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Seven Wonders of the Industrial World
Deborah Cadbury
From the best-selling author of THE DINOSAUR HUNTERS and THE LOST KING OF FRANCE comes the story of how our modern world was forged – in rivets, grease and steam; in blood, sweat and human imagination.The nineteenth century saw the creation of some of the world's most incredible feats of engineering. Deborah Cadbury explores the history behind the epic monuments that spanned the industrial revolution from Brunel's extraordinary Great Eastern, the Titanic of its day that joined the two ends of the empire, to the Panama Canal, that linked the Atlantic and Pacific oceans half a century later.Seven Wonders of the Industrial World recreates the stories of the most brilliant pioneers of the industrial age, their burning ambitions and extravagant dreams, their passions and rivalries as great minds clashed. These were men such as Arthur Powell-Davis, the engineer behind the Hoover Dam, who dreamed of creating the largest dam in the world by diverting the entire Colorado river, one of the worlds most dangerous and unpredictable, or John Roebling, who lost his life creating the Brooklyn Bridge, the longest suspension bridge ever built. These are also the stories of countless unsung heroes – the craftsmen and workers without whose perseverance nothing would have been achieved, not to mention the financiers and shareholders hanging on for the ride as fortunes – and reputations – were lost and won.Cadbury leads us on an amazing journey from the freezing snows of the Alps to the mosquito-ridden wilds of the Central American jungle as we see uncontrollable rivers tamed, continents conquered and vast oceans joined.Note that it has not been possible to include the same picture content that appeared in the original print version.
SEVEN WONDERS
OF THE
INDUSTRIAL WORLD
Deborah Cadbury
Contents
Cover (#uf007356c-1389-5ffc-bf27-4740fc73fc7b)
Title Page (#u4829370e-7965-5fdb-9db4-a335cdc52883)
Introduction (#u5d019d03-cc59-5b11-9227-363875163187)
1 The Great Eastern (#u2a57a12e-b77a-5bd3-b337-c8b2a421ed40)
2 The Bell Rock Lighthouse (#u8a0f9db0-f03b-5fe4-b680-6cfd3e31f181)
3 The Brooklyn Bridge (#litres_trial_promo)
4 The London Sewers (#litres_trial_promo)
5 The Transcontinental Railroad (#litres_trial_promo)
6 The Panama Canal (#litres_trial_promo)
7 The Hoover Dam (#litres_trial_promo)
Bibliography and Sources (#litres_trial_promo)
Index (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Other Works (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Introduction (#ulink_b13a2232-5aaa-5def-8a03-7955a99c9448)
The great achievements celebrated in this book reveal as much about the human spirit as they do of technological endeavour. The period of over 125 years from the beginning of the nineteenth century saw the creation of some of the world’s most remarkable feats of engineering, now celebrated as wonders of the world, from Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s extraordinary Great Eastern, the ‘Crystal Palace of the Seas’ that he hoped would join the two ends of the British empire, to the Panama Canal, that linked the Atlantic and Pacific oceans in 1914.
The slowly evolving Industrial Revolution was the fertile ground that gave life to these dreams in iron, cement, stone and steel. The pioneers of the age were practical visionaries, seeing beyond the immediate horizon, the safe and the known; taking risks and taking society with them as they cut a path to the future. Yet their unique masterpieces could never have been built without an army of unsung heroes, the craftsmen and workers also willing to take risks as they laboured to bring each dream to life. And as each great scheme unfolded, the financiers and shareholders were there too, caught up in the exuberant process and hanging on for the ride as reputations were lost and won.
The Bell Rock Lighthouse – the oldest ‘wonder’ featured in this book – was created while Britain was in the grip of the Napoleonic wars. In 1807, Robert Stevenson, the grandfather of Robert Louis Stevenson who wrote Treasure Island, started work on the Bell Rock Lighthouse in wild northern seas off the east coast of Scotland. For years he had longed to make his mark on the world, bringing light to the treacherous Scottish coast. He dreamed of taking on the most dangerous place of all: the Bell Rock, a large reef eleven miles out to sea positioned right in the middle of the approach to the safe haven of the Firth of Forth. Over the centuries, this deadly reef, submerged at high tide, had cost so many lives it ‘breathed abroad an atmosphere of terror’ along the whole coast.
Like so many pioneers of the Industrial Revolution, Stevenson had cheap labour available, men desperate for work and often prepared to risk their lives for a meagre wage. This was a time when coal and iron ore were mined by hand and canals were dug with picks and shovels. The cotton factories, railways, shipbuilding: all needed a plentiful supply of labour. The population was rising rapidly, in England and Wales alone from under 7 million in 1750 to 18 million a century later. And because of recent improvements in agricultural husbandry, rich landowners and farmers could now produce more with fewer workers. As the rich enclosed their land and the old medieval field strips worked by a peasant population for centuries disappeared, a new landless class labouring for a wage emerged.
The opportunities of the town beckoned, drawing wave upon wave of willing recruits. During the nineteenth century the major cities grew, doubling and redoubling like cells dividing. Yet at this stage, industrialisation had yet to bring real benefits to the working man. Even after the 1832 Reform Act, a working man had few rights; he was unlikely to qualify for the vote and government sympathies lay with his employers. Just moving to one of England’s growing cities could lower life expectancy, which for a labourer was rarely much more than 35 years, and in some cities, like London or Liverpool, lower still. Many women died giving birth and although there were wide variations, records show that in cities like Manchester almost 60 per cent of children from poor families did not reach five years of age, dying mostly from infectious diseases. The poor often lived in such pitiful squalor; sometimes several families sharing a single room. Wages were low; there were no unions, pensions or social security and no minimum age for labour. Amongst the poorest families everybody was obliged to work: men, women and children.
