SEVEN WONDERS
OF THE
INDUSTRIAL WORLD
Deborah Cadbury

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Introduction

1 The Great Eastern

2 The Bell Rock Lighthouse

3 The Brooklyn Bridge

4 The London Sewers

5 The Transcontinental Railroad

6 The Panama Canal

7 The Hoover Dam

Bibliography and Sources

Index

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Other Works

Copyright

About the Publisher

Introduction

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

‘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 ³/₄ inch thick. The deck, too, would consist of two thicknesses of ¹/₂ 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.

However, the optimism of the summer dissolved as endless difficulties connected with the launch arose. After much negotiation, a new launch date was agreed with Martin’s Bank for October 1857. If the ship was not in the Thames by this date, the creditors would claim the yard and ‘we will be in the hands of the Philistines,’ declared company secretary John Yates. The fifth of October arrived and Brunel, not satisfied that everything was ready for the launch, had no alternative but to defer the date once again. The mortgagees seized the yard and refused access to all working on the ship. The situation had become impossible. Brunel was now put under immense pressure to agree to launch on the next ‘spring tide’ of 3 November and the company was charged large fees for the delay.

As the Great Ship stood helplessly inert, waiting at the top of two launch-ways, her brooding shape invited much comment. Many thought she was unlaunchable and would rust where she was. Other wise ‘old salts’ predicted that if she ever did finally find the sea, the first wave would break her long back in half. Brunel never doubted; but no matter how carefully he planned the coming operation, there were still many unknowns and little time to test the equipment. In the small hours of the cold autumn nights it seemed he was attempting the impossible. He was proposing to move an unwieldy metal mountain more than four storeys high down a precarious slope towards a high tide with untried equipment.

The plan for launching the ship sounded simple. Hydraulic rams would gently persuade her down the launch-ways. Tugs in the river, under the command of Captain Harrison, could also ease her towards the river, and there were restraining chains to hold her back should she move too fast. Two wooden cradles, 120 feet wide, were supporting the ship and they rested on launch-ways of the same width. Iron rails were fixed to the launch-ways and iron bars 1 inch thick were attached to the base of the cradles and both surfaces were greased to enable the vessel to slide easily down the launch-way gradient.

As the spring tide of 3 November approached, work on the ship became more frenzied. At night, 1,500 men working by gaslight carried on with last minute instructions from Brunel. Brunel himself never left the yard, sleeping for a few hours when exhausted on a makeshift bed in a small wooden office. He issued special instructions to everyone involved with the launch, saying:

The success of the operation will depend entirely upon the perfect regularity and absence of all haste or confusion in each stage of the proceedings and in every department, and to attain this nothing is more essential than perfect silence. I would earnestly request, therefore, that the most positive orders be given to the men not to speak a word, and that every endeavour should be made to prevent a sound being heard, except the simple orders quietly and deliberately given by those few who will direct.

Unfortunately for Brunel, perfect silence was not a high priority with the board of the Eastern Steam Navigation Company. For months now, the company had borne the disastrous haemorrhage of enormous amounts of money into the Great Ship. The launching presented them with a small chance to recoup some of those losses. Unknown to Brunel, they had sold over 3,000 tickets to view the launch from Napier shipyard. Newspapers, too, had played their part, informing the public that an event worthy of comparison with the Colosseum was about to take place at Millwall. ‘Men and women of all classes were joined together in one amicable pilgrimage to the East,’ reported The Times. ‘For on that day at some hour unknown, the Leviathan was to be launched at Millwall … For two years, London – and we may add the people of England – had been kept in expectation of the advent of this gigantic experiment, and their excitement and determination to be present at any cost are not to be wondered at when we consider what a splendid chance presented itself of a fearful catastrophe.’

The launch place of the Leviathan presented a chaotic picture to Charles Dickens. ‘I am in an empire of mud … I am surrounded by muddy navigators, muddy engineers, muddy policemen, muddy clerks of works, muddy, reckless ladies, muddy directors, muddy secretaries and I become muddy myself.’ He noted that ‘a general spirit of reckless daring’ seemed to animate the ‘one hundred thousand souls’ crammed in and around the yard, upon the river and the opposite bank. ‘They delight in insecure platforms, they crowd on small, frail housetops, they come up in little cockleboats, almost under the bows of the Great Ship … many in that dense floating mass on the river and the opposite shore would not be sorry to experience the excitement of a great disaster.’

In the dull light of the November morning the scene that greeted Brunel as he emerged from his makeshift quarters was one of confusion and noise, with uncontrollable crowds swarming over his carefully placed launch equipment. All of fashionable London, displaying intense curiosity, expecting to be amused, charmed, and hopefully thrilled, was taking the air in Napier shipyard. Then, almost farcically, in the midst of preparations, a string of unexpected distinguished visitors turned up in all their finery, first the Comte de Paris and then, complete with a retinue resplendent in gold cloth, the ambassador of Siam. A half-hearted attempt at a launching ceremony saw the daughter of Mr Hope, the chairman of the board, offering the token bottle of champagne to the ship. Brunel refused to associate himself with it. She got the name wrong, christening the ship ‘Leviathan’, which nobody liked since all of London had already decided on the Great Eastern.

