CHAPTER 6 #2
McClellan whispered a warning to the Weasels to stop fidgeting.
“Ho, the boys are rightly impatient to see the machinery,” exclaimed Tilden with a friendly wink in their direction.
“Though I hope the noise will not be an unpleasant experience for you, milady.” A pause.
“Er, what with all the metal shavings and drops of oil that are inevitably spit off by the machines, it can also get a little . . . messy.”
Charlotte chuckled as she slipped off her heavy cloak. “With three lively boys in our house, I assure you, I am not the least bothered by noise or less-than-pristine surroundings.”
“Excellent!” Tilden looked relieved. “Though I also must warn you that it’s a bit cramped in the aisles between the machinery.”
“Why don’t I stay here with our outer wraps and reticules?” suggested McClellan. She lifted the bag looped over her arm. “I have brought along some knitting.”
“Does that meet with your approval, Mr. Tilden?” asked Charlotte.
“Yes, that works out very nicely,” he replied.
After offering his arm to Charlotte, Tilden turned to the Weasels and Peregrine. “Come along, lads. I hope you are not afraid of getting your hands a bit grimy.”
McClellan choked back a snort.
Raven glanced at her with an evil grin before scampering off.
“Lead the way, sir,” said Charlotte. “Though I daresay I won’t comprehend much, I am very much looking forward to seeing what it is you do here.”
* * *
The chatter of moving steel, the whir of spinning gears, the chuff of steam-engine pistons rising and falling—the laboratory was alive with a symphony of industrial sounds as Tilden led them into a long, narrow room with three lathes spaced along its length. All were humming along at full speed.
Peregrine’s eyes widened in wonder as the man in charge of running the nearest one clamped a small block of iron into a central worm screw and flicked a lever, sending it through lines of different milling blades that cut it into an intricate shape.
“I-Is it really possible that every piece that the lathe operator makes is identical?” demanded the boy.
“Thanks to the genius of Henry Maudslay, the answer is yes. He’s invented a whole new range of innovative machines that are key to making improved versions of other machines!”
“What do you mean?” asked Hawk, venturing closer to the whirling levers.
“Careful—any closer and you might lose your nose!” Tilden caught him by his collar and drew him back. “What I mean is . . .” He straightened and signaled the man running the lathe to shut it down.
Once the blades had spun to a stop, Tilden allowed the boys to move right up to the behemoth machine. Charlotte, too, inched closer, fascinated by the opportunity to see how a lathe worked.
“You see, the lathe operator can set the milling blades to any number of precise configurations,” explained Tilden. “And once the blades are locked in place, he can make hundreds—or thousands—of identical parts.”
“Mass production,” said Raven with a glance at Charlotte. “A. J. Quill did a series of drawings on the subject.”
“Yes, and the artist was actually quite thoughtful and accurate in explaining to the public why that has changed our world,” mused Tilden.
“With mass production, we can produce parts far faster and in greater quantities than by hand. Which means we can make a wide range of machinery far more efficiently and at a lower cost.”
“Very impressive,” replied Charlotte.
The inventor gave the lathe a fond pat. “It may not sound very exciting, but it truly is. As costs drop, the public will be able to afford more goods that will make their lives more comfortable.”
Turning to Peregrine, he smiled. “Your uncle Willis loved scientific innovation. I wished that he had lived to see the remarkable progress we are making in precision engineering. The lathes are now allowing us to create smaller and smaller tolerances.”
Seeing the questioning looks from the boys, he hastened to explain.
“Quite simply, what that means is pieces of a machine fit together more snugly.” He paused to let his words sink in.
“That is especially important for steam engines. You see, if the steam can’t leak out, the engine will be more powerful. ”
And, thought Charlotte, a powerful engine is key to moving a ship through the rough waters of the oceans.
“Good heavens! More powerful machines?” She widened her eyes.
“I have heard my husband and his scientific colleagues discussing Mr. Hedley’s Puffing Billy, a steam-powered carriage which they said will soon carry people around the country at unimaginable speeds!
I confess, it sounds rather . . . unbelievable. ”
“Not at all, Lady Wrexford! Progress is moving at lightning speed, and transportation is leading the way,” replied Tilden. “Things will radically change—but one should think of that as exciting rather than frightening.”
Charlotte nodded. “That is exactly what Wrexford says.” Her brows drew together.