Children as young as nine or ten were employed in building Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s colossal ship, the Great Eastern, which was built on the banks of the Thames between 1853 and 1858. They were essential, working in the confined space of the unique double hull of this grand ship, heating and handling thousands of white-hot rivets. Horrific accidents were all too frequent but a death simply meant that there was employment for another child and there was no shortage of willing workers. There is a noticeable absence of records though – the names and wages of the unsung labourers not even worthy of a note in the minute books of the great companies or journals of leading men.
Brunel hoped the Great Eastern would be his masterpiece, which would link the ends of the empire. At a time when most ships moored in the Thames were nearer 150 feet in length, built to traditional designs in wood and powered by sail, Brunel’s ‘Great Ship’ was almost 700 feet long, a floating island made of iron, that he envisaged could carry 4,000 passengers in magnificent style as far as the Antipodes without needing to refuel. This ‘Crystal Palace of the Seas’ broke the mould of convention; the design was revolutionary with a double hull that made it unsinkable and powered by enormous engines as high as a house. Every part of the ship’s design had been subject to Brunel’s penetrating scrutiny and so complex was the technology that it was claimed only he understood it entirely. He faced enormous criticism: his ship was too big, it was too expensive, it would sink, or break its back on the first big wave, if, that is, he could actually manage to launch it on to the Thames. In fact, it was the blueprint for ship design for years to come.
As the Great Eastern became the talk of England, people came to gaze in disbelief at its vast proportions as it miniaturised the working world around it. Even Queen Victoria herself was tempted to venture down the Thames to visit the ship that symbolised the ‘moral superiority’ of her empire. Yet records show that as she sailed down the Thames to visit the site she was obliged ‘to smell her nosegay all the time’. For while Brunel was building his masterpiece, the city was in crisis. London was drowning in a sea of excrement.
There were some 200,000 cesspits across the capital but as the population escalated in the first half of the nineteenth century, so did the smell. In poor districts these cesspits were seldom emptied, leaving the sewage to overflow, seeping through cracks in floorboards or even running down walls, spreading everywhere with its creeping tentacles of disease. Three epidemics of cholera had swept through London by 1854 leaving over 30,000 dead. The desperation of the poor of the East End even reached The Times in a famous protest: ‘Sur, – May we beg and beseech your proteckshion and power … We live in muck and filthe. We aint got no privies, no dust bins, no drains, no water splies, and no drain or suer in the hole place … The Stenche of a Gully-hole is disgustin. We all of us suffur, and numbers are ill, and if the Colera comes Lord help us …’
In the summer of 1858, while the Great Eastern was being fitted out for her maiden voyage, the ‘great stink’ finally became unbearable. Joseph Bazalgette, Chief Engineer of the Metropolitan Board of Works, proposed a grand scheme to build 82 miles of intercepting sewers, a sewage superhighway that linked with over 1,000 miles of street sewers to provide an underground network beneath the city streets. He drove himself to the limits of endurance struggling underneath London’s dense housing to create the world’s first modern sewage system. The task was made even more difficult since he was in competition with the new underground railway, a network of roads and the emerging overland railway systems. But his ambitious design transformed the city into the first modern metropolis, setting a standard that was quickly copied the world over.
While an endless supply of cheap labour was the human capital for many projects such as the London sewers and the Great Ship, this workforce needed new materials to build for a new age. The iron industry was booming and formed the basis of the Industrial Revolution. During the eighteenth century, output had been modest with the indigenous ore in England of such low grade that it took nearly seven tons of coal to refine one ton of iron, but by the mid-nineteenth century, improvements, particularly in the use of steam power for blast furnaces, enabled a better quality product to be made more economically. The search for coal and iron ore was ceaseless; by the 1850s a new blast furnace was opened every two weeks.
The railways were the first of the big adventures in iron. With the invention of the steam engine and the laying of track came untold wealth as the countryside was opened up and cities were linked, the new roaring engines shrinking space. Suddenly the country was mobile. Only 500 miles of track had been laid in 1838. Less than fifteen years later, by the time of the Great Exhibition in 1851, over 6,000 miles of track criss-crossed the country.
The golden age of railways in Britain was overtaken by the phenomenal growth of railways in America. In the early part of the nineteenth century the vast continent lay as it had for centuries, marked only by Indian and buffalo trails and the worn wagon tracks of those making the journey west. The eastern and western states of America were still separated by a harsh wilderness that took around six months to cross by wagon. Many preferred to make the journey to California by sea, braving a voyage around South America’s Cape Horn rather than risking the dangerous overland crossing. In 1830, when the first American-built locomotive, Tom Thumb, came into service, there were only 30 miles of working track in the United States. Growth was so fast that by 1850 there were over 9,000 miles of track and, by 1860, a staggering 30,600.
The Transcontinental Railroad was built with government help during and after the Civil War in the 1860s, and opened up the continent more quickly than a prairie fire, allowing the virgin acres to be settled. President Lincoln was determined on a railway line across the continent, which ‘was imperatively demanded in the interests of the whole country’. There were two teams, one began building from the east and the other from California in the west. Of the large numbers who drove the railways across America, the Chinese fared particularly badly, perishing in their thousands in the difficult terrain of the Sierras, their nameless bones gathered and shipped back to China by the crate load. In 1869, after seven years, the tracks joined, shrinking the whole continent as the journey from New York to San Francisco could now be done in a matter of days. In a record-breaking run, in 1876, tracks were cleared for the Lightning Train, which raced from coast to coast in just 83 hours. As President Lincoln had envisaged, the Transcontinental Railroad became a catalyst for the vast expansion that would help to make America the industrial giant of the world.