The whole colourful funfair scene was terribly at odds with the cold, clinically precise needs of the launching operation. Brunel felt betrayed, as he later told a friend: ‘I learnt to my horror that all the world was invited to “The Launch”, and that I was committed to it coûte que coûte. It was not right, it was cruel; and nothing but a sense of the necessity of calming all feelings that could disturb my mind enabled me to bear it.’

Brunel had no alternative but to make the attempt in spite of the difficulties. He stood high up on a wooden structure, against the hull, his slight figure wearing a worn air, stovepipe hat at an angle, habitual cigar in his mouth. He held a white flag in his hand, poised like a conductor waiting to begin the vast unknown music.

As his flag came down, the wedges were removed, the checking drum cables eased, and the winches on the barges mid-river took the strain. For what seemed an eternity, nothing happened. The crowd, which had been quiet, grew restive. Brunel decided to apply the power of the hydraulic presses. Suddenly, with thunderous reverberation, the bow cradle moved three feet before the team applied the brake lever on the forward checking drum. Immediately, accompanied by a rumbling noise, the stern of the great hull moved four feet. An excited cry went up from the crowd: ‘She moves! She moves!’ In an instant the massive cables of the aft checking drum were pulled tight, causing the winch handle to spin. As the winch handle ‘flew round like lightning’, it sliced into flesh and bone, and tossed the men who were working the drum into the air like flotsam. The price the team paid for not being entirely awake to the quickly changing situation was four men mutilated. Another man, the elderly John Donovan, sustained such fearful injuries he was considered a hopeless case and was taken to a nearby hospital where he soon died.

Later that afternoon, Brunel tried to move the hull once more but a string of minor accidents and the growing dark persuaded him to finish for the day. In the words of Brunel’s 17-year-old son Henry, ‘the whole yard was thrown into confusion by a struggling mob, and there was nothing to be done but to see that the ship was properly secured and wait till the following morning’.

The spring tide had come and gone, the next one was not for another month; another month of extortionate fees while the ship lay on the slipway. Brunel was determined to get the ship completely on to the launch-ways as soon as possible. He was very concerned that while the ship was half on the building slip (whose foundation was completely firm) and half on the launch-ways (which had more give) the bottom of the hull could be forced into a different shape. His urgent task was to get the ship well down the launch-ways to the water’s edge in case the hull started to sink into the Thames mud under its immense weight. The fiasco of 3 November at least provided information on how to manage the launch more effectively. Some alterations were made to improve the equipment and another attempt at the launch was made on the nineteenth. This was a huge disappointment with the hull moving just 1 inch. Clearly, more would have to be done.

The winches on the barges mid-river had been ineffective and all four were now mounted in the yard, their cables drawn under the hull and across to the barges; but even chains of great strength and size broke when any strain was put on them. ‘Dense fog made it almost impossible to work on the river,’ observed Henry Brunel. ‘Moreover, there seemed a fatality about every attempt to get a regular trial of any part of the tackle.’ Two more hydraulic presses were added to the original two, giving a force of 800 tons at full power.

By 28 November, Brunel felt confident enough to try to move the Great Ship once more. From a central position in the yard, Brunel signalled his instructions with a white flag. The hydraulic presses were brought up to full power and, to the accompaniment of terrifying sounds of cracking timber and the groaning and screeching of metal, slowly the ship moved at a rate of one inch per minute. As before, though, the tackle between the hull and the barges proved unreliable and Captain Harrison and his team found themselves endlessly repairing chains. In spite of the difficulties, by the end of the day the ship had been moved fourteen feet and there was renewed hope of floating the ship on the high tide of 2 December. An early start on 29 November saw the river tackle yet again let them down and the four hydraulic presses pushed to their maximum could not move the ship. Hydraulic jacks and screw jacks were begged and borrowed and by nightfall another 8 feet had been claimed so that by the thirtieth the ship had moved 33 feet in total and hope now had real meaning. But then one of the presses burst a cylinder, which killed off any possibility of a December launch.

Brunel would not be defeated though, and throughout December he carried on inching the colossal black ship down the launch-ways. Each day it was becoming more reluctant to start. ‘While the ship was in motion,’ noted Henry Brunel, ‘the whole of the ground forming the yard would perceptibly shake, or rather sway, on the discharge of power, stored up in the presses and their abutments.’ In the freezing fogs of December and January, the hundreds of workers were heard, rather than seen, as the yard echoed with the sounds of orders and endless hammering. The gangs sang to relieve their boredom as they mended the chains. At night, gas flares lit the scene and fires burned by the pumps and presses to stop them freezing up. With the small figures of the workers beneath the huge black shape in the mist, which was red from the many fires, it gave the impression that some unearthly ritual was being enacted on this bleak southerly bend in the Thames.

Brunel was coming to the conclusion that the pulling power he had hoped to obtain from the barges and tugs on the river was not going to be enough and that his best hope lay in providing much more power to push the ship into the river. The railway engineer, Robert Stephenson, a friend who had come to view the operation, agreed and orders were placed with a Birmingham firm, Tangye Bros, for hydraulic presses capable of much more power.

