Isaac and Ernestine stood. Albert was a man for whom religion was something for Sundays rather than the everyday way in which Samuel engaged with it, but he rose too. They all bowed their heads. Samuel said nothing and Isaac thought out his own prayer. It seemed wrong simply to ask God for victory, instead he concentrated on requesting help in doing his best.
“Amen.” Samuel said at length and the others echoed him.
By the time they reached the ‘Whitby Walker’, the ‘Tsuru’ was making its way to the paddock entrance. Seeing it in action, Isaac felt his impression of the pedestrian was confirmed. It was a slender vehicle with Count Otomo in front and Kaori and Mr. Sato in line behind him but standing at an angle working on the machinery that ran the down the sides of the gondola. The Waddingtons waved and Kaori gave a quick response, but, unsurprisingly, their attention was focused on navigating safely through the gateway and on to the road. The gondola sat below the level of the upper joints of the legs but was connected to them by arms. The legs had a stiffness reminiscent of the way the ‘Whitby Walker’ moved, but the gait of the vehicle was very different. Only being familiar with the way in which the gondola of the ‘Whitby Walker’ could cope with the swing of the legs, Isaac found himself disconcerted at how, in contrast, the gondola of the ‘Tsuru’ seemed to weave back and forth with each step. He stopped at the gate to watch it amble to the starting line and, for the first time, realised that, unlike most gondolas, this one was not entirely metal; perhaps it had a wooden frame and even canvas to cover that. All of that was within the specification rules and Isaac wondered what advantages and disadvantages such a light gondola could bring. He was not certain whether he would want to ride in a wood and canvas structure with a firebox glowing with full force on board too.
“Come on.” Samuel said, apparently a little impatient.
Egged on by the stride Samuel now adopted, Isaac followed his wife and Albert back to their own vehicle. The three crew members clambered up the ladder into the gondola. Isaac unfurled the pennants attached to the scuttle at the back of vehicle. There was one from the Whitby Engineering Society, one from the borough council and the only commercial one, from Elwick & Sadler who had supplied so many of the components. Isaac did not feel unhappy publicising their name and anyway, he had no clue as to what interest the average member of the crowd here would have in a whale processing company.
Isaac cast a glance now over at the ‘Buckingham Prince’ which also already had its crew on board. They seemed to be doing their final checks. In contrast to the discreet insignia displayed on the ‘Whitby Walker’ it appeared that every inch of the local pedestrian’s gondola carried advertising. The main sponsor seemed to be the ‘Bucks Herald’, the local newspaper Isaac had seen in the town, but there were many other names written large and small across the vehicle’s body. Most were company names he did not know but from their texts one seemed to sell soap and. probably unsurprisingly both an animal feed company and one selling agricultural machinery were included. The pennants wafting gently at the moment carried yet more names and Isaac could see from the nearest one that the ‘Buckingham Prince’ team had presumably taken all their coal from the Blaenavon Steam Coal Company.
Suddenly a loud bang cut through the sounds of flaming coal and rising steam pressure. Isaac knew that meant that the ‘Tsuru’ had set off and the race had begun.
“Right on time.” Samuel said as he consulted his watch, clearly pleased that the Japanese had begun to schedule.
Isaac wondered if his father would have looked differently on the Japanese if they had not been turned away from the reception as he had been. He supposed that went for anybody; sitting down to a meal and discussing topics of common interest, surely that was the foundation for any sense of comradeship. Perhaps it was more straightforward for Samuel than his son had previously imagined. Of course, Samuel was friends with other engineers and members of their church and the society back in Whitby, but Isaac realised that he had assumed that was in part because those people had also been neighbours. Coming here had shown him that his father did genuinely believe in a brotherhood of engineering people, one that could bridge the differences between men from different sides of the World.
The ‘Buckingham Prince’ suddenly stirred into life and began moving to the path that ran down the paddock to the main gate. As it began its journey Isaac realised that time was slipping passed so quickly. His father and wife still seemed busy and he wondered what there was left for them to do. It was always difficult, he knew, to judge when it was right to begin the final stage of preparations and perhaps, in their eagerness, they had started too soon. Recognising that fact, however, he also acknowledged that Samuel and Ernestine’s fussing over the position of every oak-handled lever and the display of every dial might simply be to distract them from tension over the race that lay ahead.
They seemed to settle a little as the ‘Buckingham Prince’ passed them. Like Isaac it was clear they were interested to see how it was running. The vehicle which would have appeared innovative ten years ago and of the norm even five years back, now did seem old fashioned. The most striking element which betrayed the age of its design was the sled runner that reached the whole length of its body. Of course, many of the pedestrians in this event, especially in the early years had had supports, ‘walking sticks’ as they had sometimes been called. These had allowed the pedestrian to maintain its stability as the motorised legs lifted from the road. However, with the better balancing of the parts that went into the gondola and more sophisticated operation of the legs such things had become less common.
Famously in 1868 the specifications for the pedestrian known as ‘The Strider’ had been rejected at the initial entry stage. Though the full details had never become public, it was rumoured that it had had two runners which had effectively meant the vehicle had ‘shuffled’ along. The officials of the Society had apparently felt this form of motion was too far removed from ‘walking’, even of an assisted kind, to be allowed into this race. There had been speculation for a couple of years subsequently about a race for vehicles of this kind over snow, but such a competition had never appeared. Just a year after the disqualification of ‘The Strider’, the vehicle that had come to be known only as ‘NM1’, had similarly been rejected at the entrance stage. This was on the grounds that having two sets of four legs set in a cross pattern turning into place alternately almost like some kind of land paddle steamer, was too far from either human or animal walking to be permitted.
As the ‘Buckingham Prince’ stepped and slid from the paddock, Isaac knew that fast speeds would never be achieved with such friction between the vehicle and the road surface. He imagined that by now, if this had not been the locally run vehicle its specification would have been declared obsolete, but Isaac guessed it would be permitted for some years yet. Perhaps to counter the lingering appearance of such vehicles, the Society could be encouraged to permit advertising banners or other vehicles carrying them along the route and so provide revenue to the mechanised pedestrian sport without cluttering the road with such dated styles of vehicle.
With two vehicles on their way, the paddock was becoming busier as those crews further down the schedule began the kind of checks and preparations the Waddingtons had already completed. A cheer rose from the numerous staff clustered around the ‘Conqueror’ and the men of the ‘Grossherzog Karl Friedrich’ burst into some rousing German song. Isaac imagined these were the things that gave heart to those connected with the various pedestrians in the way men going into battle would seek to lift their spirits with a rousing speech or martial music.
“Time to go.” Samuel said.
Isaac took out his pocket watch, hardly credible that the time could have passed so quickly. Then the crack of the starting explosive sounded out signalling that the ‘Buckingham Prince’ had begun its ascent of Peters Hill. Certainly it was time for the ‘Whitby Walker’ to begin its walk to the starting line.
Notes
• Whitby is on the eastern side of England but because of the way the coast of North Yorkshire curves faces North. It was a whaling port 1753-1833 with up to 55 whaling ships operating from the port. In this period, as well as 2,761 whales, 25,000 seals and 55 polar bears were brought back to Whitby. In the mid-19th century British whaling became overshadowed by the Americans and faced a severe decline. In this steampunk world Whitby remains a whaling town in the 1870s and this has turned what in our world is a small fishing town into an industrial processing centre. Whales provided meat, oil and bone; whalebone was used in corsets.
• Historically Whitby had a number of Methodist churches and chapels which have fallen into disuse or been turned to other purposes. The Skate Lane Chapel was built in 1814 and was replaced in 1891 by the Brunswick Methodist Church which is now disused. There was a Methodist Church on Church Street in a grand Gothic Revival style which is now a restaurant and a Primitive Methodist Chapel on Terrace Street built in 1866. The Wesley Hall named after a key founder of Methodism was built in 1901. The town had churches for numerous other denominations including the Anglicans, Roman Catholics, Presbyterians, Quakers and Congregationalists.
• Blaenavon was a coal mine in South Wales renowned for its steam coal. Thorncliffe Thin Seam was another source of steam coal for machinery across the UK and was located in Yorkshire, so more local to where the Waddingtons live at Whitby.
• A hundredweight is just over 50Kg. Coal sack sizes varied depending on the nature of the coal contained, but half-a-hundredweight, i.e. just over 25Kg was seen as a reasonable size.
• Dripping is fat exuded from roasted meat that even in the late 20th century was used as a spread on bread.
• The United Kingdom Alliance of Organised Trades existed in our world 1866-71 and was one in a series of attempts to create a federation across trade unions in particular to carry out concerted action. Like its predecessors, Robert Owen’s Grand National Consolidated Trades Union (1834), and the National Association of United Trades for the Protection of Labour (1845-66) it was short-lived and folded when it became apparent that its treasurer William Broadhead had been involved in the so-called Sheffield Outrages, violent attacks against employers. In this steampunk world the organisation has retained its radical slant, but with a larger working class population, has not declined, and, though remaining small, has not been dissolved by 1877. In our world, the Trades Union Congress (TUC) founded in 1868 and still in existence today, became the mainstream trade union federation in Britain.
With the publication of the first part of ‘Capital’ by Karl Marx in 1867 workers’ movements had a new ideology which they could subscribe to and in subsequent decades those favouring a more radical approach tended to be drawn to Marxist bodies such as the Social Democratic Federation (SDF) formed in 1881 and the Independent Labour Party (ILP) in 1893. In contrast to continental European states workers’ bodies in the UK have always tended to be conservative and defensive of their particular members interests rather than seeking revolution or radical political change.
The Amalgamated Society of Engineers (ASE) was a trade union founded in 1851 which absorbed other unions focused on specific industries. It was a union representing members of the ‘labour aristocracy’, i.e. highly skilled workingmen and charged 1 shilling per week membership at a time when the average craftsman only earned 24 shillings per week and a labourer 16 shillings. The union eschewed radical policies, favouring prudence and respectability, though it had to face action by employers, notably lockouts which drained its resources through paying funds to redundant members.
• In Britain for much of the early and mid-19th century the word ‘democracy’ was used pejoratively the way ‘anarchy’ might be used nowadays.
Catch Me Who Can: Part 2 - Steampunk Novella
Catch Me Who Can
Part TwoTheir first afternoon in Princes Risborough passed quickly. Occasionally Isaac would feel a burst of apprehension around the following day’s race, but tried to mimic his father’s air of calm and enjoy their time in the sunshine for what it was, a brief holiday. With the time for the seven o’clock reception approaching, Isaac went in search of his father. He found him among the auxiliaries of the ‘Conqueror’ chatting about previous year’s races. They wished Samuel and Isaac well as they walked back to their tents to ready. The Waddingtons had received no official invitation to the reception but Isaac was sure that, as a crew of one of the pedestrians, they would automatically be welcomed. By the time they reached the tents, Ernestine had already changed into the dress she wore on Sundays and had put on the new hat she had been given for her birthday. The temperature was cooling quickly and she had cast her shawl around her shoulders. Isaac felt a glow of pride in seeing her look so smart. As she stepped forward he saw she had even replaced the work boots she had worn on the ‘Cook’ with her best black leather laced ones.
Isaac and Samuel changed quickly from their operating garb into their Sunday best and by a quarter-to-seven, with the last rays of the Sun disappearing behind Princes Risborough they set out for the town. Ernestine knew from ‘The Engineer’ that the reception would be at the new civic hall. Princes Risborough was a small place and with directions from the special constable at the gate they were able to find it quickly. As the Waddingtons approached the hall, three figures emerged and stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the electric-powered light from behind.
“Good evening.” Samuel called as he bustled up to the building, betraying his excitement.
Isaac and Ernestine, arm-in-arm followed behind and saw quickly that the men were three Japanese, presumably the actual crew of the ‘Tsuru’. They seemed rather at a loss.
“Good evening, sirs.” Samuel persisted, though not uncharitably.
Isaac knew that his father was not a man for deference but he was well-mannered and clearly a visitor from abroad, whether nobleman or not, deserved respect.
“Good evening, Mr., erm, Waddington.” The eldest of the three spoke, pronouncing his words carefully and breaking Samuel’s surname into distinct syllables.
Isaac took this to be Count Otomo something Ernestine, who had seen the image of all of these men captioned in ‘The Engineer’, confirmed with a whisper.
“Count Otomo, good evening.” Isaac joined in.
“Good evening, Mr. Waddington.” The count responded, seemingly now with greater confidence.
Isaac,hesitated to shake the man’s hand and as the three Japanese bowed, he mimicked them. Belatedly Samuel did the same. Together the six of them stepped into the hall’s vestibule; the light there allowed Isaac to appraise the Japanese trio fully. The count was dressed in an immaculate morning suit and even carried a top hat. He appeared ready to meet with the Board of the Bank of England. His two companions were younger and contrasted sharply in clothing. The smaller of the two, probably not yet thirty, wore evening dress as well tailored as the count’s suit. The third man, of a height with the count, was probably in his mid-twenties. He looked the most what Isaac would consider Oriental. His jet black hair was far longer than that of his comrades and pulled back sharply from his face into a topknot. He wore a long robe of a dark brown shade, decorated with a russet pattern of swirls and around his waist sat two belts, one broad and like his robe, apparently of silk. The other belt was narrow and of brown leather and to it were fixed two holsters of differing sizes which Isaac guessed held a long-barrelled revolver and a compact automatic pistol. The fact that this man was dressed traditionally and yet bore modern firearms even in a small English market town, to Isaac seemed to encapsulate the conundrum of Japan.
“May I introduce my wife, Ernestine. She is the Operator of the ‘Whitby Walker’.” Isaac said politely.
Ernestine stepped forward, atypically shyly for her and gave a curtsey. The Japanese bowed once more.
“This is my nephew, Otomo Kaori. Sorry, in the European style, Kaori Otomo.” At the sound of his name the man in the robe gave a terse bow with his head. “And this is my colleague, the best engineer in the Oita Prefecture, Mr. Teiji Sato.”
The small man smiled. It seemed to Isaac that his grasp of English was less confident than that of the two nobles. Now there was a pause which Samuel suddenly broke.
“Is the reception over, erm, Mr. Otomo? Are we too late? I believed it began at seven o’clock.” Samuel asked brusquely, clearly concerned he had made a mistake.
“No, Mr. Waddington,” the count replied, “it is just beginning, but I, erm, have fear, I fear that the hall is full; there is no room for us.”