“Come to think of it, he also mentioned an American—a man named Fulton, I believe—who has created boats powered by steam that can travel up and down rivers.” A pause.
“But because of the, er, thingamabobs that push them through the water, Wrexford thinks they will never be able to navigate the oceans.”
“Not at the moment, but there is a great deal of interesting experimentation going on with the thingamabobs.” A spark lit in Tilden’s eyes. “As well as work on—” His voice faltered for an instant.
“On some other ideas,” he finished in a rush.
The whirring of the other lathes filled the momentary silence. Tilden then cleared his throat and, after turning and instructing the lathe operator to restart his massive machine, led the way through an archway to another section of the laboratory.
“We do some very interesting experiments with smelting iron in our foundry,” he explained.
The temperature grew noticeably warmer as they walked down the corridor.
To Charlotte, he added, “Being a chemist, Lord Wrexford would appreciate how we tinker with our formulas to test the different strengths we can create in the finished metal. For steam engines, we are looking to—”
From within a recessed foyer, a door—an imposing iron-banded slab of oak that would have looked at home guarding a medieval castle—was suddenly flung open.
“Tilden!” a harried-looking man sporting a grease-stained leather apron skidded to a halt as he spotted the inventor. “Thank goodness I’ve found you. We need to have a conference with the head of the foundry over . . .”
He fell silent on spotting Tilden’s companions. “It will only take a few minutes.”
Tilden nodded. “Yes, of course.” He gave Charlotte an apologetic look. “I shall return shortly.”
“Please don’t hurry on our account,” she replied. She retreated several steps, allowing the two men to hurry off down one of the side corridors.
She had only looked away for a moment, but the boys had already moved close to the half-open door and were peering inside.
Charlotte heard a low whooshing and gurgling, as if a dragon were slumbering in the depths of its lair.
“Maybe we shouldn’t—” began Peregrine.
“Mr. Tilden didn’t tell us not to go inside,” pointed out Raven. He looked to Charlotte in mute appeal.
It was true. He hadn’t. And besides . . .
Charlotte joined them by the door. She, too, was eager to see what work was going on inside.
“I don’t see the harm in having a look,” she decided.
A mammoth trestle table was set in the center of a well-equipped laboratory room. Behind it, a work counter ran the length of the far wall. It was bristling with an array of tools and bottles of pungent chemicals.
Peregrine approached the complex construction sitting atop the table and let out a low hiss of air.
“What is it?” asked Raven.
“Some sort of steam engine . . .” Peregrine tilted his head and leaned over to give it a sideways look. Puffs of vapor rose from its iron belly. “But unlike any other one I’ve ever seen.”
Raven started to circle around the table, followed by his brother.
Spotting a work area tucked into an alcove by the door, Charlotte left the boys to inspect the engine and moved into the shadows to have a look at the sheets of papers spread out on its counters.
The engine continued its snuffling huffs and puffs.
Intrigued by the complex diagrams drawn on the papers—they looked to be technical plans—she leaned in for a closer study.
There were also some drawings that looked to be exploring design ideas for the thingamabobs—she of course knew they were called paddle wheels—that would allow them to withstand the rigors of ocean travel.
Her gaze moved to the margins of the paper, which were filled with very strange sketches, all appearing to experiment with an oddly shaped object with undulating curves.
Intrigued, Charlotte withdrew a small sketchbook and pencil from the hidden pocket in her gown....
The monstrous machine continued its chuffing and gurgling.
In the main room, Peregrine leaned in to touch one of the pistons—
“Avast there!” bellowed a voice from the doorway.
Peregrine spun around as a naval officer—a young midshipman who looked to be no older than he was—rushed into the room.
“You filthy little gutter rat!” cried the midshipman. “This is a restricted military area. How did you crawl in here?”
“I was invited,” answered Peregrine.
“You—a Blackamoor?” said the midshipman, eying Peregrine’s dusky skin. “Don’t make me laugh.”
Charlotte was about to intervene when Raven appeared from behind the table, with Hawk right on his heels.
“Oiy, oiy! Keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak to Lord Lampson!” Raven flexed a warning fist. “Or you’ll be digging your teeth out of your gullet.”
“Lord Lampson?” The midshipman allowed a momentary flicker of confusion before squaring his shoulders. “And who are you? The Duke of Dirt?” he retorted, wrinkling his nose at the streak of sludge now running down the front of Raven’s jacket.