The whole country was following Brunel’s efforts to launch the reluctant ship and the press were increasingly critical. ‘Why do great companies believe in Mr Brunel?’ scoffed The Field. ‘If great engineering consists in effecting huge monuments of folly at enormous cost to share holders, then is Mr Brunel surely the greatest of engineers!’ There was no shortage of letters offering diverse advice. One reverend gentleman thought the best plan was to dig a trench up to the bows and then push the ship in. Another claimed that 500 troops marching at the double round the deck would set up vibrations that would move the vessel. Yet another idea was to float the ship to the river on cannon balls or even shoot cannon balls into the cradles. Scott Russell, too, aired his theories on just why the ship was ‘seizing up’ and reluctant to move. He suggested the two moving surfaces should have been wood not iron.

December and January were bitterly cold. By day, the ship looked mysterious in dense fogs; the nights were black as the river itself. Brunel stood alone against a background of criticism; his sheer unremitting determination to get the ship launched permeated every impulse. By early January, he had acquired eighteen hydraulic presses and they were placed nine at each of the cradles. It was thought that their combined power was more than 4,500 tons.

The new hydraulic presses were so successful that as the month advanced the Thames water was lapping her hull. The next high tide of the thirtieth was set for launch day. But the night of the twenty-ninth brought sheeting horizontal rain and a strong southwesterly wind. Brunel knew that if they got the ship launched, the difficulties of managing the craft in the shallow waters of the Thames, where at this point it was not much wider than the length of the ship, would be considerable in such high winds. Miraculously, though, 31 January was still and calm. The Thames shimmered like a polished surface.

At first light, Brunel started the launch process in earnest. Water which had been pumped into the ship the day before to hold her against the strong tide was now pumped out. The bolts were removed from wedges that were holding the ship. Nothing more could be done until the tide came up the river, which it did with surprising speed and force. Messengers were sent with desperate urgency to collect the men in order not to miss the opportunity which seemed to have arrived at last. The hydraulic presses were noisy with effort and the great Tangye’s rams hissed and pushed at the massive structure. Two hours of shoving and straining and tension down the last water-covered part of the launch-ways saw the vast iron stern afloat. The forward steam winch hauled and, quickly, the huge bow responded and moved with solemn deliberation into the water. There were no crowds to witness this defining moment; just a few curious onlookers there by accident as the colossal ship moved from one element to another. As the news spread, bells rang out across London as the Great Eastern floated for the first time.

Brunel, who had not slept for 60 hours, was able to board with his wife and son and at last could feel the movement of the ship as she responded to the currents of the Thames beneath her. Four tugs took the Great Eastern across the river to her Deptford mooring where she could now be fitted out. The cost of the launch was frightening – some estimates suggest as much as £1,000 per foot – and the ship had so far consumed £732,000, with Brunel putting in a great deal of his own money. But the cost to Brunel’s health was higher still. Over the past few months he had pushed himself to the limits of endurance. It seemed the Great Ship owned him in body and soul and gave him no relief from the endless difficulties of turning his original vision into a reality. Now that the Great Eastern was finally in the water after years, Brunel’s doctors insisted that he take a rest.

When Brunel returned in September 1858 he found that the Eastern Steam Navigation Company was in debt, that there was no money to fit the ship out and there was talk of selling her. The company tried to raise £172,000 to finish the work on the ship, but this proved impossible. The financial problems of the board were only resolved when they formed a new company, ‘the Great Ship Company’, which bought the Great Eastern for a mere £160,000, and allotted shares to shareholders of Eastern Steam in proportion to their original holding. Brunel was re-engaged as engineer and, with his usual energy, became busy with designs for every last detail, even the skylights and rigging. Yet he was harassed now with health problems and doctors diagnosed his recurring symptoms as ‘Bright’s disease’, with progressive damage to his kidneys. They insisted that he must spend the winter relaxing in a warmer climate. The last thing Brunel wanted was to leave his Great Ship when there was still so much to supervise. Reluctantly, he agreed to travel to Egypt with his wife and son, Henry.

Before he left, with memories of the impossible position that the board had faced when dealing with Scott Russell, he urged them to ensure that any contract they entered into for fitting out the ship was absolutely binding. However, with Brunel abroad and clearly unwell, the board, left with bringing to completion such a unique vessel, opted for the devil they knew. Scott Russell had built the hull and he was building the paddle engines. He was, after Brunel, the man who knew most about the Great Ship. It was not long before the charming, charismatic Scott Russell with his delightfully low-priced, somewhat ambiguous contract was back on board.

In May 1859, Brunel returned. The enforced holiday appeared to have been beneficial and his friends were hopeful that he was fully recovered. Privately, he knew this was not the case. His doctors had made it quite clear that his disease was progressing relentlessly. Only so much time was left for him and he should certainly not overexert himself. Yet, for Brunel, rest was out of the question. Whatever private bargain he may have made with himself, it proved impossible for him to resist the pull of the Great Eastern. His ship came first, whatever the cost.