Samuel then voiced what Isaac too suspected. “No, there’ll be room enough, but they’ll not want your company. They’ll barely tolerate a Badener, but an Asiatic, well …”
Isaac worried that that statement would make his father appear as if he subscribed to such particularist views himself.
“Of course, we are all brothers in the, er, the brotherhood of engineers, pedestrian engineers.” Isaac said hurriedly.
“Yes, yes, that’s right.” Samuel clearly recognised the danger too and followed his son’s lead.
Whilst Samuel was no revolutionary, Isaac did know that he favoured discriminating between men only by what they could do, not simply by who they were. Further discussion was ended by a voice booming from the far end of vestibule.
“Interlopers! N’er-do-wells?”
All six turned to see the arrival of a balding, portly man. The stark electric light showed that his skin was flushed, presumably from already having consumed a large quantity of ale. As he came forward it was apparent that he had weakness to one side of his body as he thrust his left leg forwards abruptly with each step. For a moment, Isaac hoped that this was simply some drunk local in search of the lavatories.
“Mr. Hargreaves.” Count Otomo said formally.
The drunk ignored him and launched himself towards the Waddingtons instead. He paused for a moment, running his eyes over the three of them.
“This reception is only for the pedestrian crews: the pilots, the, the operators, the combustioneers and the, erm, the operators. I have heard there are refreshments for the auxiliaries at the ‘Bird in Hand’ public house, down by the railway station.” Hargreaves blustered then paused as if to catch his breath before adding, “I believe there is a table for female hangers-on there too.”
Isaac felt fury at this man’s manner rising within him. Of course, he could dismiss it as a consequence of drunkenness but he was certain Hargreaves’s prejudices ran deeper.
“I, I am the Operator of the ‘Whitby Walker’.” Ernestine announced forcefully.
Hargreaves’s expression replicated those of the race officials earlier, but his hesitation was brief.
“Well, as I have told Mr. Toe-Mow, there is no more room in there.”
“I trust, Mr. Hargreaves, that you will ensure that there is sufficient capacity for ourselves and Count Otomo when we return next year. Assuming we have not chosen to favour the Zirler Berg with our attendance.” Samuel snapped.
Hargreaves huffed but gave no cogent response. He started walking away, apparently feeling that the matter was at an end and now that he had policed the entrance to the reception he could resume his earlier journey.
“What shall we do now?” Ernestine asked as soon as Hargreaves had disappeared through a door.
“Well, my hunger has not subsided. Given that this not a large town, I imagine there are not too many hostelries to choose from, so I suggest we make our way to this ‘auxiliaries’ reception’.” Samuel said briskly. “Mr. Otomo, will you care to join us, in, erm, fraternal, er, friendship?”
The count said nothing but his nephew spoke rapidly to him in what Isaac assumed was Japanese. Then what seemed like quite an involved discussion broke out between the three before Kaori spoke himself.
“My uncle notes that you are a man who speaks directly. This we have observed is a characteristic of Englishmen, some Englishmen. My uncle sees you are authentic in your speaking of brotherhood and there is much he would wish to talk, discuss, with you, regarding the position, the, erm, standing of engineering. He is pleased to accompany you and your family persons to the refreshments.”
In that instant Isaac was reminded sharply of the thought that he had had on the journey earlier: that attending this race could not but introduce him to a wealth of new experiences. As Samuel and the count led out from the vestibule, Isaac marvelled at the fact that he was setting off for dinner at a rural English public house with members of the Japanese nobility. He was sure his mother’s scepticism would never accept such a story and he became to determined to secure some token as proof: a collodion-calotype of the Waddingtons with the crew of the ‘Tsuru’ or at least a piece of Japanese script.
It was a short walk to the ‘Bird in Hand’ and though it was an older, more compact building than the civic hall, electric lights glowed here too. From the rear of the public house, came the sound of voices. Isaac knew that the average English earl or even a local squire would rarely mix with the labourers and mechanicians of his district, bar on very particular occasions. However, as Count Otomo followed Samuel into the interior of the public house, Isaac recognised that for the Japanese this could be the start of something fascinating for them. Isaac had read enough accounts of British nobles exploring Africa to know they relished sitting down to a meal with all kinds of members of the tribes they encountered, simply for the experience. Perhaps for the Japanese party, eating here with the Waddington ‘tribe’, would be much the same.
As they passed through the building and out to the beer garden beyond, all six newcomers received a warm welcome. . Isaac realised that now two of the seven crews in the race were at this pub rather than the civic reception. He imagined that, however curious or unsettled the staff of the pub might be about the Japanese crew, they were not going to pass up on the chance for some more reflected glory falling on their establishment, and certainly not turn away whatever money any visitors might spend here this evening or the next.
A long marquee lacking sides had been erected in the garden. Trestle tables ran the length of it. A series of women and girls ferried out plates of pies and tankards of ale from the pub. There had to be more than forty people here already. They ranged from children to the elderly. The garb of many of them suggested a direct association with one of the pedestrian vehicles, Isaac presumed, in an auxiliary role. Isaac was pleased to note, while, as Hargreaves had intimated, that whilst there was a table reserved for women, others sat alongside the men.
“Welcome, welcome.” A stocky man with glasses and unruly white hair exclaimed as he hurried over to them. “I am Harold Burke, the proprietor of the ‘Bird in Hand’.”
A youth caught the publican’s arm and said something in an animated way into Burke’s ear.
“Most privileged we are to have the entire crews of the ‘Crane’ and the ‘Whitby Walker’ here this evening.” Burke announced to the crowd with pride.
The youth grinned at them, to Isaac, suggesting that he was the true mechanised pedestrian enthusiast of the establishment. It took some moments for the assembled diners to catch on to what Burke was declaring. However, once they did, the huzzahs sounded throughout the marquee and many of the men stood and raised their tankards in salute.
“That’s Thomas Goddard.” Ernestine said in Isaac’s ear, pointing to a large man in a suit very much like the one Isaac wore. “He’s Mordaunt’s Operator.”
As the six were shepherded towards spaces in the benches, Isaac caught a few mutterings about women and foreigners but it seemed that predominantly those gathered here subscribed to the kind of sentiments that Samuel had been seeking to articulate when he had spoken of a brotherhood of engineers.
“Madam, would you care to be seated at the ladies’ table?” Burke asked in an almost fawning manner; it seemed he was rather star-struck by the nature of those who had come to dine at his pub.
“Thank you, but no. I will sit with my husband.” Ernestine responded before proudly announcing once more. “I am the Operator of the ‘Whitby Walker’.”
She then took her seat beside Isaac. He turned to her and smiled. She returned the gesture in a playful manner and Isaac envisaged that from this day on that that declaration would be a knowing slogan between them.
“Pie and ale?” One of the serving women asked the newcomers.
“No ale for me, do you have tea?” Samuel asked. “I have taken the Pledge.”
Samuel had never sought to influence his son’s choices over consuming alcohol, but having seen the harm it had done to many Whitby families in his youth, he had taken the temperance pledge. There had never been any alcohol in the Waddington house, but Samuel was not a zealot and he could tolerate seeing others drinking around him, hoping, Isaac imagined, that his good example might encourage them to follow his lead. Isaac knew that, in his father’s eyes, attaining a good ranking in tomorrow’s race would appear as a lesson in the benefits of sobriety.
“Pie and ale for us.” Ernestine chipped in quickly.
The Milners, whilst not drunkards, had an appreciation of alcohol, particularly beers and, Isaac feeling he could moderate his own consumption, was a partisan for his in-laws approach rather than that of his parents.
“Two pies and ale; one tea and ale. Gentlemen?” The woman’s question was directed to the Japanese.
“Thank you.” Count Otomo responded. “Tea and pies and ales.” He said in a measured tone.
This was followed by a quick conversation between the men in Japanese before the count confirmed his order with a nod.
Whilst there was chatter across the table and among clusters of diners, the volume in the marquee seemed to have lowered from when Isaac and the others had arrived and so voices did not have to be raised to be heard.
“How was your journey Count? To England?” Ernestine asked.
Isaac admired his wife for trying to start a conversation. Like him she probably understood that there was a good chance that they would never meet Japanese ever again and it would be a waste if they failed to fully make use of the opportunity.
“Without incident, Mrs. Waddington. We faced rains while crossing the Indian Ocean, but nothing the steamship could not, erm, ride.”
“When did you arrive in England?”
“Only the day before yesterday. There was a delay at the last in Rotterdam. A train had been chartered by my agent at Southampton but it proved to be more of a challenge to put the ‘Tsuru’ aboard than we had, erm, thought. Yourselves: you are from the town of Whitby; where the whales are taken?”
Whilst the count’s speech was staid, Isaac admired his ability in sustaining a conversation especially with a foreign woman from far outside his slice of the social hierarchy.
“We were brought by traction engine today. Its operator has gone to visit family in London. You were in the United Netherlands?”
“Yes, during the time the Tokugawa Shogunate kept us closed off from the world, our only connection with Europe was via a Dutch factory. Hence, anyone with an interest of developments in the world read about them in Dutch. To be visiting United Netherlands is like, a journey of a pilgrim for Japanese coming to Europe. Antwerp and Rotterdam are their most advanced commercial ports; Den Helder and Zeebrugge their naval bases.”
“Your food and drink, gentlemen and lady.” The serving woman returned with two assistants in tow. She placed the pies on the table whilst the girls handed out the tankards and tea cups.
The Waddingtons sat back from their food and Samuel said grace. Isaac noted that the Japanese did not move either and he appreciated that they were alert to causing offence when exposed to customs they had not seen before. Perhaps, he was mistaken, and they had witnessed such prayers before meals in the United Netherlands. Despite the relative proximity of the country to Britain Isaac was aware that he knew far less about it than these men who had travelled across the planet to visit it.
Kaori Otomo took a sip of the tea. “Ah, this ale is hot.”
Samuel saw the man’s mistake but did not seek to patronise him. “Mr. Otomo, that is the tea; the other is the ale.”
“I see. Why is the tea this colour? In Rotterdam the tea was dark, but clear, like what I must now assume is the ale.” Kaori lifted the tankard and sipped that.
“British porcelain once would crack when a hot drink was poured inside, we add milk first.” Ernestine explained.
“The Dutch use lemon.” Count Otomo noted as he probed his pie with the fork he had just been given.
“Ah, that is interesting. I have never tasted tea with lemon.” Isaac responded.
“It is more like what the Chinese have for tea; less bitter than our types in Nihon, sorry, in Japan.” Kaori explained.
“Well, Britain is Britain. We often stand proud of our continental neighbours and how they do things.” Ernestine noted lightly.
“Yes, very like Japan and our, erm, our neighbours, the Chinese, the Koreans, the Russians.”
“Perhaps that is why our two nations are the ones which lead the way now in this new age; we are not tied to the disputes of the continents.” Isaac said feeling proud at his point.
“Yes, it seems very probable, Mr. Waddington.” The count responded.
The group fell silent as they worked their way through their food and drink. Isaac knew that this would please Samuel who had never been one to make conversation whilst eating. His father was soon pushing back his empty plate, smiling, clearly satisfied with the meal. Isaac knew it had been a snub for them to be turned away from the official reception, but he guessed that, like himself, Samuel was enjoying being here with some honest plain food and, even better, a proper chance to talk with other crews.
“Mr. Waddington?”
Both Isaac and his father turned at the sound of the voice and looked up to see the large man that Ernestine had identified as Goddard.
“I am Thomas Goddard.” He extended his hand to Samuel who shook it.
Goddard was probably in his late thirties. He was a large man, probably two palm lengths taller than Isaac and had a broad chest. Despite his size the way he moved indicated a litheness about him and that his strength was not clumsy. His face told a mixed story, it appeared both weather beaten and yet also with the traces, especially around the eyes, of a man who was an engineer. He had reddish-blond hair, wavy on top and retreating from his forehead. It ran to bracket his face in straight sideburns.
“Samuel Waddington. This is my son, Isaac and my daughter-in-law, Ernestine.”
In turn all shook hands.
“May I sit with you?”
“Certainly, certainly.” Samuel said and he and Isaac shifted to make space for Goddard between them.
“May I introduce, erm, Mr. Otomo, his nephew and his associate.” Samuel said, clearly struggling to remember each man’s name. “They bow rather than shake.” He added in a mutter to Goddard.
Goddard raised his palm as if signalling to the Japanese. “Welcome to Britain gentlemen.” He spoke slowly, but with a resonant voice that seemed to penetrate the hubbub of the marquee. “I look forward to racing you tomorrow.”
The Japanese trio bowed their heads formally in greeting. “Thank you Mr. Goddard, we very much anticipate with pleasure that event too.” The count added, speaking faster than the Englishman had done.
“Good.” Goddard responded.
“We were discussing how we all had arrived here. It took the count many weeks. He stopped in the United Netherlands on the way.” Ernestine began.
Goddard did not respond immediately and for a moment Isaac wondered if he was uncomfortable with Ernestine taking the lead, but then as he blinked and looked down and up before speaking, Isaac realised there was probably a shyness about this man. Isaac wondered if it was instilled by being a aristocrat’s servant or perhaps the kind of deference that Samuel always attributed to Anglican congregations in contrast to Non-Conformists like the Methodists.
“Yes, erm, we came on Mr. Mordaunt’s train as usual. He has his own siding at Bevis Mount, down, erm, down near Southampton.”
“Ah, Mr. Goddard, perhaps your train followed the route that we also followed.” Kaori said, to Isaac seeming to relish practising his English conversation skills further. “We entered England through Southampton.”
“That is most likely, Mr. Otomo.”
Clearly at unease talking with strangers, the effect seemed doubled for Goddard when conversing with the Japanese. Isaac felt admiration for the man who could easily have sat at a distance rather than coming over to talk directly with the Waddingtons.
“Will you win again, Mr. Goddard?” Ernestine asked with a saucy smile.
Goddard seemed to feel on firmer ground with that question.
“Well, I trust so. We have the best machine.”
“Bar the ‘Whitby Walker’, of course.” Ernestine said, seeming to gain pleasure in teasing the man; Isaac worried if she had drunk her ale too fast.
“And the ‘Tsuru’, of course.” Kaori joked, smiling broadly, seeming to warm to this kind of banter.
This raised a chuckle even from Goddard. He held up his palm. “Mr. Waddington, Mr. Otomo, I see I am the target of your barkers.”
