A Transatlantic Tunnel, Hurrah! (4 page)

“Good God!” Washington gasped. “May He approve and be on our side.

Our first consideration was that the candidate be a good engineer, and you are that. We know you will do the work. The second is that you are a Colonial, one of their own people, so the operation has a defi-nite American ring to it. I realize that there are some among the Tories who hold your family name ana-thema, we must be frank, but I feel they are in a minority. Our hope is that this appointment and your ef-forts will spur the lagging sales of bonds that will permit the operation to continue. Will you do it?”

“I gave my word, I will not with-draw it now. But there will be difficulties…”

“A single difficulty, and you can put the name to it.”

“Sir Isambard. The design of the tunnel is all his, the very conception indeed. I am just an employee carry-ing out his orders as is his agent Macintosh, who is not even an engi-neer. If I am to assume this greater responsibility, I will be something close to his equal in all matters. He is not going to like it.”

“The understatement of the cen-tury, my boy. He has been sounded out cautiously already with the pre-dictable results.” A light flashed on the desk and was accompanied by a soft beeping sound. “The Board has returned after their dinners and I must join them since no one is to know I have seen you. If you will be so kind as to wait in the library, you will be sent for. If matters go as we have planned, and they will since we have the votes, you will be sent a note outlining these proposals and then called before the Board. There is no other way.”

The door opened at a touch of a button on the desk and Washington found himself back in the library.

There was a soft leather armchair there that he sank into gratefully and when, a few minutes later, Drigg came to inquire if he needed anything he was deep in thought and roused up only long enough to shake his head in the negative. For this was without a doubt the pinnacle of his career—if only he could scale it. Yes, he could, he had no doubts about that, had been without doubts since he had left Mount Vernon for the last time, waving good-bye to his mother and sister at the gate of the simple cottage that was their ances-tral home. A cottage that had been built in the shadow of the ivy-grown ruins of that greater house burnt by the Tory mobs.

He was already an engineer then, graduated first in his class from M.I.T. despite the dishonor attached to his name—or perhaps because of it. Just as he had fought many a dark and silent battle with his fists behind the dorms so had he fought that much harder contest in school to stay ahead, to be better, fighting with both his fists and his mind to restore honor to his family name. After graduation he had served his brief stint in the Territorial Engineers—without the R.O.T.C. grant he would never have finished college—and in doing so had enjoyed to its utmost his first taste of working in the field.

There had been the usual troubles at the western frontier with the Spanish colonies so that the Colonial authorities in New York had decided that a military railroad was needed there. For one glorious year he had surveyed rights of way through the impassable Rocky Mountains and labored in the tunnels that were being driven through the intractable rock.

The experience had changed his life and he had known just what he wanted from that time on. Along with the best minds from all the far-flung schools of the Empire he had sat for the prestigious George Ste-phenson scholarship at Edinburgh University and had triumphed.

Ac-ceptance had meant automatic en-trance into the higher echelons of the great engineering firm of Brassey--Brunel and this, too, had come to pass.

Edinburgh had been wonderful, despite the slightly curled lips of his English classmates towards his colo-nial background, or perhaps because of this. For the first time in his life he was among people who attached no onus to his name; they could not be expected to remember the details of every petty battle fought at the fringes of their Empire for the past four hundred years. Washington was just another colonial to be classified with Hindoos, Mohawks, Burmese, Aztecs and others and he reveled in this group anonymity.

His rise had been brief and quick and now he was reaching the summit.

Beware lest he fall when his reach exceeded his grasp. No! He knew that he could handle the engi-neering, drive the American end of the tunnel just as he was driving the British one. And though he was aware that he was no financier he also knew how to talk to the men with the money, to explain just what would be done with their funds and how well invested they would be. It would be Whig money he was after—though perhaps the Tories would permit greed to rise above intoler-ance and would climb on the band-wagon when they saw the others rid-ing merrily away towards financial success.