With the maiden voyage planned for September, all Brunel could see was the enormous amount still needing to be done. So he rented a house near the ship and, with his usual energy, dealt daily with the many problems that needed his expert attention. Everything from the engine room to the rigging was checked; the best price of coal ascertained; the crew for the sea trials named; progress reports on the screw engines prepared; notes for Captain Harrison; advice on the decoration in the grand saloon: nothing escaped his practised eye. On 8 August 1859, a grand dinner was given for MPs and members of the House of Lords in the richly gilded rococo saloon but Brunel was too exhausted to attend. It was a glamorous occasion and, in Brunel’s absence, Scott Russell rose to it, shining in the glowing approbation of the distinguished audience.

On 5 September, Brunel was back on board his ship. He had chosen his cabin for the maiden voyage and stood for a moment on deck by the gigantic main mast while the photographer recorded the event. He had lost weight; his face was thinner, his clothes hung on him. In one hand he held a stick to help him get about; his shoes were clean and polished. He had a fragile, expended air. As he looked at the camera – his eyes, as always, concentrating, absorbed in some distant prospect – he looked like a man with little time left. Just two hours later he collapsed with a stroke. He was still conscious as his colleagues carried him very carefully to his private coach and slowly drove him home to Duke Street as though he were breakable.

The Great Eastern made her way alone now, without Brunel’s attention, directed by fussing tugs down the Thames to Purfleet in Essex and beyond for her sea trials. Once out to sea, she was magnificent. ‘She met the waves rolling high from the Bay of Biscay,’ reported The Times. ‘The foaming surge seemed but sportive elements of joy over which the new mistress of the ocean held her undisputed sway.’

With Brunel lying paralysed at home in Duke Street, Captain Harrison was now in charge, but his command was diluted as the engine trials took place. The two engine rooms were supervised by the representatives of the firms responsible for the engines; Scott Russell put his man Dixon in charge of the paddle engine room. Brunel had designed many new and innovative features for the smoother running of his ship, some of which those in charge were neither familiar with nor even aware existed. No one had the same intimate understanding of the complex workings of the ship as Brunel and if his familiar figure had been on board, in total charge with his boundless energy and sharp mind directing proceedings, it is possible the accident would never have happened.

The Great Eastern was steaming along, just off Hastings, cutting smoothly through the waves and making light work of the choppy seas that were tossing the smaller boats dangerously around her. Passengers on board had left the glittering chandeliered saloon to dine; a hardier group had gathered in the bow to view the distant land. Suddenly, without warning, there was a deafening roar that seemed to come from deep within the bowels of the ship, and the forward funnel was wrenched up and shot 50 feet in the air, accompanied by a huge cloud of steam under pressure. Up in the air was tossed the forward part of the deck and all the glitter and glory of the saloon in the catastrophic eruption. Passengers were stunned, almost blinded by the white cloud of steam, and then the debris came crashing down.

Captain Harrison seized a rope and lowered himself down through the steam into the wreck of the grand saloon. He found his own little daughter, who by a miracle had escaped unhurt. The accident, it was clear, was in the paddle engine room, which had suddenly been filled with pressurised steam. Several dazed stokers emerged on deck with faltering steps, their faces fixed in intense astonishment, their skins a livid white. ‘No one who had ever seen blown up men before could fail to know that some had only two or three hours to live,’ reported The Times. ‘A man blown up by gunpowder is a mere figure of raw flesh, which seldom moves after the explosion. Not so men who are blown up by steam, who for a few minutes are able to walk about, apparently almost unhurt, though in fact, mortally injured beyond all hope of recovery.’ Since they could walk, at first it was hoped that their injuries were not life threatening. But they had met the full force of the pressurised steam; they had effectively been boiled alive. One man was quite oblivious to the fact that deep holes had been burnt into the flesh of his thighs. A member of the crew went to assist another of the injured and, catching him by the arm, watched the skin peel off like an old glove. Yet another stoker running away from the hell below leapt into the sea, only to meet his death in the blades of the paddle wheel.

‘A number of beds were pulled to pieces for the sake of the soft white wool they contained,’ reported Household Words,

and when the half-boiled bodies of the poor creatures were anointed with oil, they were covered over with this wool and made to lie down. They were nearly all stokers and firemen, whose faces were black with their work, and one man who was brought in had patches of red raw flesh on his dark, agonised face, like dabs of red paint, and the skin of his arms was hanging from his hands like a pair of tattered mittens … As they lay there with their begrimed faces above the coverlets, and their chests covered with the strange woolly coat that had been put upon their wounds, they looked like wild beings of another country whose proper fate it was to labour and suffer differently from us.

Among the crew, the fate of the riveter and his boy, locked alive in the hull years before, resurfaced, with prophesies of worse to come.