“Ernie, do not tease the man.” Samuel said calmly. “We are brothers, and erm, sisters here. The race is tomorrow and will be conducted fraternally, for now we are, we are equals.” Samuel added though he cast a wary eye at the count, it appeared to Isaac, in case he took offence at the Whitby man’s vaunting of equal standing.
“Your family have long been retainers of the Lord Mordaunt’s family?” Kaori asked.
Isaac pondered the implications of what the Japanese was saying. Somehow the word ‘retainer’ seemed to have greater dignity than ‘servant’ and he wondered if Mr. Sato would describe himself in these terms.
“Oh, yes, sir. Goddards have been working for the Mordaunts since the civil war, erm, for two hundred years or more. My grandfather was a groom and then coach driver; my father started as that, but as the horses were entirely replaced by steam carriages he became an operator and an engineer and I have followed him.”
“Yes, it is honourable to follow one’s father’s steps in the world.” Kaori noted.
His comment, seemed to Isaac, to discomfort Count Otomo a little, but the Japanese made no response.
“So, Mr. Goddard your family has been involved with mechanised pedestrians as long as the Mordaunts.” Samuel observed.
“Well, more with wheeled steam carriages than those with legs. Mr. Mordaunt chose me to come across from the carriages to his pedestrian when he first started to have them built and to race them. He and I are much of an age and he would race me on horseback in our youth, of course on his summer vacations from Winchester College and then Oxford. I used to drive him to see the race here each year. He had been running speedy steam carriages at Bevis Mount since he was old enough to pilot them himself, but when we came for the first time here in ’68 he converted to following the pedestrians. It took him some time to plan and have a decent one built. As he has aged, I think his power of concentration have improved.”
“And you advise him?” Count Otomo asked quite abruptly.
Goddard chuckled. “In the early days I would talk with him about how each vehicle worked and discuss with him how they might be improved to run faster, yes. These days, he is the expert. He has the time to devote to it. I have a job aside from being the Operator of the ‘Avalon’. You would not believe how many vehicles large and small; domestic, commercial, agricultural, leisure, industrial even, run on the estate.”
“Lord Peterborough is an enthusiast for mechanised vehicles?” The count continued.
“Not really. He sees them as tools and appreciates having good quality tools to work his farms and carry out the business of his estate, nothing more than that. He far more values horses and hounds; his viewpoint is of that generation.”
Isaac noted that unlike some servants, Goddard did not balk from speaking of his employer, but did so in positive terms all the same.
“You do not wish to be able to race your own vehicle, Mr. Goddard; to have the ‘Goddard Flyer’ win this race?” Ernestine asked.
“Such a step would be arrogant in the very least, Mrs. Waddington. The ‘Avalon’ is a good name; a name to be proud of.”
“Accepted, then, the ‘Southampton Flyer’, but the question is: do you not dream of being the pilot of such a vehicle?”
“Do you, Mrs. Waddington? You are an operator too, for your father-in-law.”
“This is a collaborative venture, we are a family; Sam does not pay me wages.”
“Ernie, let the man be.” Samuel said cautiously.
Ernestine seemed to sit back a little and to Isaac it appeared that she understood her questions had been rather unseemly. The fact that ordinary people like the Waddingtons were able to race at Princes Risborough had only come about through the good will and backing of a diverse set of people, something that might not even be repeated for them, let alone for anyone else.
“What issue do you make, Mrs. Waddington?” Kaori asked.
Isaac felt a moment of dismay that the Japanese, not reading the subtleties of the English interchange, was prolonging the discomfort.
“My issue, Mr. Otomo, is that Mr. Goddard is the operator and very much more, he has advised Henry Mordaunt throughout the development of the ‘Avalon’ and each race it has participated in. Despite these facts, I have never read an interview with Mr. Goddard and the only photograph I have seen of him is standing in Mordaunt’s shadow, often quite literally. Surely the efforts of those men who contribute so much to this event should receive proper recognition.”
“We all receive our due rewards, Ernie, not in this world.” Samuel said sombrely.
“Erm, Mrs. Waddington, erm, I do not entirely understand what your argument is, but you know, I have never sought glory. My reward comes from a good job done and I will continue to take that prize as long as I may.” Goddard outlined.
“Yes, yes.” Samuel concurred.
“You seek glory for the workers, Mrs. Waddington?” Count Otomo asked.
“No, no, count, only proper, full recognition of their efforts.”
“Mr. Goddard has full recognition from us, his fellow engineers.” Samuel said, beginning to applaud.
Isaac appreciated his father’s attempts to defuse the situation that Ernestine seemed bent on provoking. He was uncertain, though, if his wife was simply being mischievous or had in mind some personal point she felt compelled to make.
Goddard looked embarrassed by the attention and Isaac had the feeling that he was torn between enjoying being among fellow engineers and yet uncomfortable at being exposed to a degree of celebrity and the attention that came with it. He might be the operator of an acclaimed vehicle, but from what he had said, his horizons appeared even more limited than Isaac’s; he wondered how often Mr. Goddard strayed beyond the walls of the Hampshire estate.
“A toast to all the competitors, especially those here this evening.” Isaac said manoeuvring himself free of the bench and raising his tankard.
He looked around him, but there seemed to be no difficulty, even the Japanese appeared familiar with making toasts. He noted Mr. Goddard, like his father, had a mug of tea clasped in his hand and both men raised these in toast with the ale drinkers.
The steps Isaac and his father had taken seemed to reduce the tension and conversation between Goddard, the Japanese and Waddingtons continued more easily from then on. They discussed the progress of engineering in their respective countries and more mundane differences such as the weather. The count seemed attentive to everything the English said, but he, and his nephew too, equally offered insights into a society so distant from that of Britain. Samuel, however, was constantly noting similarities between the two countries and Isaac had to conclude however different people might appear, there were core assumptions, and certainly aspirations, that they shared. Perhaps, with age, he would become as alert to these aspects as his father clearly had.
“Thomas! Thomas!” A voice called and a young man came into view, breaking up the conversation for the first time in many tens of minutes.
“Jacob, what is it?”
“It’s his lordship. He’s not well.” Jacob explained.
He took Goddard aside and spoke to his ear, though Isaac could still hear what he said.
“He’s drunk too much. Sir Reginald’s trying to get him to go to his steam carriage, but they’re finding it difficult. One of the men serving at the reception was sent to find me but I can’t lift him.”
“Alright, run back and tell them I am on my way.”
Jacob did what he was told.
“I am sorry, gentlemen, and Mrs. Waddington, erm, my, well, my pilot needs me. Sorry to break up this pleasant evening. I trust we will meet again tomorrow.”
The Japanese bowed and the Waddingtons took turns to shake Goddard’s hand. He collected another man from further up the marquee and in less than a minute they were gone. Isaac took out his pocket watch and was stunned to find it was approaching ten o’clock.
Samuel now seemed to have noted the lateness of the hour too. “I think it is time to retire. Mr. Otomo, gentlemen, thank you for a wonderful evening. We look forward to seeing you at the race tomorrow.”
The Japanese rose as one and formally bowed. The Waddingtons did their version in return. They received a hearty farewell from Burke on their way back through the pub but were soon out in the street. No-one could claim that there was a festival atmosphere in the street now, but there were certainly a lot of people about and he imagined that the activity in Princes Risborough was far greater than would usually be the case for a Tuesday evening. It was in good spirits, chatting about things both Goddard and the Japanese had raised, that the Waddington trio strolled back towards their tents.
“I think we’ve gone too far.” Ernestine said some minutes later.
“Perhaps.” Samuel conceded.
Isaac realised that their conversation had been so lively and distracting that they could easily have walked on to Aylesbury without really noticing. The town was unfamiliar to them and it was harder to find the way back to the camping field that it had proven coming out.
“That is the civic hall.” Ernestine said, pointing the building, that now she had indicated it, Isaac found he recognised.
Isaac was about to speak when a retching noise cut through the night air. He looked in the direction of the sound. In the dim light shining from the hall porch he made out two tall figures and quickly identified one as that of Thomas Goddard. He had his arm around another man, who, as he finished vomiting and straightened, Isaac saw was Henry Mordaunt. He looked older than Isaac would have imagined him to be, but the sandy hair and the distinctive goatee, reminiscent of an American military man, suggested that this was indeed the twice winner of the Peters Hill race.
“Are you finished, sir?”
“Tom, Tom, Tom.” Mordaunt replied in a sing-song voice.
It was quickly apparent to Isaac that the aristocrat was only being kept upright by Goddard. Then a private steam carriage, dark and without markings, but lit by oil headlamps, pulled up alongside the two men. As the driver switched on what seemed to be a small, fixed Burr & Scott light inside, Isaac could see that Jacob was the driver. The vehicle obscured Goddard and his employer from view, but from the voices, a third joined it, it seemed that Goddard and this other man were manoeuvring Mordaunt inside the steam carriage. Then, almost as quickly as it had arrived, the vehicle left, going the way the Waddingtons had just come. The three of them watched the red rear oil lamps fade from view.
“I pity Mr. Goddard.” Ernestine said.
“The peril of alcohol.” Samuel added.
Isaac said nothing but wondered how well the pilot of the ‘Avalon’ was going to perform the next day. There were, however, fifteen hours until the race begun and Mordaunt’s vehicle would be the last to set off, a further three-and-a-half hours after that, so it seemed time enough for him to sober up.
Having retraced their steps and found one of the special constables on patrol who was happy to guide them, the Waddingtons were able to get back to their tents despite the low lighting along the roads. The temporary police officer seemed excited to be in a position to help. Isaac wondered what the man did when not volunteering to increase the ranks of the small force. From the look of him he could work in a shop as an assistant and Isaac imagined the status and even the power the ill-fitting uniform he wore gave him, was a pleasant change from the usual demands made upon him by his boss and the customers. The man appeared to believe that there would be some ‘trouble’ as a result of the drinking, but Isaac felt, from what they had seen, that this was a strange form of wishful thinking on the man’s part. In a town of this size, he recognised, ‘incidents’ especially ones in which this man could play a beneficial role, were few and far between and consequently he was eager for something to occur that would permit him to prove his mettle.
The camping field was dark too. The watchmen had lights burning and a few hung from the tents, but Isaac felt now, more than ever, the contrast between the rural scene here and what he might see in the streets of Whitby at this time of night. Of course, behind his home town the countryside was moorland with an intense rural character that was far more muted here. As a vixen yelped in the distance, however, Isaac wondered if he would be disturbed by country noises and be unable to sleep. He imagined the volume would be far less than that caused by scores of families living side-by-side but he was concerned now that the unfamiliar calls of foxes, hedgehogs, badgers and birds would keep him awake throughout the night. He bid his father farewell and hesitated by the entrance to his tent while Ernestine went in and released herself from her boots and dress. Isaac followed soon after and struggled inside the tent not to trip over anything in the dark; fearful he would bring the whole structure down.
The camp beds were hardly substantial enough to allow him to sit on the edge to take off his boots without tipping it over so he ended slumped on the ground sheet. Then there was little room for manoeuvre as he tried take off his trousers and change into his nightgown. By the time his head reached the pillow, Ernestine was fast asleep. He lay for some moments listening to her breath, drinking in her unique aroma. Outside he heard voices of men, presumably auxiliaries returning to their own accommodation. Inside the tent he felt surprisingly protected from them and their noise. That snugness reassured him that, whilst this place was very different from the bedroom he and Ernestine shared at home, it could be comfortable enough. His efforts that day, the fresh air he had breathed, a hearty meal and ale all added to the weariness that was encroaching upon him. As he reflected on these facts Isaac felt reassured; his tense muscles seemed to unknot and he could feel himself sliding to sleep.
“There’s someone there.”
The words sounded urgent but almost spectral as they woke Isaac. It took him some moments to remember where he was and a few more to recognise his father’s voice.
“Isaac, stir yourself.” Samuel said quickly.
Isaac threw back the heavy covers and clambered from his bed. He reached for his canvas coat and slipped it on over his nightgown. Quickly he located his boots and slipped his feet in their soft night socks inside them. In less than a minute he was at the entrance of the tent where his father’s seemingly disembodied face was pressed in through the entrance slip.
“Father, what is it?” Isaac asked, his voice only a little hushed.
“There are men tampering with the ‘Walker’.”
For an instant Isaac thought to dismiss his father’s statement but, knowing how wakeful the older man was ,combined with the reaction they had received at the reception, it seemed far from impossible that someone, probably local men, would be attracted to damaging the pedestrian. Isaac unclipped the entrance to the tent and stepped out, buffeting his father backwards before turning to close it, not wanting Ernestine to be disturbed by a draught or noises.
Now he was outside he could hear that Samuel was correct. It was clear that there were men the other side of the hurdle and then a beam of light, shredded through the cracks in the fence briefly shone across them. Of course, they might have been seeking to damage any of the mechanised pedestrians for one reason or another. One reason why the crews slept apart from the paddock was the concern that if they were housed alongside their machines some might be too tempted to interfere with their rivals’ vehicles at night. This fear had no doubt been initially raised by the cavalier manner of many of the early racers.
“Can we lift the fence up? Get through and stop them?” Isaac asked urgently.
“I doubt it needs anything so drastic and we must be careful that no-one gains the impression that we were improperly in the paddock during the hours of darkness. No, you run to the watchman and alert him. Say you have seen a light. For myself I am going to light my own Burr & Scott and hope that when they see the beam from my torch they will take fright.”
As Isaac ran best he could in his combination of day and night wear, he wondered if he would have a sympathetic hearing from the watchman. His mind conjured thoughts of the men set to guard the mechanised pedestrians also being commanded by some official or even the mayor himself to turn their eyes away while the machine-wreckers were at work. Within a couple of minutes Isaac was out of the camping field and along the road to the paddock. At the gate stood a small canvas hut at the mouth of which stood a iron-cased charcoal fire.
“Erm, watchman.” Isaac said in a normal tone as he slowed from his awkward run.
“Er, er, yes? Yes?” The man rose from his seat in the entrance of a hut and turned a small lamp on Isaac.
Isaac imagined he had caught the man asleep, but he had no desire to embarrass him.
“It’s Mr. Waddington; the ‘Whitby Walker’. There are men in the paddock, with a lamp. We can hear them through the fence. Not watchmen, erm, machine breakers.”
“Right, yes, really?” It appeared as if the watchman was processing Isaac’s statement and seeking any flaws or deception in it. However, despite this initial hesitation he then responded with assurance. “I’ll look. You had better wait here. Which side are they on?”