With the growth in cities and improvements in transport, the demand for goods grew. Commerce prospered, trade increased and more goods were exported. The relentless quest for profit created new wealth and capital, which in turn sought outlets and opportunities for further gain. There was a need to import more raw materials and export the growing surplus of manufactured goods. Since the medieval period wool had traditionally been the major trading commodity with Europe, but this had fallen away. In its wake there came a demand for more exotic goods to trade in Europe for iron ore and timber. The more adventurous among the merchant traders were landing sugar and cotton, spices and tobacco from the West Indies and America.
With the boom in world trade, by the late nineteenth century shipping was big business. In Egypt the Suez Canal had shortened the journey to India, Australia and the Far East, making trade easier and cheaper, and the world itself a smaller place. Having completed the Suez Canal in 1869, French entrepreneur Vicomte Ferdinand de Lesseps dreamed of an even bolder scheme. He would cut a path across the Isthmus of Panama and unite the great oceans of the Atlantic and Pacific ‘from sea to shining sea’. The long and dangerous journey around South America and Cape Horn would become a thing of the past. Ferdinand de Lesseps’s dream became a symbol of French national pride in the 1880s and thousands flocked to help with construction. But once out in the tropical heat of Panama, they found themselves facing impenetrable jungle, deep swamps and deathly tropical diseases as it proved to be an undertaking of nightmare proportions. With over 20,000 dead and the investors bankrupted, the canal company failed in 1889 and de Lesseps died a defeated man, soon after. Twenty-five years later, the Americans under Colonel George Goethals finally completed the project, opening up new regions for the ever-increasing world trade.
By the 1880s, in spite of the enormous wealth created by the Industrial Revolution in Europe, there were still large numbers in poverty who had not benefited at all. The American economy, however, was growing rapidly, exporting grain and manufactured goods to Europe. And there were plenty in Europe who dreamed of returning on these ships to reach the promised land of America. They had heard of the Statue of Liberty with the words etched on it: ‘Bring me your poor …’ They came from Ireland to escape the potato famine, from England looking for a better life, from Russia escaping the pogroms. Growth in America was so rapid that the population increased tenfold, from 4 million in 1790 to over 40 million by the time of the Centennial Exhibition of 1876.
One such immigrant was John Augustus Roebling, from Mühlhausen, Germany, a brilliant engineer who won the contract to build the biggest bridge in the world across the wide and turbulent East River, which separates New York from Brooklyn. Roebling’s Brooklyn Bridge would be a suspension bridge of great strength and exquisite symmetry: the crowning achievement of his career. The foundations alone would reach more than 70 feet below the river, its two mighty towers, at 276 feet, would dwarf much of New York. The total length of almost 6,000 feet seemed a miracle, and all to be built out of a new material: steel.
But this ambitious dream was to cost him the extreme price of life itself, and, unknowingly, he condemned his son to a shadow life. Determined to continue with his father’s vision, Washington Roebling had to face a mysterious new disease, ‘caisson disease’, or, as it is now known, the bends. As he and his team laboured deep beneath the East River in the hot, humid underground world of the caissons, no one knew who might be struck down next with the terrifying symptoms, paralysis or even death. Eventually Washington Roebling succumbed to the mysterious new disease. He was too weak to leave his room and could only continue his work on the bridge by dictating his instructions to his wife, Emily. As the great network of cables was spun across the great East River he watched through a telescope from his window.
‘During all these years of trial and false report,’ declared one leading official in his praise at the opening ceremony on 24 May 1883, ‘a great soul lay in the shadow of death, praying only to stay long enough for the completion of the work to which he devoted his life.’ It had taken fourteen years to build the Brooklyn Bridge but now it transformed the New York landscape and became a triumphant symbol of what men could achieve. As the public fell in love with the sheer American audacity of the enterprise, the heroism cemented into its very fabric, it came to represent ‘a monument to the moral qualities of the human soul’.
With improvements in travel and the growth in prosperity, people found their way across the vast continent. They marked the empty plains with their communities, building the first towns, selling the virgin land, creating a country, only stopped by a poor or hostile environment, such as the desert regions of Arizona and Nevada. And even here in a region so bereft of life, in the early 1900s, Arthur Powell Davis of the US Bureau of Reclamation realised it would be possible to make the desert bloom. He dreamed of harnessing the Colorado River as it gouged its way for 1,400 miles through snowy heights and forbidding canyons and turning the wild spirit of the unruly river into an obedient force for good.
The scale of the enterprise was so vast that it took years to win financial backing and government support. Everything about it broke records. As tall as a sixty-storey building and with a larger volume than the Great Pyramid at Giza, the Hoover Dam, begun in 1931, was the biggest dam in the world. At the height of the Depression, poverty-stricken workers earning just a few dollars a day died from horrific explosions, carbon monoxide poisoning and heat exhaustion. It was chief engineer Frank Crowe, with his skilled management, who built it ahead of schedule and under budget, and who, in doing so, created one more industrial wonder for the modern world.
By the time President Roosevelt inaugurated the Hoover Dam in 1935, the last ‘wonder’ described in this book, the world was transformed in almost every way possible. People’s standard of living had increased greatly, average life expectancy had almost doubled in the West and infant mortality had virtually disappeared. Other systems of transport had been developed too, including the automobile which gave many people their own private transport. Higher education and specialist training opened up new opportunities for those whose forebears, a few generations before, had been labouring in fields unable to read or write. The £1 a week that Robert Stevenson had given his labourers to work a twelve-hour day, seven days a week, wet or dry, had by the time the Hoover Dam was lighting up the western deserts turned into a wage that a working man, increasingly backed by unions, could live on more comfortably.