Most important of all was the bearing this had upon a more important factor. Deep down he nursed the unspoken ambition to clear his family name. Unspoken since that day when he had blurted it out to his sis-ter Martha and she had understood, when they had been no more than children. Everything he accom-plished, in some manner, reflected on that ambition, for what he accom-plished in his own name was also done in the name of that noble man who had labored so hard for his country, who in return for his efforts was felled by a volley of English bul-lets.

“Captain Washington, Captain Washington, sir.”

The voice penetrated the darkness of his thoughts and as it did he real-ized he had been hearing it for some time and not heeding. He started and took the envelope that Drigg held out to him, opened it and read it, then read it a second time more slowly. It was as Lord Cornwallis had said, the motion had been passed, he was being offered the post.

“If you will come with me, sir.”

He rose and brushed the wrinkles from his waistcoat and buttoned his jacket. With the note still in his hand he followed the secretary to the boardroom to stand at the foot of the long dark table. The room was silent, all eyes upon him, as Cornwallis spoke from his place at the head of the table.

“You have read and understood our communication, Captain Washington?”

“I have, sir. It appears to be a request to fill, in a single capacity, the dual positions now occupied by Sir Winthrop and Mr. Macintosh. You indicate that these gentlemen approve of the change?”

“They do.”

“Then I am most pleased to ac-cept—with but one reservation be-fore I do. I would like to know Sir lsambard’s feelings on the change.” It was the waving of a red flag to a bull, the insulting of the Queen to a loyal Englishman, the use of the word frog to a Frenchman. Sir Isambard Brassey-Brunel was on his feet in the instant, leaning both fists hard on the polished rosewood of the table, fire in his eye and white anger in the flare of his nostril. A small man before whom, in his anger, large men trembled, yet Washington was not trembling because perhaps he was not the trembling type.

A study in opposites they were, one tall, one slight, one middle-aged and smooth of skin whose great breadth of forehead grew greater with the passing days, the other with a forehead of equal magnitude but with a face browned and lined by sun and wind. A neatly turned out English gentleman from the tips of his polished, handcrafted boots to the top of his tonsured head—with a hundred guineas of impeccable Sav-ile Row tailoring in between. A well-dressed Colonial whose clothes were first class yet definitely provincial, like the serviceable and rugged boots intended more for wear than show.

“You wish to know my feelings,” Sir Isambard said, “you wish to know my feelings.” The words were spoken softly yet could be heard throughout all of that great room and perhaps because of this gentleness of tone were all the more ominous. “1 will tell you my feelings, sir, strong feelings that they are, sir. I am against this appointment, com-pletely against it and oppose it and that is the whole of it.”

“Well then,” Washington said, seating himself in the chair placed there for his convenience, “that is all there is to it. I cannot accept the ap-pointment.”

Now the silence was absolute and if a silence could be said to be stunned this one certainly was. Sir lsambard was deflated by the answer, his anger stripped from him, and as anger, like air from a balloon, leaked from him he also sank slowly back into his seat.

“But you have accepted,” Corn-wallis said, baffled, speaking for all of them.

“I accepted because I assumed the Board was unanimous in its decision. What is proposed is a major change. I cannot consider it if the man by whom I am employed, the master ar-chitect of this construction, the lead-ing engineer and contractor in the world, is against it. I cannot, in all truth, fly in the face of a decision like that.”

All eyes were now upon Sir Isam-bard whose face was certainly a study worth recording in its rapid changes of expression that reflected the calculations of the mighty brain behind it. First anger, giving way to surprise, followed by the crinkling forehead of cogitation and then the blankness of conclusion ending with a ghost of a smile that came and went as swiftly as a passing shadow.

“Well said, young Washington; how does it go? You shall not speak ill of me, I am your friend, faithful and just upon you. I detect the quality of your classical education. The burden of decision now rests upon my shoulders alone and I shall not shirk it. I have the feeling that you know more of these matters than you intimate; you have been spoken to or you would not be so bold. But so be it. The tunnel must go through and to have a tunnel we apparently have to have you. I withdraw my ob-jections. You are a good enough en-gineer I must admit and if you fol-low orders and build the tunnel to my design we will build well.”