The Great Ship sailed confidently on, her engines pounding, not even momentarily stopped in her tracks, just as her designer envisaged. Such an accident would have foundered any other ship. The stunned passengers were at a loss to know what had happened, and were totally unaware that the whole explosive performance could be repeated at any minute with a second funnel. The accident had been caused by a forgotten detail: a stopcock had been inadvertently turned off, allowing a water jacket in the forward funnel to explode under pressure. There was a similar stopcock also affecting a second funnel – also switched off, also building up enormous pressure. By a miracle, one of Scott Russell’s men from the paddle engine room realised what had happened and sent a greaser to open the second stopcock. A great column of steam was released and the danger passed.

Twelve men had been injured; five men were dead. An inquest was held in Weymouth in Dorset. It proved difficult to ascertain just who had responsibility for the stopcock. Scott Russell, smoothly evasive, claimed that he had been on board merely in an advisory capacity and that the paddle engines and all connected with them were the total responsibility of the Great Ship Company. ‘I had nothing whatever directly or indirectly to do,’ he said. ‘I went out of personal interest and invited Dixon as my friend.’ He claimed he had ‘volunteered his assistance only when it became obvious to him that the officers in charge were having difficulty in handling the ship’. All the other witnesses also disclaimed responsibility. There were, however, passengers on the ship who insisted that they had heard Scott Russell ‘give at least a hundred orders from the bridge to the engine room’. The truth, though, was undiscoverable, lost somewhere in the maze of evidence from the variously interested parties. Accidental death was the verdict from the jury.

At his home in Duke Street, Brunel, a shadow but still clinging to life, was waiting patiently through the dull days for word of the sea trials. Paralysed, he lay silently, hoping for good news, hoping so much to hear of her resounding success. Instead, he was told of the huge explosion at sea and the terrible damage to the ship. It was a shock from which he could not recover. It was not the right news for a man with such a fragile hold on life. He died on 15 September, just six days after the explosion on his beloved Great Eastern, still a relatively young man at the age of 53.

The country mourned his loss; the papers eulogised. A familiar brilliant star was suddenly out. ‘In the midst of difficulties of no ordinary kind,’ said the president of the Institution of Civil Engineers, Joseph Locke, ‘and with an ardour rarely equalled, and an application both of body and mind almost beyond the limit of physical endurance in the full pursuit of a great and cherished idea, Brunel was suddenly struck down, before he had accomplished the task which his daring genius had set before him.’

With her creator gone, the Great Ship put in to Weymouth on the south coast for repairs that would bring her up to Board of Trade requirements. While work was in progress, sightseers at 2s 6d per head came in their thousands to wonder and whisper if the ship was damned. Was there not a story about a riveter and his boy and bad luck? Since the repairs took longer than expected the company postponed plans for the maiden voyage until the following spring and, as the sightseers had proved financially successful, the Great Ship steamed on to Holyhead in Anglesey, Wales, to find some more.

While there she encountered a fearsome storm with gale force winds and rivers of rain. The crashing waves broke the skylights, deluged the ship and ruined the décor in the grand saloon. Captain Harrison realised she had lost her mooring chains and was at the mercy of the storm. He ordered the engineer to start the paddle engines and, by skilfully keeping her head into the wind, the Great Eastern rode out the storm that saw many wrecked around her. Nearby, the steamship Royal Charter went down with 446 lives, further evidence that the Great Eastern was unsinkable as her creator had claimed. It was decided that Southampton would be a more sheltered port for the winter.

It was, however, a troubled winter for the Great Eastern and those connected with her. At a special shareholders’ meeting, the news that there was a mortgage of £40,000 attached to the ship and the company was over £36,000 in debt led to angry calls for the directors to resign. A new board of directors led by Brunel’s friend, Daniel Gooch, was voted in. They issued shares in the hope of raising £100,000 to complete the ship but doubts were raised over the terms of the contract with Scott Russell and, above all, how £353,957 had been expended on a ship still not fit for sea. Once again, Scott Russell’s loosely defined estimate for fitting out the ship had been wildly exceeded. The services of Scott Russell were finally dispensed with and Daniel Gooch was elected chief engineer.

Yet more bad luck seemed to haunt those connected with the ship. One January day in the winter of 1860, Captain Harrison with some members of the crew set out from Hythe pier on Southampton Water to reach the Great Eastern in a small boat. As they left the shelter of the land, they were hit by a sudden violent squall. The tide was very high with choppy, dangerous seas. Harrison ordered the sail down, but the wet sail would not budge. The rest occurred in just a minute. The wind hit the sail and turned the boat over. Captain Harrison, always cool and collected, made repeated attempts to right the boat, but it kept coming up keel first. Buffeted by wild and stifling seas, he seemed almost powerless. Very quickly, the sea claimed the ship’s boy, the coxswain, and master mariner Captain Harrison himself. The Great Eastern had lost her captain hand-picked by Brunel.

Almost two years had elapsed since the launch and the ship had still not made a trip to Australia as originally planned. With the continued shortage of funds this was difficult to finance and, instead, the Great Ship Company decided to sail her as a luxury liner on the Atlantic. In June 1860, the Great Eastern finally sailed for New York on her maiden voyage. On board were just 38 passengers, who marvelled at the great ship, fascinated by the massive engines, the imposing public rooms, the acres of sail. Despite the small number of people on board, they were in champagne mood, enjoying dancing, musicals and a band and strolling the wide deck as they walked to America with hardly a roll from the Great Eastern. The crew, 418 strong, took her across the Atlantic as though she were crossing a millpond.