The stories in this book capture the restlessness and ambition of an age and also represent a high watermark of industrial achievement. Each ‘wonder’ illustrates the swiftly moving frontiers of technology, and serves as a unique monument, a marker for what was known at the time. Taken together, the wonders illustrate progress by charting the frontiers of industrial knowledge and expertise. Timing is critical; it is no accident that these particular stories occurred when they did. It would not have been possible to create a Hoover Dam or a Panama Canal earlier in the nineteenth century. Indeed, the French tried and failed in Panama since the technology and infrastructure to create the canal were not in place. The changes are not linear; history is not about a smooth, even progression. There were enormous bursts of creative endeavour and change that reached out in unexpected directions until what was once barely possible became routine.
In one sense the stories present a romantic view of man – of an individual who struggles to realise his dream and make a mark on the world. As the nineteenth century progressed the men of genius took the stage in quick succession, each engrossed in his own creation to the exclusion of all else. Each in turn gave so much of himself, often denying relationships, sleep, basic human comforts and ultimately, in some cases, their health, to the demands of their creative work. Robert Stevenson struggled in dangerous seas to create his lighthouse, which is the oldest offshore lighthouse still standing anywhere in the world, a testimony to his battle with the sea. The Roeblings – father and son – were prepared to give their very lives to the Brooklyn Bridge, whose perfect symmetry and beauty have inspired poets and artists. And Brunel was in the very midst of the Industrial Revolution, seemingly directing it himself, throwing his small, energetic figure into the great mélange, absorbed in the delight of it all, unable to tear himself away from his Great Ship, no matter what was the price to be paid.
The legacy of their great ambition and talent remains to this day. With the exception of Brunel’s Great Ship, all the wonders have survived to the twenty-first century and are now celebrated as powerful symbols of the modern world. The wealth of inspiration and energy of the nineteenth century was the catalyst for the huge progress that marked the twentieth century as the coming industrial giants stood on the shoulders of an earlier generation.
1 The Great Eastern (#ulink_b13a2232-5aaa-5def-8a03-7955a99c9448)
‘I have never embarked on any one thing to which I have so entirely devoted myself, and to which I have devoted so much time, thought and labour, on the success of which I have staked so much reputation …’
Isambard Kingdom Brunel on the Great Eastern, 1854
IN 1857, ISAMBARD KINGDOM BRUNEL, Britain’s foremost engineer, paused one day for a photograph in Napier shipyard at Millwall in east London. Cigar in mouth, with mud caked on his shoes and trousers, this is no formal photograph. He has his hands in his pockets, his clothes are creased, his hair untidy. The face and, particularly, the eyes are absorbed in something that can only be imagined, something that occupies him completely. He looks like a man with a future.
Brunel was at the peak of his fame, his latest venture had become the talk of England. Behind him rose the massive dark shape of the hull of the Great Eastern, the largest ship in the world, the Leviathan of her day. Expectant sightseers from across Europe came to see her on the banks of the Thames, where she rose, wrote Charles Dickens, ‘above the house-tops, above the tree-tops, standing in impressive calmness like some huge cathedral’. Nothing like this had been seen before; when complete, she would be the largest moving man-made object ever built and, for many, a symbol of the greatness of the British Empire. Yet far from being the final triumph in Brunel’s brilliant career, the Great Eastern was to become the monstrous creation that would destroy him.
Brunel’s grand scheme had begun to take shape a few years earlier, shortly after the Great Exhibition of 1851. Britain had seen a spectacular boom in the railway industry, with over 6,000 miles of track laid since the 1830s. Brunel himself, caught up in the thick of railway mania, was increasingly disillusioned by it. ‘The whole world is railway mad,’ he protested to a friend. ‘I am really sick of hearing proposals made.’ Among his sketches for Paddington Station in London in 1852, his notebooks reveal drawings of his next bold venture: a great steamship, almost twice the length of any ship ever built.
He dreamed of a floating city, majestic by day and a brilliant mirage at night, reflecting a million lights in the dark water. It was to be a ship of such vast and unheard of proportions that she could carry 4,000 passengers in pampered luxury as she steamed through distant seas. In the evening there would be dancing under sparkling chandeliers, or a stroll on deck in especially manufactured ‘moonlight’ as she pursued her steady course to the Antipodes magically, without need of refuelling. But could Brunel ever realise his dream and build the ‘Crystal Palace of the Seas’? And who could afford to support him?
Most ships docking in the Thames in the mid-nineteenth century were made of wood and built to a traditional design around a skeleton of wooden ribs giving strength to the hull. They were wind powered and usually little more than 150 feet in length. Brunel’s ‘Great Ship’, as she came to be known, was to be 692 feet long, 120 feet wide and 58 feet deep. Enormous engines as high as a house, with the power of over 8,000 galloping horses, would drive her paddle wheels and screw. In addition, an impressive 6,500 yards of sail would be carried on six masts and five funnels that were spread along her deck. The revolutionary new design of her hull, strong and streamlined, would see her cut through the seas as smoothly as a knife cuts butter and she would have the practical ability to carry all her own fuel to the furthest reaches of the empire and back. Brunel felt certain there was a need for such a ship.