“As you look up the paddock, to the left; about half-way down the field.”
“Right, right good.”
The man said, despite his eagerness seeming to Isaac, sounding still rather dopey. However, he lifted a whistle to his lips and let out a sharp note followed by three shorter ones. Isaac had no idea if this was a simple alarm or communicated something more complex. In fact he realised he had no idea how many watchmen were around the paddock. Then a beam of light appeared, piercing the darkness and he saw that it was up in the air, he guessed on a platform in one of the trees that edged the far side of the paddock. The beam was narrow but powerful, clearly electric and, for a moment, Isaac was curious as to how it was worked. He guessed large power cells sat at the foot of the tree or perhaps to reduce the loss in power, had been installed among the branches itself.
The watchman unlocked the gate behind him. It was lower than the hurdles and Isaac imagined that it served simply as a farm gate when this was a farmer’s field rather than a race paddock; though as he thought about it, he remembered the hard surface beneath the grass and wondered what agricultural use the field could be put to. Isaac’s thoughts were distracted as he made out the running feet sounding as a dull thud as they went across the thick grass. It seemed that his suspicions regarding collusion between the watchmen and the saboteurs had been mistaken as all appeared to be active in trying to catch the intruders and he did not feel it was a pretence. Shouts and whistles went up from around the paddock and he could make no sense of where anyone, watchmen or breakers were.
With the beam of light and the running men, Isaac imagined that everyone among those camping in the next field would be awakened, perhaps residents of the town too. His fear was now that it would be revealed he and Samuel had been mistaken and that they had simply seen one or a couple of the watchmen. Such an outcome would be embarrassing, but he knew it was better to raise the alarm than allow their pedestrian or any other to be damaged. He kept reminding himself that he had seen the men and they had been active in the location of his pedestrian and that any interference with the vehicle would verify his concerns. He just hoped the saboteurs had fled before they could inflict serious damage.
Isaac stood apprehensively wishing there was something more that they could do. However, he recognised that his intervention would simply add more men into the chaos and, knowing the prejudice the Waddingtons, had faced, there seemed a good chance that if he plunged into the paddock, he would be the one apprehended on suspicion of machine breaking.
“Son.” Samuel said as he walked up, his flashlight grasped before him as someone might hold a pistol.
Looking over at his father in the light cast by the lamp hanging from the sentry hut, as he came to stand by him, Isaac guessed Samuel’s mind was running through the same kind of thoughts. Samuel was now staring intently into the occasionally lit darkness of the paddock, watching every motion of the lights out there apparently trying to divine what was happening.
“Who do you think they are?” Isaac asked not least in an attempt to distract his father.
“I do not know.” Samuel’s intense gaze did not waver as he responded. “I cannot believe it is a rival crew or their auxiliaries. I can think it is only mischief makers; probably local youths.”
Isaac hoped his father was right. Men lacking the knowledge of the workings of a mechanised pedestrian would not be in a strong position to do it severe harm; rivals, however, would know all the most vulnerable points. For a few moments Isaac wondered if this incident was somehow connected with gambling. Betting on the outcome of the race was entirely illegal but it was rumoured that that did not stop some among the criminally minded from exploiting the excitement around the competition and the rivalry between partisans backing different crews, for financial gain. Whilst Isaac had no truck with gambling, as he reflected on what was happening, it seemed increasingly illogical that those connected with gambling of all the pedestrians present would choose to damage the ‘Whitby Walker’. It made sense, as in horse racing, to harm the one favoured to win, but the Waddingtons and their machine were unknown, and it seemed unlikely that anyone would back them with a bet. The more he pondered it, the more Samuel’s explanation made sense. However, Isaac found he could not shake the concern that the sabotage was connected with what had unfolded in the registration tent the previous afternoon and that someone was bent on preventing a crew of working people, with a woman amongst its ranks, no less, from competing.
Isaac was uncertain how much time has passed, perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, before the watchman returned. He was breathless and even in the weak light of his torch it was apparent he had spared no effort in pursuing something.
“They got away.” The watchman said at length. “I left a couple of the others up the other end of the paddock, but I imagine the intruders have scarpered. From what I could see from my torch there was no damage, certainly nothing serious; they’ve not hacked off a leg or anything.”
Isaac understood that the man’s last statement showed he was no engineer. The greatest harm would come not from mutilating the ‘Whitby Walker’ something that would have taken tools and much time. No, it would have come from slicing into pipes or introducing particular reagents into the engine or perhaps some ingredient which counteracted the lubrication of the pedestrian’s legs. There was no point checking for this small scale but severe damage now. It would be difficult to see in the dark and there was nothing could do to rectify such harm now. In fact, they might be unable to do it in daylight, but they would not be able to make an accurate judgement then. Isaac just offered a silent prayer that the men had been disturbed before they could do any kind of damage.
“Thank you, erm…” Samuel prompted.
“Mander, Ronald Mander.”
“Thank you Mr. Mander.”
“Just my duty.”
The two Waddingtons returned to their tent without speaking. Isaac wondered what was going through his father’s head; he imagined the calculations he was making were the same that Isaac had been doing back at the paddock. However, as they reached their tents, he found his father was not plagued with such worries.
“Sleep well, son, it is in the hands of the Lord.”
“Yes, father, yes it is. Sleep well.”
As Isaac threw off his outdoor clothes and pulled himself beneath the blankets, he chided himself for not being borne up by his faith the way his father was. Perhaps he felt that, too often, ordinary men, let alone more powerful ones, were able to subvert what would seem to be God’s will. Despite his mind struggling to find the reassurance that was clearly already comforting Samuel, sleep took Isaac again.
Notes
• The Otomo clan were based in the Bungo province which in 1871 became the Oita Prefecture. I selected the name Otomo as reference to the director of the steampunk movie, ‘Steamboy’ (2004), Katsushiro Otomo.
• The ‘Bird in Hand’ is an actual old pub in Station Road, Princes Risborough. In our world in the 1870s it was in a distinct area of the town called Parkfield, but in this steampunk story the town has grown more rapidly absorbing these distinct areas.
• Temperance, i.e. the abstention from alcoholic drinks, had many adherents in Britain in the 19th century. It began with Joseph Livesey’s Temperance Movement established in 1832. Christians particularly Non-Conformists such as Baptists, Congregationalists, Quakers and the Salvation Army were often supporters of temperance campaigns. A number of groups arose including British Association for the Promotion of Temperance (established 1835), The Band of Hope (1847), United Kingdom Alliance (established 1852; still in existence after name changes); the Catholic, League of the Cross (1873), the British Women's Temperance Association (1876) and the National Temperance Federation (1884). These groups conducted public campaigns against drinking and to promote anti-alcohol legislation. Alcohol abuse was seen as leading to violence and the mistreatment of women and children. From the start members of these groups were encouraged to sign a pledge of total abstinence from alcohol. It would be unsurprising that Samuel Waddington as a serious man and a Methodist had taken the pledge.
• In the Victorian era members of the public could pay to have specially chartered trains run just for them. In the Sherlock Holmes story, ‘The Adventure of the Final Problem’ (1893), Professor Moriarty charters a special train to try to catch up with Holmes. It is still possible to charter such trains on parts of the British railway system.
• The Kaikin (later termed Sakoku) policy of the Shogun Tokugawa Iemitsu, established 1633-9, closed off Japan from the rest of the world. This was in response to the involvement of Portuguese, Spanish and Dutch missionaries and traders who had involved themselves with different Japanese factions in the 16th and early 17th centuries. Any Japanese travelling overseas was forbidden to return on pain of death and foreign literature and people were barred from entering the country. The only exception was the Dutch trading post (often known in the 18th and 19th century as ‘factories’) on the island of Dejima close to Nagasaki. The policy was broken by the incursion of American Commodore Matthew Perry in 1853. Japanese embassies begain to be sent overseas from 1860 onwards but the Kaikin policy was not fully rescinded finally in 1868 when ordiary Japanese were officially permitted to leave the country for the first time in over 250 years. The Dutch factory was the only way information about Europe reached Japan and those wishing to read about it had to learn Dutch. Doing so during the Kaikin period ran a risk of punishment.
• Antwerp is a key commercial port of Belgium; Rotteram of the Netherlands. Zeebrugge in our world is the main naval base of the Belgian navy; Den Helder the main naval base of the Dutch navy. In this alternate world all these places are in the United Netherlands.
• A younger son of an earl is known as The Honorable John Smith, in the way shown with Henry Mordaunt in the prologue . When addressed he is simply called ‘sir’ or Mr. Smith. The eldest son of an earl usually has a courtesy title, one of the earls viscounties or baronies and is referred to as Lord Exeter or whatever the viscounty/barony is and in speech as that or‘My Lord’.
• In the 18th century the 3rd Earl of Peterborough (1658-1735) owned a house in Parsons Green in West London and had another at Bevis Mount near Southampton in South Hampshire. This earl may have married the singer Anastasia Robinson, a Roman Catholic, which, if true would have made it the first marriage between a peer and an entertainer. In this story I have assumed that the descendants of the 3rd Earl have kept these properties. The Mordaunts had originated in Bedfordshire and had received the Drayton estate in neighbouring Northamptonshire in the 15th century, but Lady Mary Mordaunt who inherited this estate divorced her husband the Duke of Norfolk and left the estate to her former lover and second husband, Sir John Germain, when she died in 1705 and it passed into his family.
• A barker was a man employed at fairground sideshows that shouted out what could be seen inside them in order to attract customers. The closest modern equivalent are people employed by bars in holiday resorts to attract customers by publicising special drink offers.
• Winchester College is an English ‘public school’, i.e. an independent, elite, fee-paying, secondary school, founded in 1382. It is considered to be one of the nine schools termed ‘public school’ though these days the definition has widened to include any school whose headteacher is a member of the Headmasters' and Headmistresses' Conference (HMC), all of which are high status, fee-paying schools. New College, Oxford is one of the colleges of the University of Oxford, which, like Winchester College was founded by William of Wykeham, Bishop of Winchester, in 1379. The public school was seen as a ‘feeder’ to the university college.
• The first flashlight, intended initially as a portable lamp inside houses was invented by British inventors Ebenezer Burr and William Thomas Scott in 1881. Ones for use by miners and for bicycles were developed in 1883. In this steampunk world these two men, who it is surprisingly difficult to find out information about, developed their torch a few years earlier and Samuel Waddington has been an early purchaser.
Catch Me Who Can: Part 1 - Steampunk Novella
This story was inspired by me going to the Brooklands race track in Surrey a few years ago. The track was the leading venue for motor-racing in Britain 1910-25. What I had not been aware of, previous to my visit, was that there was a hill-climb track at Brooklands too. This was for cars to race against the clock climbing a steep rise. Exploring this type of racing further I came across the Kop Hill races in Buckinghamshire and a number of similar motor races in continental Europe in the early part of the 20th century. This information planted the seeds of an idea about a steampunk version of such races.
The focus of this story is a motor race, but once the characters began to develop I found that a whole host of issues about gender, social class and religion came into play. I hope readers feel that they add depth to the story and enable it to explore a central topic in steampunk writing around the impact on people of technological advance.
There are Notes sections at the end of each Part of this story which outline where in this story I have adhered to and where I have diverged from, history as it turned out in our world.
The focus of this story is a motor race, but once the characters began to develop I found that a whole host of issues about gender, social class and religion came into play. I hope readers feel that they add depth to the story and enable it to explore a central topic in steampunk writing around the impact on people of technological advance.
There are Notes sections at the end of each Part of this story which outline where in this story I have adhered to and where I have diverged from, history as it turned out in our world.
Catch Me Who Can
PrologueFrom the ‘Bucks Herald’, Saturday 1st September 1877
“Preparations are reaching their final stage for the twelfth annual Mechanised Pedestrian Hill Climb Race held near Princes Risborough this coming Wednesday. The event, which has been attracting a growing number of spectators each year, sees competitors race their walking vehicles up Peters Hill. The road climbing the hill runs for five furlongs with a one-in-five gradient rising to one-in-four just before the summit.
The victor for the past two years has been the Honourable Henry Mordaunt, second son of the Earl of Peterborough riding his bipedal climber, ‘Avalon’. Seeking to reclaim the title he won in 1874, is John, 3rd Baron Stowell, who will be racing again in his six-legged vehicle, ‘Conqueror’. This year sees a strong field with a total of seven crews having entered the competition.
Crowds exceeding five thousand in number are expected to line the route of the climb. Consequently, an official representative for Chief Constable Captain Tyrwhitt-Drake, has told our correspondent that, in addition to calling on the Buckingham and Chepping Wycombe borough constabularies, following discussions with neighbouring chief constables, as well as marshalling sixty special constables raised locally, he again anticipates that he will call upon officers from the Northamptonshire and Oxfordshire constabularies too.
Chairman of the Mechanised Pedestrian Operators’ Society and Buckinghamshire resident, Sir Reginald Baxter, told our correspondent that he anticipated a wonderful day’s racing at Princes Risborough, one of the longest-established events in the Society’s programme. He invited people of all classes to spectate at suitable times, noting that with the event held on a Wednesday local shopkeepers would be able to attend due to the half-day closing. The first competitor will begin their climb at 1pm with subsequent vehicles embarking at half-hourly intervals. With the climb taking approximately twenty minutes, it is estimated that the final team will complete the race by 4.30pm at the latest. On the evening preceding the race a dinner reception for the competitors will be hosted by the mayor will be held at the Princes Risborough civic hall which was completed at the end of last year.”
Part One
“That must be it.” Isaac Waddington bellowed over the sound of the traction engine’s motor as they crested the hill.
Below them, in the lee of this last bank of the Chilterns, lay what looked like a hundred other villages they had passed in their journey South since leaving Whitby that morning.
“That means we’ve kept averaging twenty-nine all the way.” The vehicle’s driver, Albert Jowett, responded proudly, gesturing to the indicator that showed that they were currently exceeding thirty-two miles per hour.
“Father, it’s Princes Risborough.” Isaac said waving the map he held, back to where his wife, Ernestine, ‘Ernie’ to her beloved and his father, Samuel sat.
Ernestine had just turned twenty-two and was a few months younger than Isaac. She was over 5 feet 7 inches, tall for a woman, just two inches shorter than Isaac. She had a slender build and a pale complexion brightened by freckles. Her hair was a dark shade of red, something she jokingly attributed to some imagined Viking ancestors who had settled in North Yorkshire. Her eyes were a dark shade of blue, but, to Isaac, they always seemed to sparkle.