‘It is a beautiful sight to look down from the prow of this great ship at midnight’s dreary hour, and watch the wondrous facility with which she cleaves her irresistible way through the waste of waters,’ reported The Times. ‘A fountain, playing about 10 feet high before her stem, is all the broken water to be seen around her; for owing to the great beauty of her lines, she cuts the waves with the ease and quietness of a knife; her motion being just sufficient to let you know that you have no dead weight beneath your feet, but a ship that skims the waters like a thing of life …’

When she reached New York, on 27 June, people turned out in their thousands to view her; they packed the wharfs, the docks, the houses. ‘They were in every spot where a human being could stand,’ observed Daniel Gooch. A 21-gun salute was fired and the ecstatic crowds roared their approval. All night in the moonlight, people tried to board her and the next day an impromptu fairground had gathered selling Great Eastern lemonade and oysters and sweets. Over the next month, the streets were choked with sightseers and the hotels were full as people were drawn from all over America to view this great wonder. The Great Eastern was the toast of New York. Her future as a passenger ship seemed assured.

In the mid-nineteenth century, sea travel was hazardous. Many ships were lost but the Great Eastern was proving to be unsinkable. Confidence in her was rising. She had survived the terrible ‘Royal Charter storm’ and, with her double hull and transverse and longitudinal watertight bulkheads, she would laugh at rough weather. It was thought her hull was longer than the trough of the greatest storm wave.

And so it was with a mood of great optimism that the Great Eastern left Liverpool under full sail on 10 September 1861, in such soft summer weather that some of her 400 passengers were singing and dancing on deck. The next morning was grey with a stiff breeze blowing spray. By lunchtime they were meeting strong winds and heavy seas and by the afternoon, when they were 300 miles out in the Atlantic, the winds were gale force. ‘She begins to roll very heavily and ship many seas,’ wrote one anxious passenger. ‘None but experienced persons can walk about. The waves are as high as Primrose Hill.’

With waves breaking right over the ship, the Great Eastern soon leaned to such an extent that the port paddle wheel was submerged. The captain, James Walker, became aware of a sound of machinery crashing and scraping from the paddle wheel. Clinging on to the rails, he lowered himself towards the ominous sounds. As the Great Ship lurched through the waves and the paddle wheel was flung under water, Walker was pulled into the sea right up to his neck. When he got a chance to investigate he could see planks splitting, girders bending and the wheel scraping the side of the ship so badly that it looked as though it might hole her. Somehow, he clambered back to the bridge and gave the order to stop the paddle engines. But without these, the screw engines alone could not provide enough power to control the ship’s movement in what was fast turning into a hurricane.

As the ship rolled, the lifeboats were broken up and thrown into the foaming water by the furious waves. One lifeboat near the starboard paddle wheel was hanging from its davit and dancing about in a crazy fashion. It was damaging the paddle wheel, so Captain Walker had it cut away and ordered the starboard engines reversed to ensure the rejected boat did not harm the paddle further. The ship was wallowing and plunging at an angle of 45 degrees in the deep valleys of water, with overwhelming mountainous seas on either side. Walker was desperate to turn the ship into the wind, but before he could the paddle wheels were swept away by a huge wave.

Terrifying sounds were coming from the rudder, which had been twisted back by the heavy seas. It was out of control and was crashing rhythmically into the 36-ton propeller, which was somehow still turning. With the loss of steerage from the broken rudder it was quite impossible to turn the ship. And then the screw engines stopped. The ship was now without power and completely at the mercy of the elements. An attempt was made to hoist some sail, but the furious gale tore it to shreds.

Below decks, madness reigned. In the grand saloon, chairs, tables and the grand piano were smashing themselves to pieces. Rich furnishings were shredded. The large cast-iron stove came loose and charged lethally into mirrors, showering fragments of glass everywhere and snapping the elegant decorative columns in half. Among this were passengers trying to dodge the furniture and cling for dear life to something stable. Water roared and torrented in through the broken skylights. At one moment, two cows from the cow pen on deck and some hens were thrown in with the deluge. A swan, which was trying to take off, battered itself to death. The cabins were smashed and soaked as water poured below deck. The ship’s doctor was busy treating 27 passengers with serious fractures, not least the ship’s baker who had managed to break his leg in three places.

For the whole of the following day the hurricane continued to blow and the Great Eastern shipped even more water. A four-ton spar loaded down with iron was put overboard in the hope it would act as a drag and give some control to the seemingly doomed ship. It was soon torn away. By now, the water that was still coming in through portholes and skylights and finding its way below deck was overwhelming the pumps. Ominous thumping and crashing were heard from the holds where nothing had been secured and ruined goods were flung from side to side with the water in the hold, battering the hull. No one had eaten for 48 hours. The situation looked hopeless.