To most shipbuilders of the day, Brunel’s Great Ship would have seemed an unattainable, magnificent dream, but Brunel had a way with dreams – his ‘châteaux d’Espagne’. At twenty, he had risked his life as engineer on the first tunnel under the Thames. At twenty-four he was elected a member of the Royal Society. He went on to design five suspension bridges including the magnificent Clifton Suspension Bridge at Bristol, as well as wet and dry docks, tunnels and piers. In 1833, he became engineer-in-chief to the Great Western Railway. His trains, speeding at 50 m.p.h. past fields and villages, opened up England and joined distant cities. He surveyed and planned the route from Paddington to Bristol, designing the track, cuttings, tunnels, stations and trains – even the signal boxes and at least 125 bridges on the route west. As he built the Great Western Railway, his dreams became even grander. He imagined large steamships that would go further west, sailing out across the Atlantic to America, shrinking the world’s oceans and creating a global system of transport.
Brunel launched the Great Western in 1837, which although constructed traditionally in wood was the largest steamship ever built and faster too. In 1843, he surpassed this with his second ship, the Great Britain, which at nearly 322 feet long and 50 feet wide was the first large iron screw steamship, with a new design of hull and increased emphasis on longitudinal strength. The Great Britain was not built in the traditional rib design; instead, ten iron girders ran the length of the vessel at the base. Everything about the ship was designed for strength and she became an extremely profitable vessel on the Australia run. In 1851, with the discovery of gold in Australia, and increasing demand for passenger and mail traffic to the East, Brunel could see a commercial possibility for an even bigger ship. ‘Size in a ship is an element of speed,’ he argued, ‘and of strength and of safety and of great relative economy.’
In the spring of 1852, Brunel approached the leading naval architect of the day, John Scott Russell, to seek advice about the feasibility of his plan for the Great Ship. Scott Russell had made his name streamlining the design of ships’ hulls for maximum efficiency with his ‘wave-line theory’. Brunel admired him and respected his achievements, notably his original work on hull design. ‘With respect to the form and construction of the vessel itself,’ said Brunel, ‘nobody can, in my opinion, bring more scientific and practical knowledge to bear than Mr Scott Russell.’
Scott Russell was equally impressed with Brunel and his extraordinary idea for the Great Ship. He suggested that they present the plan for the vessel to the Eastern Steam Navigation Company. This company had recently lost the mail contract to the Far East to the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company and were thought to be looking for a way to revive their fortunes on the route to India, China and Australia. Although a committee at the Eastern Steam Navigation Company decided in favour of the plan and appointed Brunel as engineer, the proposal caused a heated debate with some directors resigning. Indeed, Brunel soon learnt that ‘certain of the directors … opposed me personally’.
Undeterred, he threw himself into finding others interested in the project, and by the time capital for the venture was found, more than half of the new directors were nominated by Brunel. Charles Geach, MP for Coventry and chairman of the Midland Bank, was an important member of the committee and a business associate of Scott Russell to whom he supplied iron from a smelting company where he was a partner. Brunel, aware that most of the directors were of his choosing, felt ‘the heavy responsibility of having induced more than half the present directors of the company to join’. The fact was, he admitted, ‘I never embarked on any one thing to which I have so entirely devoted myself and to which I have devoted so much time, thought and labour, on the success of which I have staked so much reputation.’
By May 1853, enough shares had been sold to make a start and Scott Russell presented his estimate to the board for £377,200 to build the ship. The hull was £275,200, the screw engines were £60,000 and the paddle engines and boilers were £42,000. Since Brunel had calculated the cost of the ship as somewhere near half a million pounds, the board was delighted with Scott Russell’s price. Scott Russell had, however, seriously underestimated his costing. He wanted the commission so much that it is possible that he put in a low bid to ensure he got it, but the subsequent shortage of funds was to put the venture in jeopardy.
Soon Scott Russell faced further difficulties when, in September 1853, fire broke out in his shipyard. As the flames licked hungrily around the carpenters’ shop, the boilermakers’ shop and the timberyard, the London fire brigade ‘hurried towards the seat of the calamity … [but] unfortunately the light of the fire deceived them,’ reported The Times. They galloped at full speed down the wrong side of the river and were almost at Deptford before they realised where the fire was raging. In their rush back across London Bridge, ‘a body of the fire brigade were nearly killed as the horses galloped with the engine into a hole eight feet deep, pitching all the firemen off the machine’. It took over an hour for the fire engines to reach the scene, by which time the fire was well entrenched. By the light of day everything in Scott Russell’s yard was reduced to charred, black, smoking stumps. The damage was estimated at around £140,000 and most of the yard had not been insured.
A worrying and faintly discordant background to the ambitious project was becoming discernible. Russell’s yard was temporarily demolished and he was financially embarrassed. His yard lacked supervision, too, and with no provision for safeguarding large supplies, pilfering was rife. And, despite the fact that the Great Eastern was twice the size of any previous ship, she was to be built in a traditional shipyard with no special arrangements made for her construction. In this vaguely uneasy situation, Brunel insisted on total control.
Finally, in December 1853, all parties signed contracts for the Great Ship. Scott Russell was to build the hull and paddle engines, the celebrated James Watt and Co. would build the screw engines and Brunel was to approve all changes and drawings at every stage of the construction process. ‘I cannot act under any supervision,’ he said, ‘or form part of a system that recognises any other adviser than myself.’ Indeed, everything concerning the Great Ship was to be ‘to the entire satisfaction of the engineer’.
However, conflicts soon arose over the methods of payment. Brunel wanted to pay Scott Russell as work progressed, calculated on the amount of iron put into the ship on a monthly basis; this was the custom adopted for his railway contracts. Scott Russell, meanwhile, expected to be paid lump sums on a more regular basis so that he had sufficient cash to meet expenses. Liquidity, which had always been a problem for Scott Russell, was now made worse as some of his payment for work on the hull was in company shares, although Charles Geach helped by taking shares as payment for his iron instead of cash.