Samuel, now a little stooped, was about the height of Ernestine. His dark brown hair, that matched Isaac’s in colour, was now touched with grey. This, alongside the broad moustache he wore was the main feature distinguishing him from his son. He had a long face; his cheeks seemed to hang from strong cheek bones and his jaw was square. Isaac’s features were similar but not so pronounced, presumably moderated by his mother’s more round visage.
Samuel was a slender man, though in common with his son, this concealed the muscle the men had worked up over the years hammering and hefting equipment. He was now forty-three and a working life was already beginning to tell on him. Isaac knew many working men never saw their fiftieth birthday but hoped that the fact that his father was now Deputy Chief Engineer for Elwick & Sadler’s would mean he would be spared such burdensome work in the future and thus he would live longer, much longer. He hoped too that his father would fulfil his ambition of rising to Chief Engineer when Arthur Grayson retired next year. Isaac did worry at how much work Samuel had put into the ‘Whitby Walker’ in the evenings, but had been witness to how much the project had enthused his father. Isaac was sure that if his father had been denied the opportunity of racing the mechanised pedestrian he would not be as energetic as he remained today.
At the call from his son, Samuel Waddington smiled and raised his hand to acknowledge the message. Though he had been seated behind the engine’s cab for the past hour, Isaac could see that the older man’s enthusiasm was undimmed. He knew his father had travelled much in his youth, but as long as Isaac could remember he had not set foot outside Yorkshire and, even then, York itself, not fifty miles from Whitby, had been his usual limit. Today they had covered five times that distance. With a break for luncheon and to take on additional coal and water, the journey had taken them nine hours.
They had embarked in darkness at five o’clock, almost two hours before sunrise, with the engine’s large oil lamp blazing. This meant that it was had now only just passed two o’clock and they were approaching their destination. Isaac was pleased as it dismissed what his imagination had conjured up: a scene of them stranded on some unknown road and arriving too late, even the following day, to register. Of course, anyone aware of the history of this race knew that some competitors only reached Princes Risborough with a few hours to spare. For his first appearance in 1872, Henry Mordaunt himself had arrived only three hours before the time allotted to him to race. That knowledge, however, had done little to suppress Isaac’s fears and certainly not to the extent that actually seeing Princes Risborough was doing now. Samuel came and stood beside his son and Isaac felt as if his father’s excitement was resonating from him.
As Jowett pressed on the brake lever to slow the progress of his vehicle, the ‘Captain Cook’, and stop it hurtling down the hill into the town, Isaac cast a quick eye down to the firebox. His job here as it would be on the ‘Whitby Walker’ tomorrow, was as the combustioneer. This was the term given to those who, in this modern age, oversaw the powering of the engine, no matter how that was achieved. The ‘Cook’ with its firebox and lateral boiler would not have seemed unusual even to George Stephenson, but Isaac guessed with a long journey such as the one they had undertaken today, it was best to keep to tried and tested technology and leave the innovation to the race over just five furlongs tomorrow.
While Isaac concerned himself with shovelling coal and the burning of the fire, Samuel’s focus was clearly on the way they had to take down into and through the town. They were soon entering the streets of Princes Risborough itself. Excited children ran alongside the ‘Cook’; curious adults gazed on from the roadside. Bunting was strung along the street and a banner, hoisted on poles so to be clear of any tall engine chimneys, welcomed visitors to the competition. Having passed through so many workaday towns and seemingly dormant villages Isaac felt it was nice to have at least some sense of a festival atmosphere.
“Time to turn.” Jowett shouted as he released the brakes fully and began to spin the steering wheel so they could turn the right angle to head back out of the town.
Even without the wooden signposts directing competitors to the field to the East of the town where they were to register, Isaac guessed they could have told which route to take. They were not the first traction engine to have come down this road and the tracks of their rubber-soled wheels were visible. However, as they began the slow turn, over in the town he could see that not all had come this way. To the South, where he guessed the railway station stood, it looked like a train-mounted crane was lifting a vehicle presumably up from the flatbed wagon it had been brought upon. For a small market town Princes Risborough was well connected with another railway connection coming here four years earlier it formed an important point for trains heading from North-West London for the West Country or into the western Midlands.
“That must be Count Otomo’s ‘Tsuru’; I saw a collodion-calotype of it in ‘The Engineer’ last month.” The sound of Ernestine’s voice came to Isaac’s ear.
It took a short while for them to come clear of the town but as they did with the vehicle lifted to the full vertical and with cloud shading the Sun for a moment Isaac could see his wife was right. Not only was the vehicle emblazoned with the red circle banner and another that looked like a flower design, a strip of swirling Japanese script ran down the pedestrian’s narrow gondola confirmed its origins. Next to the text, in English, was the word ‘Crane’; it seemed apt for this slender vehicle. Isaac estimated that its legs were a little over six feet tall but the gondola sat lower, suspended between them. Shorter in overall height than the ‘Whitby Walker’ and clearly narrower Isaac was curious to see how fast it would move and with what degree of balance. For the first time, excitement at mixing with men who had put as much into their legged vehicles as himself caught Isaac and chased away the last of his worries. He wondered how long it had taken the Japanese to bring their vehicle here; it made the journey from Whitby seem just a jaunt.
Soon they were well clear of the houses and ahead of them lay the field where the mechanised pedestrians would be held before they would race, one-by-one, against the clock, up the climb. Peters Hill stood three hundred feet above them, as if shouting a challenge to those who sought to climb it whether by foot or in any kind of vehicle. Isaac knew that probably fewer than seven in ten of the mechanised pedestrians entered into the race had ever reached the summit. The 1867 race had famously had to be abandoned entirely when heavy rain had made the road too hazardous. In 1869 the pilot of the ‘Indomitable’, Edward Hawkins, had been injured forcing him to withdraw when the boiler had ruptured sending bolts flying into the pedestrian’s gondola. The following year, the fire on board Spencer Blackmore’s ‘Mary Rose’ had failed and he had been stranded, simply watching subsequent competitors pass him until the race had finished and his auxiliary men could come and retrieve the vehicle. Even then it had needed to local farmers’ traction engines to unceremoniously drag it from the course. In the early years, some vehicles had not been fit for the climb at all and the name ‘Behemoth’ had almost become a term of insult from the time, nine years before, when Sir Andrew Foulis’s pedestrian of that name had proven incapable of even proceeding more than thirty yards up the slope. Isaac heard that no-one at the race spoke of the death of Jonathan Murray, the combustioneer of the ‘Victor II’, killed when the vehicle had toppled on its first occasion in the race in 1874. However, all competitors would pass the location of his death with bare head and with no orders being shouted.
As they came to the field that served as the paddock, marshals, identified by the calico armbands they wore, opened the gate. Samuel had readied his documentation proving he was a legitimate entrant for the race but it quickly became apparent that pulling a wagon with a large pedestrian vehicle aboard was proof enough. Jowett looked a little apprehensive as they turned into the field and marshals directed them to the area identified by a large ‘6’. Isaac knew that he feared the ‘Cook’ floundering on soft soil, but as they progressed, Isaac could see that, despite the grass covering, what lay below was a bolstered with hardcore. The road running the length of the field, though green was as good as any other they had traversed in travelling here. Ahead of them stood the vehicles and tents of other competitors and at the far end of the paddock, a large marquee that Isaac assumed was where the officials resided. His gaze jumped from vehicle to vehicle. Smoke and steam rose up over the field making it appear like a ship yard rather than a meadow outside a rural market town. He imagined that the noise itself would be industrial but for now he could not tell above the sound of the engine of the ‘Captain Cook’ powering on just an arm’s reach away. Some yards on he saw the ‘Conqueror’ in pitch No. 2. It seemed to resemble a dark green beetle sat there with its engineers crawling over it like ants.
Samuel jumped down from the traction engine even before Albert had applied the brakes. There was a great deal to do. Not only had the ‘Walker’ to be taken from its trailer, they had to set up their tents to accommodate them over night. The Waddingtons also had to register formally. As Isaac looked around he could see that the Japanese were the only competitors yet to arrive. The field was large enough to accommodate many more pedestrians than would be here for this year’s race; the largest number of entrants in a single year had peaked at fifteen for the tenth anniversary event. Albert turned the ‘Cook’ so that he could drive it out again after he had removed the pedestrian from the trailer. He was to spend that night at his sister’s house in Kilburn, less than forty miles from Princes Risborough, close enough to mean he could return in good time for the race the next afternoon. He shut off the engine and Isaac shuddered at the sudden change in volume. His hearing seemed to yearn to have the constant whirr and chuffing of the ‘Cook’ restored. A little disorientated, Isaac stepped down from the engine and offered a hand to Ernestine only to see her jump down beside him.
“You folks had better go and register. I will get the ‘Walker’ ready for lowering off the trailer, but I’ll not start that until you are back.”
“Certainly, Albert.” Samuel responded, though his eyes were already scanning across the paddock.
“We had better dress for the occasion.” Ernestine said, walking briskly to the trunk lashed to the rear of the cab of the ‘Cook’.
“Yes, yes, that’s right. They will want to make a collodion-calotype and we do not want to appear as if our shift has just ended.” Samuel said with an uncharacteristic lightness and glanced at his face reflected in the traction engine’s brass fittings.
Quickly Ernestine fetched out the long thick canvas coats that had been produced for them by an old sailmaker from Staithes and his wife. She tucked her hair, in its usual bob, into the cap her mother and elder sister had made, then came over to help her husband and father-in-law into their outfits. As Isaac pulled on the thick gauntlets, revived by his mother from an old pair thrown out by the works, he felt a little foolish in all this garb. However, seeing Ernestine and Samuel quickly dressed the same, he could appreciate that this type of uniform, if a little ostentatious, was very suited to racing. He knew that once they were underway in the ‘Whitby Walker’ the following day it would offer the right level of protection from soot and rogue sparks. He did pray, though, he that the rain held off and that, conversely, the day would not be too hot.
Ernestine tied a heavy linen scarf around Isaac’s neck and then did the same for Samuel. The following day these would be across their face. Finally she pulled out the small leather cases that held the precious goggles.
“Remember you have to wear them on your hat.”
Ernestine explained, apparently instructed by pictures she had seen in ‘The Engineer’. She demonstrated, pulling the goggles on over her cap so they sat on its peak. Isaac did likewise. Samuel muttered something about them being far better around his neck, but complied with Ernestine’s directions. Of course, when they had been working with the ‘Walker’ it had been shirt sleeves during the summer and old overalls in the colder months. Facing North into the North Sea, Whitby could be battered by bitter winds and hail. Here, however, things were different and while Samuel, like Isaac, might think it rather smacked of play-acting, but Isaac was sure his father knew that it was in their interest to show that working men could appear both practically dressed and yet smart at the same time. As a clean engine indicated attention to its working, Isaac’s mother, Dora, noted that the same applied to men.
“And your faces, it’ll not do to be photographed with soot from the ‘Cook’ all over them. Ernestine said as if she was speaking to two boys.
She went and fetched a flask of water from the cab of the traction engine and poured some on to a clean rag she had. She seemed ready to wipe the two men’s faces herself but yielded the rag to them. Samuel then Isaac took it. Isaac was surprised at how much dust and soot came off on to the cloth and was glad that his wife had thought ahead. Of course, she was right: it was traditional for the crews to have a collodion-calotype made once they had signed the registration documents. He had seen these images in the editions of the ‘The Mechanised Pedestrian Quarterly’.
Albert was busy unrolling the cables he would attach to the pedestrian but even he sensed that the moment had come. He stopped and smiled at the trio. “You might be from an illustration for a company advertising the clothing they can send you through the post.” He joked. “Very smart: you do Whitby proud.” He added quickly but, it was apparent, with sincerity.
“Thank you Albert, and none of us would be here to appear so if were not for your efforts.” Samuel went to Jowett and patted him on the shoulder; Isaac had the impression that it gave the traction engine owner a real feeling of pride.
“Well, be off with you. The sooner you are finished with all the paperwork the sooner you can come back to the engineering work, get the ‘Walker’ down and safe and then, well, take a look at the opposition.” Albert said, turning back to the cabling.
In fact they had a good view of the other mechanised pedestrians as they proceeded up the field to the official marquee at the far end. The order in which they would race would be determined by lot, all bar the previous year’s winner who would always go last. The consequence of this approach was that a wide path ran down the length of the paddock with the pedestrians in their allocated plots either side. With lots being drawn, by chance it might be that the crew of the ‘Conqueror’ would be selected to go first which, for any who could not match their speed would mean that they would know immediately, but for the crew itself it would be an unsettling time as they waited for the run of the ‘Avalon’. Isaac was undecided over whether it was better to go early in the race or be one of the later running vehicles.
Curious member of the public thronged along the hurdle fence at the foot of the field trying to see the vehicles through the cracks, but here inside there were probably no more than forty people at present. A couple of the pedestrians, presumably those of early arrivers, like the ‘Avalon’ itself, had only one or two men standing guard over them; two others, notably the local vehicle, the ‘Buckingham Prince’, were centres of activity.
Isaac cast his gaze up and down along the two lines of vehicles: he was looking for the ‘Hase’ from Hanover. Despite the name, which he had been told mean ‘hare’, it was a six-legged vehicle. It had come fourth the previous year and sixth in the field of fifteen competitors, the year before that.
“I don’t see the ‘Hase’.” Isaac noted to Ernestine.
“No, they raced at the Zirler Berg a fortnight ago. I imagine they had no time to be here for this race too.”
“The Zirler Berg?” Isaac asked.
He had become aware that through reading the more populist ‘The Engineer’ his wife was far better informed about the state of the pedestrian crews even if she knew less about the technical specifications of their vehicles or at least the speculations about them.
“Yes it’s near Innsbruck; in the Austro-Hungarian Empire. They had thirteen competitors this year, from across Europe. The climb is about as steep as here, but being in the Alps, it is longer: just under 15 furlongs.”
“They must carry a great deal of coal.”
“Yes, and unlike here it must all be aboard. I imagine their ‘hare’ is far larger than when it raced here. Of course, the vehicle that raced here last year was really the ‘Hase the Third’.”
“Do you think Zirler Berg will overshadow this race?”
“They are different races and there is nothing wrong with that. One has flat and steeplechase races in horse racing; some races which are five furlongs and some as long as 36 furlongs. Crowds are attracted to all kinds of horse racing, why should they not be drawn to all types of mechanised pedestrian race? In Britain, unless we begin to race in Snowdonia or the Munros, we are unlikely to ever see long hill-climb races. Those locations are far from towns and difficult for spectators to reach. Leave the long climbs to the Austrians and we shall have ones like Peters Hill.”