In the evening, an attempt was made to secure the wildly gyrating rudder, still battering itself uncontrollably into the propeller and gradually being torn apart. Heavy chains were eventually wound round the broken steering shaft and made fast, so that the rudder at last became stationary. A sailor was found to brave the seas, and was lowered on a boatswain’s chair to the rudder where, in spite of terrifying conditions, he managed to loop a chain round the rudder and through the screw opening. At last, with two chains attached to the rudder, a very primitive means of steering was established. It was now possible to start the screw engines and slowly make it back to Milford Haven in Wales.

When land finally came into view, the passengers, wild with excitement, began an impromptu celebration in the ruined saloon. Limping into harbour with the band playing, the Great Eastern had survived. Everyone on board was quite sure no other ship could possibly have done so. She was, indeed, unsinkable. The grateful passengers disembarked, one woman so overwhelmed that she fainted. But the bill for the damage, which took months to repair, was £60,000. The company was in debt again.

By the summer of 1862, the Great Eastern was making regular, successful and uneventful trips to New York with a new captain, Walter Paton. In August, she embarked once again with a full cargo and 1,500 passengers and, although the ship met with yet another bad storm, Captain Paton stayed on the bridge and battled through it at full power. They reached New York on a night of calm waters and silver moonlight. The ship took on the pilot off Long Island and proceeded through the narrow channel to dock. During this final length of the journey a deep rumbling sound was heard; the ship faltered and then recovered. No damage could be found. Next day at anchor, the captain sent a diver down who discovered a great gash, 85 feet long and 5 feet wide, on the flat bottom of the outer hull. The inner hull was untouched. Brunel’s double hull had saved the ship. She had collected this awful wound from an uncharted needle of rock that came within 25 feet of the surface.

Captain Paton was a long way from Milford Haven where the ship could be put on a gridiron for repairs. He did not want to chance a journey back across the Atlantic at a time of equinoctial gales with a hull so badly ruptured, but there was no facility in America where she could be repaired and no dry dock big enough to take her. Even if he could beach her massive hull somewhere in North America, the long gash was in the flat bottom of the ship and impossible to repair.

Shipbuilders in North America were intrigued by the challenge of repairing the vast ship, but no one had an answer until a civil engineer called Edward Renwick and his brother, Henry, offered their services. Neither man inspired confidence. Both had only partial sight and were inclined to grope their way around furniture. However, they were confident, in spite of their disabilities, that they could repair the ship. Their plan was to build a watertight cofferdam over the long gash, enabling work to be completed in the dry.

Their project was accepted and templates were made from the inner hull. The space between the hulls was calculated, which then gave the exact shape of the outer hull. The riveters were to conduct their job from inside the ship by making their way down a dark shaft to the gash in the hull and many needed some persuading to trust the temporary cofferdam clamped on to the big ship’s hull. One day panic grew as knocking was heard in the double hull. Rumours spread quickly and the riveters became adamant that a ghost was hammering. They downed tools and refused to work as long as the banging continued.

The captain was called. He, too, heard the ghost ‘pounding on the hull’. Work was stopped. Fear infiltrated the ship like mist. Every inch of the bilge was inspected. The hammering was coming from below the waterline, so Captain Paton inspected the outside of the hull in a small boat. There, the ‘ghost’ was discovered: a loose chain knocking the side of the ship as it rose and dipped in the swell.

The work was finished in December 1862 and Edward and Henry Renwick presented their bill for £70,000. The insurance firm refused to pay. The company had now lost £130,000 in the last two years. When the Great Eastern arrived back in England she spent months on a gridiron while Board of Trade inspectors reviewed the work of the Renwick brothers. She made three more trips across the Atlantic, lost another £20,000 and was then beached again while the board considered the situation. Despite their efforts, the board had failed to make their fortunes from the unique vessel and even while she was on her gridiron in some lonely cove, like a great sea creature thrown up on to the beach and forgotten, she was still silently absorbing funds. The company decided to sell their one asset. The Great Eastern was auctioned in January 1864 for the disappointing sum of £25,000.

Far from being finished, however, the Great Eastern was on the threshold of a completely new career. The chairman of the new company was Daniel Gooch and he had never lost faith in Brunel’s great ship. He immediately chartered the Great Eastern to the Atlantic Telegraph Company for £50,000 of cable shares. It was their intention to lay cable across the ocean from Ireland to America. There had already been an unsuccessful attempt to lay cable by a wealthy American businessman, Cyrus Field. He was quite sure that it was possible to make the cable link between the two continents as the sea floor between Newfoundland and Ireland was plateau-like and not too deep.

The Great Eastern was stripped of all her finery and prepared for cable-laying. The grand saloon and palatial first-class cabins were thrown aside to house the miles of cable and the machinery that would deliver it to the ocean. And in July 1865, with Daniel Gooch on board, she began her next venture.

Daniel Gooch knew Brunel had designed a strong and magnificent ship that had come through adversity time and again. He felt her worth would at last be realised. The success of the venture, he declared, ‘will open out a useful future for our noble ship, lift her out of the depression under which she has laboured from her birth and satisfy me that I have done wisely in never losing confidence in her’.