The most immediate practical concern for Brunel was where to build and launch his ship. The contract had stipulated that the ship be built in a dry dock but Scott Russell’s yard was too small for Brunel’s vast project. Scott Russell, needing more space, rented Napier shipyard adjoining his at Millwall to accommodate the construction of the hull. They realised that building the ship on an end slip was impossible; the bow would be 100 feet in the air during construction. It was also out of the question to launch a 700-foot-long ship stern first in the traditional way, when at that point the river was a mere 1,000 feet wide. After much deliberation, Brunel decided to build the ship on the bank parallel to the river and launch her into the Thames sideways down a gentle slope. To prepare the site, 2,000 oak beams up to 40 feet long were piled 5 feet apart into the shore, leaving 4 feet above ground. Further packing was then added and the flat-bottomed hull would rest on two large cradles.
In March 1854, just as they were finally ready to start construction work on the hull, Britain entered the Crimean War. With supplies needed for the military, the price of iron rose rapidly. A few months later, Scott Russell faced another major setback: the unexpected death of Charles Geach. ‘The Honourable Member had returned from his Scotch shooting in unusually good health,’ reported The Times. However, he had been suffering from a dangerous infection in his leg. A change for the worse occurred, ‘and after much suffering borne with the greatest fortitude and resignation, Mr Geach expired at half past 4 o’clock yesterday afternoon’.
This was a disaster for Scott Russell. Geach was crucial to the iron supply and was the one person who had accepted flexible terms of payment on this immensely expensive project. Scott Russell’s solution was a dangerous one. Unknown to Brunel and the other directors, he secretly mortgaged his shipyard, thereby putting the Great Ship at risk. Brunel had not worked closely on a financial venture before with Scott Russell and was unaware, at this point, of the danger signals beginning to emerge that could affect the future of his ‘Great Babe’, as he affectionately nicknamed his new creation.
In spite of the precarious financial situation, the hull was slowly rising, a massive dark shape against the water and sky. It was being built at a big southerly bend in the river at Millwall on the Isle of Dogs, about six miles down river from Westminster and 40 miles to the open sea. This was an undeveloped part of London, previously the haunt of wildlife, with little but ‘marshy fields and muddy ditches, with here and there, a meditative cow cropping herbage’. Now it was the site of a technological revolution that would inspire shipbuilding for years to come.
Brunel’s original idea for the design of the hull was evolved from lessons learnt in his bridge-building days. A key innovation was to have a double hull, heavily braced up to the water line, one hull inside the other and 2 foot 10 inches apart. These were to be constructed from 30,000 iron plates, each
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inch thick. The deck, too, would consist of two thicknesses of
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inch iron plate. Strength was further guaranteed by longitudinal and transverse bulkheads. According to Scott Russell, ‘the longitudinal system is carried throughout unbroken, without interruption by the bulk heads’ and the watertight transverse bulkheads, 60 feet apart the length of the ship, made her, it was hoped, virtually unsinkable. With this cellular double hull, the bulkheads and the strong watertight deck, Brunel compared the strength of the hull to that of a box girder.
This unique vessel was to be powered by both screw and paddle engines to give greater flexibility and manoeuvrability. The engines themselves would be giants, 40 feet high; the cylinders on the screw engines alone had a bore of seven feet by fourteen. And before the crankshaft for the paddle engines could even be made, new larger furnaces had to be built.
The giant hull was attended by an army more than a thousand strong of riveters, bashers and shipwrights. Men were busy inside, outside, high up, low down, creeping and crawling between the hulls, up at the bow, down at the stern, hammering, clanking, banging, carting iron, moving wood and hammering the rivets. Swarming all over the ship, they gave the impression of ants on a giant carcass. Depending on the light, men worked twelve-hour days and a skilled man could earn 30 to 40 shillings a week. There was no certainty of continued employment and plenty of men were waiting to step into the shoes of anyone who left their work.
The noise coming from the shipyard was deafening. The ringing sound of metal hitting metal reverberated throughout the hull. Two hundred riveting teams working both inside and outside the hull hammered unceasingly at a total of three million one-inch-thick, white-hot rivets. Each rivet would be held in place by a man on the other side of the plate. Children were employed as part of the team tending the forge and placing the heated rivets in the holes. They were particularly useful working in the double hull, where with limited space it was difficult for a man to manoeuvre. Working in the dark, confined space of the double hull, it did not do to lose concentration, even after a twelve-hour shift. One moment of carelessness could be paid for with a hand, or an arm, or a life.
Accidents were commonplace. It was all too easy to miss a step and, falling from a height, involve another man in disaster in the overcrowded conditions. One worker who was making bolts got his hands tangled in the machinery and torn completely from their sockets at the wrist. In his case, amputation of both arms was the only solution. Yet another man, curious about the working of a piledriver, was bent over examining the machinery when the hammer came down, flattening his head. Children were particularly vulnerable. They could be working in the yard as young as nine or ten. One unfortunate child fell from a height and was impaled on an upright iron bar. According to one witness, ‘after he was dead, his body quivered for some time’. There was always another boy willing to take his place for a shilling or two. A rumour persisted at this time that a riveter and his boy had somehow been forgotten and were entombed alive in a section of hull. Months later, workers said they could hear the ghosts hammering, trying to escape. Most were sure this tragedy would put a curse on the ship.