Isaac realised he had never seen mechanised pedestrian racing as a sport, more as a chance to make comparisons between different forms of engineering. However, he could understand the way his wife perceived it. Once, he imagined, races between horses had been simply to prove their quality or through a personal rivalry between different owners, and yet, it had grown into a sport at which now thousands of spectators would attend.
“Though the Hanoverians are absent, we still have one German representative.” Ernestine gestured to the quadruped that stood in plot No. 3. “It’s the ‘Grossherzog Karl Friedrich’. That’s the flag of the Grand Duchy of Baden.” The flag with the yellow-red-yellow horizontal bands hung limply in the breezeless air over the German pedestrian.
“Baden, that is in the South-West. It’s rural?”
“As much as anywhere is these days. There are some cities, like Mannheim; the crew is from Karlsruhe.”
“Do they speak English?”
“Well, a correspondent from ‘The Engineer’ interviewed them in June.”
Isaac bowled over to the German crew. “Good afternoon.” He called.
His voice halted the activity of the three men who were busy lubricating the joints of the forelegs of their pedestrian. In the early days of the race almost all the vehicles had had four legs as it was perceived that something resembling a horse was likely to outrun a mechanised pedestrian modelled on a man. Partly it was stylistic too and those early quadrupeds had often carried metal replicas of horses’ heads until it was realised that such decoration simply added unnecessary weight. The ‘Rowe Swift’, named after an actual horse, had won the first ever Peters Hill race and had come third the following year. Of course, as the legs had lengthened the vehicles had come to appear less and less like horses and more like walking boxes. Yet, there remained crews who felt the quadrupeds retained the stability lost by the bipeds and avoided the complexity of the hexapeds. If two engines were used they powered front and rear legs rather than one side and the other as was the case with six legs, which meant even if the engines became out of step the vehicle kept going forward rather than veering to the side.
“Erm, good day.” One of the men, tall, blond haired and with a heavy moustache responded.
“We are the Waddingtons, from the ‘Whitby Walker’.”
“Ah, yes, welcome. I am Adelric, this is Leonhard and Diedrich.” His use of first names signalled that he was one engineer who saw a natural brotherhood between those of his kind.
“Adelric Kerner, you’re the Operator.” Ernestine said excitedly.
“Yes, yes, I am.”
“Is it fast?” Samuel asked looking beyond the man to the machine.
Kerner laughed. “Yes and steady. In the German Confederation, you know bipeds, well they are not so developed, but we run the best four-legged mechanised pedestrians in Europe. We give the American newcomers a good race. It seems right to the Burggraf that we ride something closest to a horse, as his ancestors did.”
“The Burggraf?” Isaac asked.
“Burggraf Heinrich von Pforzheim, he’s the Pilot, something like an earl.” Ernestine explained. “So, no difference with the Germans, working men operating the lord of the manor’s machine?”
“Now you’re sounding like some kind of radical, Ernie.” Samuel chided, clearly rather embarrassed.
“My brother is Ritter, a knight, so with us it is the nobles and the nobles.” Kerner said lightly.
“Well, it is very good to meet you, Mr. Kerner; welcome to Britain.” Samuel said briskly.
“Thank you Mr. Waddington, I wish you all the best of luck with your vehicle. Perhaps after the race I might ride in it, and of course, you are welcome to travel in ‘Karl Friedrich’.”
“Thank you, we would be delighted.” Isaac added.
“Yes, yes, that would be fine. Thank you, Mr. Kerner for your gracious invitation.” Ernestine said a little contritely, clearly aware she had slightly overstepped the mark before.
None of them had ever travelled in any mechanised pedestrian bar the ‘Whitby Walker’ and there was little chance after tomorrow of them doing so for the foreseeable future. To mix with a German crew and to travel aboard their pedestrian was a singular opportunity and Isaac guessed his wife was gracious enough to see the value of the invitation and from Kerner’s manner that it was sincere.
“Well, we had better register.” Isaac said diplomatically. “We wish you the best for tomorrow.” He extended his hand.
Kerner took it and shook. Then, for a moment as Ernestine offered hers, it looked as if Kerner was going to kiss the back of it. However, clad as it was in a heavy gauntlet seemed to dissuade him and ultimately he gave it a hearty shake; then he did the same with Samuel. As they walked away from the Badener vehicle, they passed the ‘Conqueror’ to the right and the ‘Avalon’ to the left. Seeming to glower across the divide between them stood four sour-looking men, clearly on guard, two in front of each vehicle. The ornate body of the ‘Avalon’ with its striped canopy, brass and bronze body etched with swirling patterns and with ivory handles throughout, looked more like a pleasure vehicle than anything functional. The ‘Conqueror’, shorter and longer than its rival was not as frivolous, but close up Isaac could see the deep green bodywork of the pedestrian must have been repeatedly waxed and polished that morning.
Reflecting on the differences between these vehicles and their own Isaac wondered if being here Ernestine and indeed Samuel had become more aware of the differences between the different crews. He did not believe that they would ever hold radical views that called for a society led by the workers. Yet, it was more apparent than ever that the crew of the ‘Whitby Walker’ in consisting entirely of working people, with no-one from the gentry or nobility in charge, was different to previous crews. To some, he imagined, that fact was both significant and symbolic. Over the past two years Isaac had often thought about coming here and racing, but he realised now it had always been from his own perspective and occasionally from that of Samuel or Ernestine. He was coming to recognise, however, that for others, their presence here might also have meaning and raise serious issues for them of which he had never thought.
Having passed the ‘Avalon’ and the ‘Conqueror’, the Waddingtons walked into the registration marquee. To one side something resembling a photographer’s studio had been established. Isaac guessed that this would be for official collodion-calotype photographs of the crews and probably of the dignitaries and officials associated with the race. It seemed curious to him that his image, or at least that of the ‘Whitby Walker’ might appear in the next edition of the Quarterly. Whilst he had not discussed it with either his father or his wife, Isaac was increasingly certain that they would not be the winners; a crew racing in this competition for the first time had not won the race in a decade. Samuel, he knew, however, was convinced not only of the superiority of the design of their vehicle but that their victory would be righteous; that it was proper that men for whom engineering provided a living should triumph over those for whom it was no more than a pastime.
The entrance of the trio provoked a flurry of activity from the group of men seated at small tables close to the registration desk as if awaiting tea at a county fair. Isaac was slightly taken aback when he realised they were all journalists; that they had immediately recognised Isaac and the other Waddingtons and were calling their names in an attempt to gain attention to their particular question. Then he realised that if the Japanese were the only other crew yet to register, knowledge about who they were could have been gained by process of elimination. However the journalists had come by it, made no difference to the fact that he, Samuel and Ernestine were being plied with a range of questions that they had given no forethought to answering.
“Mr. Waddington, how does it feel to have reached Princes Risborough?” A journalist, whom Isaac imagined from his question worked for a local newspaper, thrust a hand-held disc-recorder at Samuel.
Isaac’s father halted his progress to the registration desk and stepped back a little to put distance between him and the men now grouped in a semi-circle around the three Waddingtons.
“Erm, thanks to God’s aid, er, it is very satisfying?”
“Do you hope to win the race?” Another journalist, with a London accent, asked.
“We will strive to do our best; erm, the decision over the outcome lies with the Lord.”
Isaac was not surprised at the nature of Samuel’s responses which were typical of the direct-speaking man, certain of his faith, that his father was. However, he guessed that they were not the type of answers the journalists were probably seeking.
“You have constructed a bipedal vehicle, Mr. Waddington: does it concern you that it sacrifices stability for speed?”
Isaac realised that he recognised the third man who asked this question as Richard Stoke, chief journalist of the Quarterly. Samuel had managed to persuade the public library in Scarborough to take the journal the previous year. He had travelled the sixteen miles from Whitby to the larger town every three months to read each edition as it was published. In addition, he had managed to buy the previous years’ special race editions direct from the Society at a cost of between 4d and 9d depending on their age; Isaac had found a copy of the 10th anniversary edition at a bookshop in Middlesbrough. Samuel and Isaac had pored over these in order to learn all they could about the Peters Hill race and the competitors.
“The victors the past two years have ridden in a bipedal vehicle.” Samuel noted, but then seemed to be at a loss as to what to add.
Isaac remembered the discussions they had had at the beginning of the project, now more than two years earlier. At the time Mordaunt had yet to win a race and Stowell had been victorious the previous year with the ‘Conqueror’. Of course, there had always been bipedal vehicles in the race from the very first year onwards, though, as Stoke’s question highlighted, in the early years they had often lacked stability. Henry Mordaunt’s first entry, ‘The Peterborough’, had toppled over having progressed little more than a furlong forcing the crew to jump clear. Ultimately it had been the paucity of their funds and the materials that were available to them that had encouraged Isaac and Samuel to construct a biped. Hexapeds needed so much more metal for the six legs and their gearing and typically a larger engine as well. These were luxuries the Waddingtons could ill-afford, certainly if they wanted to race before 1880.
From beside Isaac, Ernestine now came. “It is important for the advancement of mechanised pedestrians and what this branch of engineering provides to other aspects of mechanics that we have all varieties of vehicle entered in this race.” She now stepoped forward a little, speaking with a clear, confident voice.
For a moment the journalists were hesitant in switching their attention away from Samuel, but as Ernestine continued, one-by-one the disc-recorders were directed at her.
“Safety is of utmost importance and each occasion of this race has seen reduction in the risks of accidents for crews and spectators. This is right, and erm, this reflects the rightly maturing of the craft of mechanised pedestrian manufacture and operation.”
Ernestine grinned, clearly pleased with her statement. Not for the first time since their departure from Whitby Isaac was glad that his wife was with them, not simply as a camp follower but as a full part of the crew. More than that, he realised, Isaac felt a wave of pride, of joy, that this woman was his wife; she was exceptional in so many ways. It certainly seemed that the journalists were happy to have captured this fuller statement from the crew of the ‘Whitby Walker’ even if it had come from an unexpected quarter.
“Gentlemen, if you will now please excuse us, we are required to register. However, we shall be happy to speak with you again following tomorrow’s race, especially if we have won.” Ernestine said lightly, raising a couple of apparently well-intentioned chuckles.
The journalists took their dismissal with good grace and returned to their loitering, presumably awaiting the arrival of the Japanese contingent. Now Isaac, Samuel and Ernestine turned to the broad white sheet of paper that sat on the main table. Four men, dressed in the type of suit bank clerks favoured were sat there. Each sported the metal badge that declared them to be officials of the Mechanised Pedestrian Operators’ Society. Isaac assumed that the two sat behind the registration sheet administered the process and the other two monitored that everything proceeded in line with the regulations; not that Isaac could imagine what irregularities could really ensue.
Ernestine stepped to one side to allow her father-in-law to come forward. “Mr. Samuel Waddington; the ‘Whitby Walker’.” He announced proudly.
“Welcome, Mr. Waddington.” The man to the left, ruddy, with ginger hair and full sideburns said. “Would you please sign here or erm, make you mark.”
Samuel looked unsettled by that last remark; Isaac had always known him to be proud of his calligraphic skills and it seemed an insult that these rural men thought he might be illiterate. Apparently oblivious to Samuel’s reaction, the ruddy man pointed to the sheet where the names of the vehicles were set out. The ‘Whitby Walker’ was third on the list, Isaac guessed due to the order in which the various crews had made their initial application to race. The order in which the competitors would race with would be determined the next morning. He imagined this was to avoid a race number being allocated to a vehicle which, though entered, for whatever reason, never made it to Princes Risborough.
Isaac watched, feeling a thrill, as his father took the old fashioned pen from the small stand. Samuel was compelled to dip it into the inkpot, a gesture that looked very quaint. Isaac presumed this had been provided locally rather than by the Society, whom Isaac imagined would use the latest style of fountain pen. Samuel signed his name with a flourish before appending ‘- Pilot’ in line with those who had signed before.
Pedestrian crews for this competition could be of any size. However, the balance between the weight of additional crew members and the demands of operating a complex piece of machinery meant that the parameters were generally between two and six people. The rule introduced after the first year’s racing that no vehicle should be climbing without at least one competent engineer aboard at all times had effectively ended solo-manned machines, it was too much of a risk to face disqualification if an engineer needed to leave the gondola to make a repair. Three crew members, on the pattern the Waddingtons were using, was becoming typical, but variety had not been entirely eliminated as a glance at the registration sheet showed.
Some members of the Society and other commentators had argued that crews should be compelled to carry all the fuel and water they required for the whole race on board the pedestrian and that crew members be barred from leaving the vehicle during the race. However, there were strong points on both sides of the argument and the issue had not been resolved. For now coal and water could be brought in wheeled trailers behind, or as famously had been the case with the ‘Iron Adam’ in front of the pedestrian. Having a trailer reduced the weight on the actual vehicle and improve stability, especially in the case of bipeds. A crew member, usually the combustioneer, was permitted to ‘step down’ to bring aboard supplies. Isaac wondered what the regulations were for the longer races like the Zirler Berg and what impact it would have on the design of mechanised pedestrians for that race. He would ask Ernestine; perhaps ‘The Engineer’ had covered this aspect. Experience had taught crews at Peters Hill to package such resources in easy-to-handle parcels. Keeping up with a mechanised pedestrian was not yet a challenge for humans on foot, but shovelling coal or pumping water while colleagues tried to maintain a target speed was a different issue.
The division of labour between the different members of each pedestrian crew varied, but increasingly it was similar to how the Waddingtons had split up their work. As pilot, Samuel oversaw the running of the vehicle as a whole but his prime concern was in the steering and climbing. The pilot was the eyes of the pedestrian, looking out for any hazards on the road and adjusting the passage of the pedestrian accordingly. Setting the course on a biped like the ‘Whitby Walker’ meant controlling how far each leg thrust in turn and also the tension in the legs and the ‘hips’ of the pedestrian. As the incline altered, especially as at Peters Hill where it increased, the pilot would also often have to adjust the angle at which the gondola stood and, in some pedestrians, the angles of the feet or the legs themselves so that the greatest speed could be maintained and those riding in the pedestrian were not tipped out.
