Five. The Staplehurst Rail Disaster
Five
The Staplehurst Rail Disaster
FIRST DAY AT SEA
June 16, 1865
The ladies’ saloon was a surprisingly elegant and well-furnished room, with clusters of sofas and chairs where one could read from the stacks of week-old London newspapers. Henrietta and Charlotte Stevenson settled themselves in a quiet corner where a woman sat alone, her scuffed boots resting on a small stool. A low cap over misshapen tendrils of hair was the only other part of her visible above the newspaper held high in her hands. Suddenly she lowered the paper to stare at the two sisters as if she had known they were there all along.
“It’s Dickens.”
“I beg your pardon?” asked Henrietta.
The woman pointed down at the news page on her lap. “There was a rail disaster, in Kent.”
“Is he—”
She shook her head slowly. “No, thank heavens.”
Henrietta, who sat closest, accepted the newspaper from the woman and began to read aloud.
The train was carrying passengers from Boulogne when some plates, half-loosened by workers, gave way on a bridge at Staplehurst. The engine fell on its broadside, sparing the first-class carriage, but several other carriages broke off and fell over the bridge into a stream below. Ten persons were killed either from injuries sustained or suffocation in the riverbed, and about twenty others were wounded. The travellers were in many cases returning home after a long absence abroad, some from as far away as India. Mr. Dickens was in the train, but escaped without harm and bravely attended to fellow passengers, several of whom succumbed to their injuries whilst under his care. The foreman is in custody but the carelessness which caused the event extends far beyond the workers. The train was travelling 40 miles an hour, far too fast for such a steep incline, the usual danger signals were not sufficiently activated for that speed, and the lead engine had required frequent repairs of late. As one observer commented, “the jaws of destruction were open awaiting them.” The public will demand proportionate punishment of those whose actions, or inactions, have caused this terrible disaster.
“How horrible.” Charlotte placed a hand on Henrietta’s shoulder. “It’s the Lloyd’s List . Papa is bound to see it.” She sighed. “Poor Father. He wasn’t even worried about the rails.”
“Poor Father? Poor Mr. Dickens!” the woman exclaimed.
“Yes, of course—how right you are.” Henrietta passed the newspaper back. “I am sure one does not soon recover from such tragedy.”
“It’s awful strange, what with my coming all this way to see him.” Henrietta and Charlotte both stared at the woman, speechless. “Oh, I have employment, you know, and am fixed on touring the great museums and cathedrals of Europe. But Mr. Dickens—I was meaning to see him lecture in London and visit all the particular places he writes about.”
“But how remarkable!” cried Charlotte. “We came all this way to do the same with Jane Austen!”
The woman let out a guffaw. “What is there to see?”
“The village in Hampshire where she wrote her masterpieces, for one.”
“And a handful of made-up country villages. Look, pay me no mind, I enjoy the books as much as anyone. But I prefer a little blood and thunder, as they say. Jane Eyre : now that’s my kind of story.” She pushed her cap back, revealing a few premature grey hairs about her brow. “You travel as sisters? I wish I was. I have… I had… three.”
“We’re so sorry,” Henrietta and Charlotte said in unison.
The woman nodded her gratitude. “We’re scattered now. My sister Anna will be delivered of her second soon, and May studies in Boston. Painting and art.”
“We’re from Boston, too.” Charlotte sighed again. “But we don’t get to study.”
“My father is a great proponent of education for everyone.”
“Our father is a man of the law,” Henrietta explained. “Justice William Stevenson of the Massachusetts supreme court. A moderate.”
“But a strict constructionist when it comes to the two of us,” Charlotte added.
“Progress is slow, then?”
The two Stevenson sisters turned to each other and laughed. “Glacial,” agreed Henrietta. “We’re Henrietta and Charlotte Stevenson, by the way.”
“Louisa Alcott. But you can call me Lu.”
“In that case, you can call us Harry and Charlie.”
“That ought to get the men on board a-talking! At least we’ve none of them in here. I like men, always have, but I mean to get work done.”
Charlotte noticed the notepad by the stack of newspapers. “Are you a writer?”
Louisa’s plain face lit up. “Not successful—not yet. Girls’ stories and gothics, mostly. I tried a grown-up novel, Moods , but my publisher made me cut it in half—I think calling it Mood would be more precise!”
The sisters laughed together again, charmed by the woman’s self-deprecating manner. “Oh, wait,” exclaimed Charlotte, “we saw a review of that—in The Atlantic Monthly ?”
Louisa rolled her eyes. “Yes, it seems everyone read at least that . It was by my friend Henry James, although his words were not so amicable.” She cleared her throat and dramatically intoned, “‘We are utterly weary of stories about precocious little girls. In the first place, they are in themselves disagreeable and unprofitable objects of study.’”
“Ouch,” Charlotte commiserated.
“James is a writer, too. Keeps it anonymous—for now. But I’ll make him eat humble pie if he ever writes a so-called ‘precocious little girl’ himself. I bet he will, though—he’s so tetchy, that one.”
“May we know what you are working on next?” asked Henrietta.
“Nothing of substance. I’m all dried up. Besides, it’s harder now.” She lifted her right hand to display a slight tremble. “I caught typhoid nursing in the war. They tell me the sea air might do me good. And there’s nothing like travel for inspiration.”
“Or for love.” Charlotte nodded in amusement at the roomful of refined-looking mothers chaperoning unmarried daughters. “It would appear we’ve all of us come up empty in Boston.”
Louisa dramatically placed her right hand over her heart. “I want to find a European count for myself—or a poor itinerant musician.”
The three women laughed together.
“Our parents’ marriage was a most happy one.” Henrietta looked at Charlotte. “I suppose Father only wants the same for us.”
“And your mother?”
“She died when we were little. Ever since then, our father’s been…”
“Preoccupied,” offered Charlotte.
“… yes, preoccupied with our safety.”
“He let you go on ship, did he not?”
The two sisters glanced awkwardly at each other.
“It was our decision.” Henrietta hesitated. “ Wholly our decision.”
“You don’t mean…” Louisa sat up keenly. “Are you stowaways, then?”
Charlotte laughed. “No, we paid full fare.”
“But we left him—how do the Germans say it?” asked Henrietta. “ Im Stich lassen —high and dry.”
“Ah, I see now—the poor father . But how exciting—I loved nothing more than running away when I was a child.” Louisa paused. “Wait—did you say he’s on the Massachusetts supreme court? But what coincidence again! I just met someone on board from the state bench. Quite the dashing figure and not that old—at least, no older than me!” Louisa scratched the side of her nose again in thought. “Now then, what was his name.…”
As if telepathically, the image of William Stevenson, bereft, waving his hat back at someone on the ship—someone decidedly not Henrietta and Charlotte—passed through each of his daughters’ heads at exactly the same, sinking moment.