As work progressed it became apparent that Brunel and Scott Russell, the two great men locked into building this ship together, were very different in style and temperament. Brunel was married to his work, always absorbed in every detail. He thought nothing of getting dirty in the course of a working day. His wife, Mary, known as ‘the Duchess of Kensington’ on account of her beauty and style, rarely saw him at their elegant London home because he worked eighteen hours a day. Scott Russell, on the other hand, had a more relaxed managerial style – he delegated. As he sat in his impressive office, he expected the chain of command to work perfectly around him. He did not expect to get his beautifully tailored clothes dirty and left the management of the site to his yard managers, Hepworth and Dixon, who were responsible for the shipwrights. Increasingly, Brunel and Scott Russell found themselves in disagreement.
As the work on the Great Ship progressed and her shape became more evident, the press began to take an interest. They estimated that the Leviathan or Great Eastern, as she became known, had greater dimensions even than Noah’s Ark. ‘Great Eastern Fever’ began to spread throughout the country and the ship soon came to symbolise the ‘moral supremacy’ of the British Empire. Yet for all the growing national excitement, a serious rift between Brunel and Scott Russell was to emerge.
An article in The Observer in November 1854 sparked the first open clash. The paper had mistakenly credited Scott Russell with playing the major role in the design of the Great Ship. They quoted him ‘as carrying out the design’ and claimed that Mr Brunel had merely ‘approved of the project’. Brunel was furious and he wrote to Eastern Steam company secretary John Yates, correcting this error in no uncertain terms. He strongly suspected that Russell or one of his men had leaked the article. ‘This bears rather evidently a stamp of authority, or at least it professes to give an account of detail which could only be obtained from ourselves,’ he wrote. ‘I cannot allow it to be stated, apparently on authority, while I have the whole heavy responsibility of success resting on my shoulders, that I am the mere passive approver of the project of another, which in fact originated solely with me and has been worked out by me at great cost of labour and thought devoted to it for not less than three years.’ Quite how the information had reached The Observer was never ascertained.
Difficulties increased during the winter of 1854 with Scott Russell facing growing financial problems following the death of Charles Geach. His bank refused to give him any more credit, so he asked the board of Eastern Steam if he could be paid in future on a regular monthly basis for work accomplished. In April 1855, there was another fire at his yard and, while no damage was done to the Great Ship, he bore a further loss of £45,000. Faced with these difficulties and endless delays in construction at Scott Russell’s yard, Brunel was reluctantly forced to concede that the launch date, originally planned for October 1855, would have to be deferred.
A fundamental conflict between the two men arose over the method of launching the Great Ship. At an estimated 12,000 tons, this was the largest weight ever moved by man and it needed to be moved 200 feet into the river. Brunel had given much thought to the problem and had come to the conclusion that the only way to achieve this was through a ‘controlled’ launch. This was a most unusual procedure. Pushing the mighty 700-foot-long ship sideways into the river seemed fraught with problems, but Brunel, undaunted, insisted it was the only way to launch her. Anything else would be a disaster. He envisaged the possibility of the ship getting stuck or, worse, moving into the river far too quickly and keeling over or breaking up. He preferred to err on the side of caution and planned to use restraining chains to control the ship’s progress gently down the slope.
Scott Russell was totally opposed to a controlled launch. He pointed out that ‘free’ launches, admittedly of smaller ships, were carried out on the Great Lakes of America successfully. He was also worried about the cost of a controlled launch. Since Scott Russell was under contract to launch the ship and Brunel’s plan was estimated to cost an extra £10,000, he was not to be moved on this subject.
Throughout the spring and summer of 1855, Brunel was concerned as Scott Russell became increasingly uncooperative. He would be unavailable, slow in replying to letters and vague with the information that he did give. Brunel needed specific facts that would enable him to work out launching requirements and his irritation with Scott Russell grew. ‘I begin to be quite alarmed at the state of your contract,’ he wrote. ‘Four months are gone and I cannot say even the designs are completed … to justify a single bit of work being proceeded with.’ In May 1855, he wrote again to Russell in an exasperated tone: ‘Your reply this morning to my long list of complaints is an admirable specimen of an Under-Secretary’s reply in the House to a Member’s motion – it does not satisfy one single honest craving for information and for assurance of remedy … I do not want better indicators than usual … Those made on this occasion and to which I object were absurd – like the attempts at writing of a two year old baby.’
As the summer wore on, Scott Russell, faced with yet another fire at his yard, became more and more immersed in his financial uncertainties. And Brunel was totally consumed with giving life to his creation; transforming so many lifeless tons of iron and wood into the majestic shape of his inner vision. To this end he was always occupied, dealing with endless problems and finding endless solutions. He went to Haverfordwest in Wales to organise jetties where the Great Ship would take on coal. He found the man whom he felt had the necessary qualities and experience to captain his great ship: William Harrison. There were also detailed discussions to be had on the design of the engines. Brunel was soon worried to hear that Scott Russell was not fulfilling his contract. It had become apparent that the work on the hull was not commensurate with the amount of money Scott Russell had received. Scott Russell had in fact been paid the bulk of the money, but there was still a massive amount of work to do before the hull was anywhere near complete. Brunel slept only four hours a night and worked like a man possessed.