He reached out his small, strong hand to take up a glass of water, the strongest spirit he ever allowed him-self, while something like a cheer echoed from all sides. The chair-man’s gavel banged through the uproar, the meeting was concluded, the decision made, the work would go on. Sir Isambard waited stolidly to one side while the members of the Board congratulated Washington and each other and only when the engineer was free did he step to his side.

“You will share a cab with me.” It was something between a request and a command.

“My pleasure.”

They went down in the lift to-gether in silence and the porter opened the door for them and whis-tled for a cab. It was a hansom cab, two wheeled, high, black and sleek, the driver perched above with the reins through his fingers, these same reins leading down to one of the newfangled conversions that were slowly removing the presence of the horse from central London. Here there was no proud, high-stepping equine frame between the shafts, but instead a squat engine of some sort whose black metal, bricklike form rested upon three wheels. The single front wheel swiveled at a tug upon the reins bringing the hansom up smartly to the curb, while a tug on another rein stopped the power so it glided to a halt.

“An improvement,” Sir Isambard said as they climbed in. “The horse has been the bane of this city, drop-pings, disease, but no more. His replacement is quiet and smoothly electric powered with no noise or noxious exhaust like the first steam models, batteries in the boot—you will have noticed the wires on the shafts. Close that trap because it is private, no eavesdropping we want.”

This last was addressed to the round and gloomy face of the cabby who peered down through the open-ing from above like a misplaced ruddy moon.

“Begging your pardon, your honor, but I’ve not heard the destination.‘

“One hundred and eight Maida Vale.” The slam of the hatch added punctuation to his words and he turned to Washington. “If you had supposed you were returning with me to my home dispel yourself of the idea at once.”

“I had thought…”

“You thought wrong. I wished only to talk with you in private. In any case Iris is at some sort of theological tom-foolery at Albert Hall this evening so we can be spared any scenes. She is my only daughter and she obeys me when she must, but she also shares my views of the world. When I explain to her that you have joined with my antago-nists on the Board to deprive me of my full responsibilities, that you now may wish to obtain my position for your-self—”

“Sir!”

“Be quiet. This is a lecture, not a discussion. That you have taken the position occupied by one of my agents and have completely turned against me. When I tell her those things she will understand at once why I will bar my house from you in the future and she will return your ring to your club by messenger in the morning. We will continue our busi-ness relationship because there is no other way. But your engagement to my daughter is broken, you are no longer welcome in my home, and you will make no attempts, now or in the future, to contact Iris.” He knocked loudly on the hatch with the head of his cane. “Stop the cab. Good-bye.”

III. THE ROYAL ALBERT HALL

A fine rain was falling, darkening even more the black pavement of Kensington Gore so that each yellow gaslight above had its mirror imaged fellow beaming back at it from the street below The doors to the hall were closed, the street empty save for a single figure that appeared sud-denly around the corner, a gentle-man in a hurry and heedless of the inclemencies of the weather, his hat and clothes bedewed with raindrops.

Taking the steps two at a time he threw open one of the outer doors of the hall and came face to face with the ample uniformed figure of the commissionaire who prevented any further forward motion by the sheer bulk of his presence.

“Performance begun, sir. Every-one seated.”

“I wish to talk to someone in the audience,” said Washington while at the same time forcing himself into some form of composure, realizing that his sudden appearance out of the night might be misinterpreted. “It is a matter of some urgency—I’ll purchase a ticket if necessary.”

“Dreadfully sorry, sir. Ticket win-dow closed.”

Washington already had his purse in his hand as these words were spo-ken which led naturally to a further and hopefully more successful at-tempt at entry. He slipped two half crowns into the man’s hand.

“Are you sure there is no way? Perhaps I could just step inside and look around for my party?” There was a glint of silver that although instantly vanished still seemed to work a miraculous change on the door-keeper’s manner, for he stepped back and waved entrance with his hand.