For the ‘Whitby Walker’ these adjustments were to be a particular challenge as Samuel felt angling the gondola downwards towards the road gave a better speed. This was the reverse of what usually occurred as a pedestrian climbed, with the front of gondola angling upwards. In test runs, the Waddingtons had also found that a more tense leg, seemingly less like a human’s could actually move them faster and their approach was to have more of the effort coming from the pedestrian’s hips so acting something like a man walking on two wooden legs. This bucked the trend of recent years in which the pedestrian engineers had sought to make the legs of their vehicles more and more like flexible natural human legs.
Ernestine’s role as operator, was to control the engine and the power it made available to the legs. Samuel regulated how much of that power was transmitted, but Ernestine had to make sure that there was enough there when he needed it. Her job was very much about monitoring, ensuring the temperature of the fire was not falling, that there was sufficient water in the system and the pressure was maintained. In some pedestrians there were two or more engines and so there would usually be more than one operator though typically one would lead and ensure the right balance between the different engines.
The combustioneer’s role that Isaac would fulfil, might have appeared the simplest: to shovel coal into the fire; keep it burning and ensure too, that there was as much water in the boiler as the operator required. However, some crews used different types of coal for different stages of the race. The combustioneer also needed to keep the operator informed about the speed of consumption so that the operator could adjust the engine accordingly as the vehicle lightened with more of the fuel being burned. A capable combustioneer could calculate consumption precisely so that the pedestrian would cross the finishing line with the last of its coal and water being used in the engine; the worst would leave the vehicle stranded on the hill as the operator battled to squeeze the last drops of power from the engine to the legs. Isaac was more than capable of fulfilling either the role taken by his father or by his wife, but of the three of them he possessed the greatest physical strength which meant that he could move coal faster than either of them.
Samuel handed the pen to his daughter-in-law. As with there being no regulation of the size or make-up of the crew neither was there of the names of the roles each member took. Originally all members had simply been ‘operators’ but quickly specialisation had crept in and the aristocratic racers had been eager to distinguish themselves from the other crew members accompanying them, especially when they tended to be drawn from among their servants. It had now become traditional that the pilot was seen as the commander; the operator, his second.
“Excuse me, miss, this registration is only for crew, not passengers.” The ruddy man said sharply.
Ernestine ignored the comment; signed her name and put ‘- Operator’ after it.
“I am sorry, but this is not acceptable: a woman as a crew member.” The second man behind the register, smaller, dark haired and with a full beard now joined in. “The regulations forbid it.”
“But Beatrice Napier travelled in her father’s pedestrian two years running.” Isaac interjected, quickly imagining now that there were probably different rules for a man like Sir Frederick Napier and one like Samuel.
“As a passenger.” The bearded man riposted.
“Nowhere in the regulations does it specify the age or the gender of crew members.” Ernestine said firmly; Isaac imagined that, unlike him, she had foreseen this challenge and had read the regulations carefully. “In fact, as they stand, an entirely female crew is permissible.”
The concept seemed to horrify the bearded man into silence. Ernestine, however, pulled a small green-covered book from the pocket of her canvas coat and thrust it forward, clearly intending to emphasise her point.
“The girl is right.” The third of the men behind the desk, tall, thin and white-haired now entered the discussion; he had his index finger wedged in his own copy of the regulations. “It refers to ‘engineer’ and ‘crew’; not even to ‘fireman’ but to ‘combustioneer’.”
The bearded man laughed. “But, of course, it means men. Who heard of a woman engineer?”
“You have.” Ernestine pointed to the application form the man had in front of him.
The bearded man flicked through and coming to the third one pulled out what Isaac recognised as their application form.
“There: Ernie Waddington, Operator, the ‘Whitby Walker’.”
“‘Ernie’, you see, this piece is even daring the masquerade as a man as she knew she was not permitted to actually be an operator.”
Now Isaac lunged forward, grasping the front of the desk. “Mr., er, you’ve not even deemed to reveal your name, but you, you shall apologise for referring to my wife as a ‘piece’. Your bring your Society into disrepute.”
Isaac spat out the words. He had to admit he was ambivalent himself about the part women should, could, play in engineering, seeing Ernestine as possibly an exception that proved the rule. However, the pride that he had felt around her involvement with the ‘Walker’ had stoked up his anger at this man’s sneering words. The bearded official stared back at Isaac in a challenging manner as if the Whitby man was a herald of some kind of insanity abruptly descending on the proceedings.
“Robert, let it be for now. We will tighten the regulations at the next Annual General Meeting.” The fourth man, the oldest of them spoke with force. “The Committee were lax when they last reviewed these rules. In these ever-changing times we should have foreseen that some troublemakers would seek to exploit our blunder for their own twisted ends.”
“Hugh, I hardly believe that that was the Waddingtons’ intention. From what I understand, Mrs. Waddington, is genuinely the operator of the ‘Whitby Walker’, and, as the regulations stand, she is not violating any of them.” The tall man responded.
“The letter perhaps, Charles, but not the spirit. Imagine what would happen if a crew containing women, won. Would aristocratic competitors retain any interest in this race? Such men have no desire to be humiliated.” Hugh continued.
Ernestine laughed. “Perhaps such men would be replaced by crews of ladies, of countesses.”
“Girl, silence yourself!” Hugh commanded. “These are matters of the Society.”
“Of which I am fully subscribed Ordinary Member.” Ernestine noted smugly; it seemed apparent that the membership secretary had taken no efforts to discover who ‘E.A. Waddington’ really was when he received the annual fee. “I will not remain silent when it is a question of my right to operate the ‘Whitby Walker’ in the race for which we have complied with all the written regulations; properly paid the entrance fee and for which we have registered correctly. How do you think it will appear to your aristocratic supporters when one pedestrian is compelled to withdraw even before the race has begun, simply because you dislike the nature of its operator’s anatomy?”
“I am sure a replacement can be found.” The man with sideburns said dismissively, but Isaac saw it was an attempt to seek some solution to the argument which would not mean the outcome Ernestine had warned of.
“Can you operate, race in fact, a biped with all its fuel and water aboard? Do you even understand how the twin-cased revolving gondola functions? Do you know the degree of compensation necessary as each leg of the ‘Walker’ progresses? As the incline increases?”
Isaac was initially alarmed as his wife reeled off many of the aspects of the ‘Whitby Walker’ that they had striven to keep secret over the past months. Yet, he knew her point was acutely accurate. No-one here, perhaps no-one else gathered in Princes Risborough this day could operate the pedestrian the way that she could, certainly not without days of training. He let go of the desk and stepped back a little, wondering what the reaction of the officials would now be. Isaac then realised, with a jolt of alarm, that while his attention had been on his wife and the officials confronting her, he had been oblivious to the journalists who had gathered around them; their disc-recorders, no doubt, catching every aspect of the dispute.
It dawned on Isaac that he had always assumed that the greatest complaint would have stemmed from the fact that their entire crew, but particularly the pilot, was from working stock. Of course, many crews had artisans and working engineers in the majority, but generally they were implicitly perceived as being a team of servants for whichever gentleman or nobleman was the pilot. With the ‘Whitby Walker’ there could be no such fiction. It was now clear that having Ernestine on the crew was the aspect which provoked the greatest trouble; though, Isaac reflected wryly, perhaps that drew attention away from the matter of the whole crew’s background.
None of the quartet of officials responded to Ernestine’s challenge and for some moments the marquee seemed unnervingly quiet after the rising volume of voices it had witnessed over the past few minutes. Isaac did suspect that, if asked, Albert could step into Ernestine’s place on the pedestrian, but then he felt treacherous for even thinking that. Ernestine had drawn the line: either she would be the operator in this race or the ‘Whitby Walker’ would be withdrawn; he imagined, before it had even been unloaded from the trailer of the ‘Captain Cook’.
Isaac had no idea how those in Whitby who had backed this venture would respond to the pedestrian bearing their town’s name returning home unraced. He supposed it would depend on how the men clustered around him wrote the story. Unfortunately, he feared, it would be as a tale of a headstrong girl seeking to interfere with a serious event she should not have dreamt of participating in and then stomping off petulantly when her foolishness was checked.
Despite all these thoughts cascading through his mind, Isaac was suddenly pricked to take advantage of the lull. He stepped forward and signed his name as the combustioneer, then quickly turned and grandly announced: “The crew of the ‘Whitby Walker’ is ready to race!”
It was a direct challenge to the four men at the registration desk. However, Isaac hoped that by asserting that the crew would race in the formation that it had signed here this morning, he had shifted the queries from themselves to the race officials. It might move the balance a little in the Waddingtons’ favour. Having noted that the officials were far from united on what should be done about Ernestine and, at least with the letter of the regulations on her side, he felt increasingly confident that they would allow the fait accompli and the ‘Walker’ could indeed race with Ernestine as operator.
Now Ernestine took her husband’s hand and he could feel the speed of her pulse. She had appeared so self-assured in the argument but now he understood that it had taken all of her courage to face down the casual, almost simply assumed, discrimination against her gender.
“Messrs. Waddington, Mrs. Waddington, if you could step this way for the official photograph.”
A rather stooped, slender man had appeared from somewhere and, seemingly oblivious to the fact that bare minutes before it had seemed the ‘Whitby Walker’ would not be running in the race, shepherded its crew to the studio area. As he walked away from the desk Isaac could not help looking back and saw that the discussion between the four Society officials continued vigorously though now in quieter tones. Isaac guessed that they had won the first round of this bout, but that it might not mean a final victory to have Ernestine working aboard the ‘Walker’. For now, however, they had to proceed as if the three of them would be in the race. Isaac noted that behind the area where the crews stood to have their photograph taken, hung a banner emblazoned with M.P.O.S. and he felt a little as if having a collodion-calotype with them standing before it, would, at least, signal official tolerance, if not outright acceptance, of the nature of their crew.
The fussing around from the photographer, Isaac noted, seemed to dispel the tension that, it now appeared, his father had been feeling no less keenly than Ernestine. Isaac imagined that whilst the argument had raged Samuel must have felt trapped in an impossible position and dreading that he would either have to betray his daughter-in-law’s aspirations and in doing so give up a key member of the crew, or withdraw from the race he had worked for two years to participate in.
The pose they were put into was an artificial one, with the two men standing either side of Ernestine with all three of them resting a hand resting on the end of a long-handled spanner; simply a photographic property rather than an actual tool. The photographer told them that he would be able to provide them with a complimentary copy of the image by the end of the following day. Isaac was glad of the ease with which the calotype element of the process could provide copies and he imagined Dora would give the photograph pride of place on her mantel, that was, unless they also brought home one showing them with their medals for coming in one of the first three places in the race. Isaac guessed that with only seven machines entered, they had fair odds of that. He stopped his imagination running away with him, there was a lot to be done before they could even begin the race, let alone complete it in a good position.
The three Waddingtons walked from the marquee in a rather pensive mood but when they came back in sight of Albert at the far end of the paddock, attaching the last of the hooks to allow him to lower the pedestrian from the trailer, Isaac knew there would be much to keep them from mulling over what had happened, at least for the next few hours. He was glad they had luncheoned in Stony Stratford rather than waiting to reach their destination as it meant they could get on with not only preparing the ‘Walker’ but also pitching the tents that would house them over the next two nights.
When they reached the ‘Whitby Walker’, all the cables were lashed to it and the trailer was slowly tilting. The vehicle stood on a large flat metal plate which, when the trailer reached the correct angle, would slide down to the ground. Also on the plate was the large locked scuttle that held their coal store. By moving the ‘Captain Cook’ forward a few feet when the plate began to slide, the pedestrian should be delivered safely to the ground and have a solid base on which to stand during the three days in which they would be at Princes Risborough. Most of the activity was Albert’s but the others stood around attentively watching the strain on the cables; alert in case a hook came loose. In less than ten minutes the ‘Walker’ was down and Isaac felt grateful that at least that stage had been completed without mishap.
Between them the four of them then brought down the trunks which contained their tools and the smaller spare parts. They trusted that they would not need these things, but it seemed a great risk to run not being able to compete in the competition simply because some bolt had become sheared or a piece of plating twisted and could not be replaced. Now everything was in place in terms of the pedestrian it was time to think about their own comfort.
“I will transport the tents around to the field where you’ll be staying.” Albert said, above the noise of the idling traction engine; he nodded over his shoulder to the hurdle fence running the length of the paddock.
It was clear he had spent some time orientating himself to their surroundings. This would save the Waddingtons time especially as it appeared the race officials were prone to be rather inhospitable. They all clambered aboard the ‘Cook’ and steamed out of the paddock. Isaac glanced back, a little apprehensively, at the ten foot high oilskin-covered form of the ‘Walker’. Seeing both the marshals and a special constable at the gate reassured him a little. Realistically he could not imagine that officials of the Society could stoop to sabotaging the ‘Whitby Walker’ as some kind of revenge, but perhaps there were partisans in their camp who would stretch to such action.
Albert drove them back on to the road and along the short distance to the neighbouring field. Wooden hurdles demarcated the two areas and acted as a crude fence to keep out over-enthusiastic sight-seers and potential saboteurs from going amongst the mechanised pedestrians or the crews’ tents. Ernestine had told them, seemingly from what she had read in ‘The Engineer’ that there was a team of night watchmen who guarded the paddock throughout the night. It was not that there had been any cases of sabotage though spare parts and pennants had been stolen in the early years by souvenir collectors, it was more to reassure the operators about the welfare of their ‘children’.
There was no limit on the number of auxiliary staff that the crews could bring with them. Typically the aristocrats would stay with a friend at some nearby country seat and be driven over on the morning of the race. However, their vehicle would be tended by an army of staff not only to check repeatedly the working of every single component of the pedestrian but also to ensure it was gleaming. As a consequence, Albert drove the Waddingtons into a field that was filled with tents. The pitches at the far end held neat rows of canvas structures that looked military in appearance and had to belong to the auxiliary staff of the ‘Avalon’ and the ‘Conqueror’. The small flag pole with the yellow-red-yellow flag showed where the Baden contingent would sleep. Those pitches closer to the one for the Waddingtons were more modestly laid out. Unsurprisingly, the one for No. 5, the ‘Buckingham Prince’ was almost bare with only a tent for one man; naturally the crew and any auxiliaries had homes or, at worst, friends they could stay with in the vicinity and only a single representative had been left in this field.