By late summer, Brunel was still trying to get information from Scott Russell that might affect plans for the launch of the ship. Again, he wrote requesting information from Scott Russell concerning the centre of gravity for the ship and, again, he felt the reply he received was too vague. Scott Russell meanwhile wrote with a request for more money – £37,673 to be precise. He argued that this sum was for extra work – alterations that Brunel had made to the original designs. This led to lengthy arguments and nurtured the growing distrust between the two men. Scott Russell did provide a launch date for March 1856 but infuriated Brunel by carelessly giving the wrong information on the tonnage of the vessel. Brunel was angry. ‘How the devil can you say you satisfied yourself at the weight of the ship,’ he wrote to Scott Russell in October 1855, ‘when the figures your clerk gave you are 1,000 tons less than I make it or than you made it a few months ago – for shame – if you are satisfied. I am sorry to give you more trouble but I think you will thank me for it – I wish you were my obedient servant, I should begin by a little flogging.’
By now, very little charm was wasted in dealings between the two men. Scott Russell replied with a request for more money needed to pay the banker, Martin’s Bank, who held his yard in mortgage. The Great Ship, it seemed, was eating money and he could not obtain credit from anywhere. He wrote again to Brunel insisting on regular payments, saying, ‘I fear I shall get into trouble unless we can see our way to a definite arrangement for the future. I am keeping an enormous establishment of people night and day. I either must have payment with certainty or reduce my number of hands.’ Trying to ease the strain on his finances, Scott Russell had taken orders for six other smaller ships, which he was building in the yard of the Great Ship, and on which the labour force was increasingly deployed. To add to Brunel’s disgust, the smaller craft in the yard were so placed that essential work on the Great Ship was made impossible. And still Scott Russell had not produced the information needed for the launch. Brunel wrote again on 2 December 1855, ‘I must beg you to let me have with the least possible delay the correct position of the centre of flotation at the 15’ draft line … I cannot stand any longer the anxiety I have felt ever since we commenced the ship as to her launching.’
Yet no information was forthcoming from Scott Russell. Whether Scott Russell was deliberately holding back the information Brunel required in the hope that he would be forced eventually into a cheaper uncontrolled launch is not known. Brunel defeated him; he managed to ascertain the centre of flotation and soon had plans prepared for the launching cradles and launch-ways. Scott Russell complained to the board, pointing out that the controlled launch had not been part of the original plan and that the additional cost he faced was prohibitive.
By January 1856, Brunel had finally had enough. He voiced his concerns to the board of the Eastern Steam Navigation Company, reporting that a ‘large deficiency’ in iron ‘appeared to exist’ at the yard which was difficult to understand as ‘I do not now believe that any mistake has been intentionally made or even intentionally overlooked … and have been assured … that none of the iron so imported was ever knowingly used for other purposes … I make the quantity in the yard about 1,400 tons but this would still leave 800 or 900 tons to be accounted for and I am totally at a loss to suggest even a probable explanation.’ To make his position absolutely clear, he went on to say,
I have great cause to complain of neglect or to say the least of it of inattention to my orders and remonstrances. My instructions even when repeated frequently and formally in writing are much disregarded … Mr Russell, I regret to say, no longer appears to attend either to my friendly representations and entreaties or to my own formal demands and my duty to the company compels me to state that I see no means of obtaining proper attention to the terms of the contract otherwise than by refusing to recommend the advance of any more money.
Dark clouds were gathering over the shipyard. If Scott Russell were eventually made bankrupt, the Great Ship might belong to the creditors. A crisis was reached when Martin’s, Scott Russell’s bankers, refused to honour his cheques. Scott Russell laid off the workers in the yard, saying he could no longer continue with the work. The board of Eastern Steam, on Brunel’s advice, seized the Great Ship, stating that Scott Russell had breached his contract. The creditors were informed, the accountants moved in, and work on the Great Ship came to a complete stop.
The board submitted a claim on Scott Russell’s estate citing breach of contract, only to find there was no estate left on which they could claim. Brunel had been unaware that Scott Russell had mortgaged his yard and that there were a number of creditors, Beale and Co., the iron manufacturer, being the largest. Apart from the mounting debt and the missing iron, it emerged that although only about a quarter of the work had been completed on the hull, Scott Russell had somehow been paid £292,295. The board of Eastern Steam and its worried shareholders now found themselves in the hands of Martin’s Bank, which had prior claims. After much difficult discussion the bank acknowledged that Eastern Steam had rights too, and agreed to renew the lease of the shipyard – but just until August 1857.
Brunel was understandably worried. ‘I feel a much heavier responsibility now thrown upon me than I ever intended to take upon myself,’ he wrote. He still had Hepworth and Dickson from Scott Russell’s establishment to work with, and, better still, Daniel Gooch, a colleague and old friend involved in his railway commissions, was approved as his assistant. Scott Russell, however, was humiliated. ‘I intend to be very cautious and to keep every string which it devolves on me to pull, tightly in my own hands,’ Brunel told him. ‘It would therefore be in the position of an assistant of mine – that I should propose to engage your services.’
The last two years had been immensely difficult for Brunel as he tried to bring his work of creative genius to fruition. The burden of organising such a vast project against such a fraught background was beginning to exact a price. He had taken liberties all his life with his strong constitution and robust health, ignoring warnings, winning glory and generally taking life at a gallop, but now the rumour spread that he was ill. With little over a year left in which to launch his Great Ship before the bank took control of the yard, Brunel was facing the supreme test of his entire career.
‘Where is man to go for a new sight?’ asked The Times in April 1857. ‘We think we can say. In the midst of that dreary region known as Millwall, where the atmosphere is tarry, and everything seems slimy and amphibious, where it is hard to say whether the land has been rescued from the water or the water encroached upon the land … a gigantic scheme is in progress, which if not an entire novelty, is at as near an approach to it as this generation is ever likely to witness.’ The excitement was tangible; with Brunel in complete charge work progressed so well that by June the ship was almost ready for launching. The Great Eastern had become the talk of Europe.