Isaac was interested to see the men associated with No. 4 which he knew from the Quarterly must be the men of the ‘Aston Canter’, the other quadruped in the race. It had been built in Birmingham under the direction of a syndicate of local businessmen. Looking at the couple of small tents in their pitch it seemed that they had preferred to stay in some local hotel rather than mix with the poorer classes. Though their wealth would set them apart from people like the Waddingtons and even the local crew, he imagined that would be as uneasy as him with encountering nobility from Britain, Baden and Japan.
Even with the advance of engineering and the factory system across the country and the vast wealth it had brought many owners, he knew that, as yet, these men still felt they had not attained equality with the British aristocracy. He imagined that even fifty, let alone one hundred years ago, these prosperous men of the Midlands would have been considered improper entering an event such as this, in the way Ernestine had been viewed earlier. Did that mean fifty years from now no-one would be concerned if working men, even working women, were racers? Isaac reminded himself that perhaps change had already arrived: he had not been barred and he was free to race here the following morning. Yet, there was a vast difference between being allowed into a race and not being seen as someone inferior to the descendant of a woman who had been a mistress of Charles II. Isaac shook his head, a little surprised at the challenging thoughts that were coming into his mind. There were other far more immediate issues to focus upon and ones over which he had personal influence.
As they pulled up to their pitch, Samuel was clearly pleased that the plot allotted them stood just the other side of the hurdle from the ‘Whitby Walker’. He jumped down and with the fence standing higher than him he pressed his eye against the woven wood to see through some chink to the vehicle beyond. Apparently satisfied, he hurried back to the ‘Cook’. Albert backed the traction engine up and Isaac began passing down their baggage to his father.
“I’ll leave the fire of the ‘Cook’ burning.” he explained, “so there is no delay in me departing for Kilburn.”
“Albert, you can leave now, we’ll set up your tent for tomorrow night.” Samuel said as he began unpacking one of the canvas sacks.
“No, no, I could not do that. I am along to help you folks; be your auxiliary.”
“You are far more than that Mr. Jowett.” Ernestine said kindly. “You might not be a member of the crew, but you are a vital part of our venture.”
“Thank you for saying so, Mrs. Waddington. I am glad your father-in-law invited me along. It’s been good to have the ‘Cook’ on the road and I am looking forward to seeing the race tomorrow. I would not have had the chance if you folks had not entered.”
Isaac felt lifted by Albert’s manner. They assembled his tent first. The four of them had been loaned three of the new light metal rod-framed tents by Hardaker’s Outfitters. Isaac imagined they hoped for some celebrity to be attracted to the Waddingtons and that they would bathe in some reflected glory. The tents had proven easy to assemble, consisting of an ‘x’ of interlocked poles, seemingly robust and much lighter than the traditional wooden framed ones. Albert had not seen these tents assembled and looked curiously at the domed, square-based structure set up for him. Having stepped inside and even lied down upon the groundsheet, he pronounced himself satisfied.
Within thirty minutes all three tents had been erected with their doorways facing in on each other and Isaac liked the encampment feel that provided. The fold-up beds were quickly set up and the bedding laid out by Ernestine. It meant Albert would not have to worry about getting his tent ready when he returned from his sister’s early the next morning. With this task complete, he bid the Waddingtons farewell and they followed him from the field and watched as he took the road East in the direction of London. In any given year there were few opportunities for him to see his sister, his brother-in-law and their children, so coming within fifty miles of Kilburn was a chance for a visit that could not be passed up.
The Waddingtons returned to their tents and Ernestine unfolded the stools they had been provided by Hardaker’s. Now with all the noise and work of driving here, the fuss of the registration and the labour involved in erecting their camp over, everything seemed rather too quiet. They watched what they could see over the fence of the ‘Tsuru’ being moved into position and then turned back to chatting. For them tea was the main meal of the day especially when they were not working and it seemed such a long time until the reception dinner that evening. At this time of year they had daylight until almost seven o’clock and Isaac was pleased they were able to enjoy the late summer sunshine rather than having to skulk away from the rain in their tents; trusting to the waterproofing. Isaac and Ernestine talked of what they had seen on the journey while Samuel read his Bible then wandered around the field greeting the various people housed there. Isaac saw him talking with the man for the ‘Buckingham Prince’, who, being alone, was presumably glad of some company.
Notes
Prologue
• ‘Catch Me Who Can’ was the name of a locomotive designed by Richard Trevithick (1771-1833) in 1808 and built by John Rastrick and John Hazledine at Bridgnorth in Shropshire in western England. It had a top speed of 12 mph (19 kph). It was exhibited on a circular track at Trevithick’s Steam Circus in Bloomsbury, London but proved too heavy for the iron tracks used which led a rail to break and to a derailment, after which Trevithick closed the exhibition. The failure of ‘Catch Me Who Can’ led to Trevithick abandoning designing any further railway locomotives and he primarily focused on civil engineering projects before returning to mechanical engineering at the end of his life.
• The ‘Bucks Herald’, a local weekly newspaper, published on Saturdays, was established in 1832 and is still published. ‘Bucks’ was the standard contraction for Buckinghamshire, though the newspaper began as the ‘The Bucks Herald, Farmers' Journal and Advertisers' Chronicle for Bucks, Beds, Herts, Berks, Oxon, Northamptonshire with which was incorporated the Windsor and Eton Journal’. By the mid-19th century it had narrowed to Buckinghamshire the county in which lies Princes Risborough. It reported news in chronological order rather than by order of importance and often featured national and international stories in preference to local ones. The newspaper explicitly supported the Conservative Party. As was common in newspapers of the period, including ‘The Times’, until the 1930s, the front page was filled with classified advertisements rather than news stories.
• The hill that I have named Peters Hill in this story is actually known as Kop Hill. It is in the Chilterns and was the scene of car and motorbike hill climbing races 1910-25. Commemorative races have been run there in 1999 and 2009. The word ‘kop’ comes from Afrikaans and means ‘hill’. It was a word brought back by British soldiers returning from the Anglo-Boer Wars of 1899-1902, in memory of the Battle of Spion Kop of 1900. Various locations across Britain have been named after this battle, most notably stands at sports venues such as the Kop stand at Liverpool football ground. Thus, it is unlikely that, before 1900, this Buckinghamshire hill was called Kop Hill. However, I have been unable to find out the previous name so opted for Peters Hill as the current road running up the hill, Kop Hill Road, leads into Peters Lane.
• Even in the 20th century it was common for shops in Britain to be closed on Wednesday afternoon (in some towns, Thursday afternoon) and for local events to be held at that time. This was the case when I was a child in the 1970s with the local parish day fete held on a Wednesday (the schools in the town would close that afternoon too; it has moved to Saturdays) and even travelling on a canal boat holiday in the 1990s I was issued with a map showing the half-day closing days in the villages we would pass through. With Sunday opening and longer opening hours in general this trend had faded away by the end of the 20th century.
• The Mordaunt family provided the Earls of Peterborough from 1600 until 1814 when the title died out. I have assumed that the line continued. Similarly there was only ever one Baron Stowell, created in 1821 and he died in 1836 when having no living sons the line became extinct. Again, I have assumed that the line continued and that one of his descendants who acceded to the title was involved in mechanised pedestrian racing.
• Currently the fastest bipedal walking robot is RunBot. It is 30cm (1ft) tall and can cover 0.8m (2.4ft) in a second; 3.5 times its leg-length. This equates to about 0.2 mph. In comparison the fastest human speed walker can do 4.6m per second; 4-5 times their leg-length. Long leg length means covering more space with each stride anyway, which is why the distance compared to leg-length is important. Before 2006, two-legged robots averaged 0.2-1.4m per second, around 0.7 – 1.4 times their leg-length.
Insect-style robots move faster, replicating the greater relative speed of six-legged creatures over bipedal ones. Some cockroaches travel up to 50 times their body length (15-25mm), per second. An insect-style robot, the iSprawl, currently can move at around 1.65m per second (15 times its 11cm body length); six-legged robots have greater stability but as we are bipedal there is always likely to be an interest in developing two-legged robots. In addition, on an incline, unless the passengers are to be tipped back, the body of the vehicle will have to be shorter to avoid colliding with the road surface.
In this story, working on vehicles with 6ft legs I have anticipated that, able to walk at 0.7 times their leg length per second, it would take them over 13 minutes to cover the 5 furlongs (0.625 miles). However, with the incline their speed is likely to be slowed and probably generously, I have suggested it reduces the efficiency by 0.1-0.2 times the leg length per second.
• The Buckinghamshire County Constabulary was established in 1857 and its second Chief Constable, serving 1867-1896, was Captain Tyrwhitt-Drake. There were separate constabularies for the towns of Buckingham and Chepping Wycombe (whose officers wore top hats rather than helmets until 1870). The Buckingham Borough force merged with the county force in 1889 and the Chepping Wycombe force did this in 1947.
• Special constables are members of the public sworn in as temporary police. They were introduced in Britain in 1673 and their role was defined by various legislation in 1820, 1831 and 1835. From 1831 onwards they were permitted to be used at all times when the local constabulary was too small to cope with a situation and not just in time of unrest which had previously been the case. In 1831 they were given the power of arrest and were permitted to carry weapons and equipment like the regular police officers. Special constables tended to be recruited by local magistrates and before 1835 people could be compelled to serve in this role; after legislation that year it became a voluntary force.
• Princes Risborough appears to lack both a town hall and civic hall, but in the more developed steampunk world it seems feasible that the prosperity the race would have brought to the town these would have been built. In our world, by the early 20th century four different rail routes ran North from the town. The Wycombe Railway arrived in the town in August 1862 when an extension from High Wycombe to Thame was built; it was absorbed by the Great Western Railway (GWR) in 1867. In 1872 the Watlington & Princes Risborough Railway opened connecting Thame and Watlington, this too was absorbed by GWR in 1884. In 1905-6 a railway connection opened to Ashendon Junction.
Part One
• Captain James Cook (1728-79) renowned for his voyages of exploration in the Pacific Ocean (1768-79), trained as a seaman at Whitby and made his first journeys at sea from there. He is commemorated by a statue and a museum in the town.
• The average life expectancy for workingmen in the 1880s in Britain was 41 (in Prussia, 45) and for women 44. People working in factories would often die younger than this; those working as servants tended to live much longer up to their 70s and even 80s. A skilled workingman like Samuel Waddington is likely to have lived longer than unskilled colleagues because he would have been able to afford better food and a warmer, dryer house. He would, however, be exposed to health risks in the workplace such as injury from machinery or health conditions brought on by chemicals used in industrial processes. Whale processing was less hazardous than many other industries. A life expectancy in the 40s puts Otto von Bismarck’s introduction of a pension for workers over 70 in 1889 in context.
• The top speed for traction engines, the common name for road-running steam locomotives, is around 30mph (48kph). In this steampunk world they have been developed further than in our world and can attain higher speeds. Though many traction engines you will see at events these days do not have tyres, just metal wheels, traction engine tyres are still made in the UK by Clifton Rubber and used by certain enthusiasts.
• Japan adopted French-style noble titles such as duke, count and baron in 1869 to replace traditional Japanese titles; these titles were abolished in 1947. The red circle flag was formally adopted as the flag of Japan in 1876 following the so-called Meiji Restoration, the coup which ended the rule of the Shogun and ‘restored’ the status of the Emperor. The sixteen-petalled chrysanthemum was a symbol of the emperor and empress with different coloured backgrounds used for different locations of the flag, for example, on the imperial carriage or on board ship. The flags suggest Otomo was a partisan of the Meiji Restoration and was so given a noble title and received the emperor’s favour for his entrance into the race.
• Calotype was an early form of photography invented in 1841 and using a paper negative which made it less cumbersome than the glass and metal plates used in other processes such as ambrotype (invented 1854), tintype (1856), collodion process (1851 – because it created a negative first, it allowed duplicates to be made) and, the best-known, the daguerreotype, invented in 1839. The collodion process needed trays of chemicals which were difficult to carry out in the field, but this was generally overcome by the use of an emulsion, invented by 1864 in our world. In this story the combined collodion-calotype allows photographs to be taken and developed in an outside studio and copies of them to be made
• Zirler Berg, close to Innsbruck in Austria, not far South of the German border, was the site of motorised hill climb races in our world 1914-1930. The course was 5km (3.125 miles) long and rose 856 metres (2807 feet) giving a gradient of 1 in 4.76. In this steampunk world in the 1870s the Zirler Berg has become the venue of a mechanised pedestrian race over a shorter course. In our world, hill-climb races were run 1899-1939 and typically the courses were longer than British ones (5-33km; 3.125-20.625 miles) but with lesser inclines (1 in 16.66 – 1 in 7.87; 6%-12.7%) only Zirler Berg at 1 in 4.54 and Tauern, also in Austria, with 1 in 4.76, were equivalent to the British climbs. Even though the altitude of the heights in Britain are less, the severity of the inclines on British (and some Irish) roads is noted by bicycle race competitors even today.
• The first recorded horse race in Britain was in 1174; the first recorded awarding of a trophy in 1512. Regulated horse racing began effectively with the formation of the Jockey Club in 1752.
• This story is set in the same counter-factual world as my previous steampunk stories, ‘The Grey Commission’, ‘Clasped in an Iron Hand’ and ‘The Skyborne Corsair’ which, as well as having steampunk technology, have witnessed different political developments. Most importantly for this story, unlike in our world, the Imperial Diet of 1848-9 succeeded in creating a lasting confederation of German states and Otto von Bismarck’s attempts in the 1860s to establish a German Empire dominated by Prussia have failed. Consequently, the Kingdom of Hanover is still ruled by Britain and countries like the Grand Duchy of Baden have remained independent sovereign states in the German Confederation as Baden was in our world 1771/1809-1866.
• Grossherzog Karl Friedrich means Grand Duke Charles Frederick in English and was the name of the first grand duke of Baden. He lived 1728-1811 and ruled first as Margrave of Baden-Durlach 1746-71 then Margrave of Baden 1771-1803 (and Elector of Baden 1803-6) and finally Grand Duke of Baden 1806-11.
• The word ‘prop’ as in items used in theatre productions and movies is a contraction of the word ‘property’.
• The tents shown in this story were not invented in our world until the early 1990s. I have assumed with lighter metal and greater development in its working in the steampunk world that dome tents could have been available in the 1870s.
• British Summer Time (BST), one hour in advance of Greenwich Mean Time (GMT), the standard time for the UK, was only introduced to Britain in 1916. Consequently on Tuesday 4th September 1877, sunset in London was 6.39pm, and in Princes Risborough, to the West of London, a couple of minutes later.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