Despite his enthusiasm, he, too, soon ran into problems. On 2 August 1865, after successfully laying out 1,000 miles of cable across the Atlantic, it broke and disappeared to fall 2,000 fathoms into the faceless ocean, which offered no clues or help. ‘All our labour and anxiety is lost,’ despaired Daniel Gooch. ‘We are now dragging to see if we can by chance recover it, but of this I have no hope, nor have I heart to wish. I shall be glad if I can sleep and for a few hours forget I live … This one thing upon which I had set my heart more than any other work I was ever engaged on, is dead.’ The ship returned, defeated, having lost £700,000 worth of cable.

From defeat, once again, optimism blossomed and in July 1866, after reviewing the mistakes of the previous year, the ship sailed again with stronger cable and improved machinery. This time success was the reward as the ship put in to Hearts Content Bay, Newfoundland. Daniel Gooch sent a telegram back to the Old World: ‘Our shore end has just been laid and a most perfect cable …’ And when in September returning home they reached the approximate position of the previous year’s lost cable, they put the improved grappling gear to work and, by some small miracle, found and recovered it. Success now seemed assured and Daniel Gooch estimated that the company would be nearly £400,000 a year better off. For the next three years, the Great Eastern laid cable all over the world, from France to America, Bombay to the Red Sea and a fourth cable to America, as well as completing repair work on previously laid cable. In 1874, however, her cable-laying days were over with the launch of a custom built ship, the Faraday, produced especially for the sole task of cable-laying.

Now the Great Eastern presented the company with a problem. No one had ever made money from her as a passenger ship. She had been designed originally to steam halfway round the world to Australia where, with 4,000 passengers and enough fuel for the return journey, she would have presented strong competition for sailing ships and made a fortune. But the Suez Canal was now in operation and the Great Eastern was just too large to use it. Any journey she now made to Australia would not be competitive and she was always considered too large to be economic on the Atlantic run.

She spent twelve quiet years, largely forgotten, on the gridiron at Milford Haven, a gentle dilapidation settling on her like a mould. Suggestions were made for her future, perhaps as a hospital or hotel, but they came to nothing. She was auctioned in 1885 for £26,000 to a coal haulier, Edward de Mattos. He leased her for a year to a well-known Liverpool draper, Louis Cohen, who proposed to turn her into a showboat for the exhibition of manufactures.

The old ship was goaded into life, but her paddle engines were eaten up with rust and unusable. Even her screw engines were stiff and reluctant as she slowly made her way to Liverpool, to be turned into some sort of funfair decked with advertisements. Trapeze artists dived from the rigging. The grand saloon became a music hall. Coconut shies vied with ‘what the butler saw’. Beer halls, conjurors, knife throwers and all the fun of the fair brought in a profit for Mr Cohen. ‘Poor old ship, you deserved a better fate,’ Daniel Gooch wrote in his diary on hearing the news, adding, ‘I would much rather the ship was broken up than turned to such base uses.’

When Mr Cohen’s lease expired, Mr de Mattos tried to repeat his success, but it seems he did not have enough of the circus in his blood to pull it off. So, in 1888, after due consideration, the ship which had cost well over a million pounds to build, maintain and repair was auctioned for scrap for the meagre sum of £16,000.

The still magnificent ship, and all the dreams she carried of everyone connected with her, was taken to the scrapyard at Birkenhead to be demolished. At first, it looked as though the breakers would make a tidy profit. They estimated that they could sell the iron plates and various metals for £58,000, but with the Great Eastern making a profit was never a foregone conclusion and, true to her history, she made a loss. Demolition proved cripplingly expensive, as human hands were not enough to pick the immensely strong hull to pieces. This was a ship designed for strength by her creator, a ship that had survived the full fury of Atlantic storms. It took some 200 men working night and day for two years, swinging demolition balls and anything else they could find to pole-axe her obstinate refusal to be metamorphosed into so many tons of scrap. Slowly the layers of metal were peeled away, the outer skin of the hull, the inner hull, the organs of the engine and all the intimately connecting shafts and pistons, until one day where she had stood was just space.

As for the riveter and his boy, entombed alive in the double hull, rumours persisted that their skeletons were indeed found. According to James Dugan, author of The Great Iron Ship in 1953, there was one witness: a Captain David Duff who at the time was a cabin boy. He claimed to have visited the wrecker’s yard and wrote: ‘They found a skeleton inside the ship’s shell and the tank tops. It was the skeleton of the basher who was missing. Also the frame of the bash boy was found with him. And so there you are Sir, that’s all I can tell you about the Great Eastern.’ But the local papers of the time bear no record of this extraordinary story and the captain’s account has never been authenticated. For the time being, the mystery of whether or not the basher and his mate were entombed remains unsolved.

It is wrong to blame the ill fortune that seemed to haunt the Great Eastern on some evil-spirited ghosts. She was way ahead of her time and was to remain the largest ship in the world until the Lusitania of 1906 and later the Titanic. But in the mid-nineteenth century there were few harbours where the Great Eastern could dock and this fact alone limited her success. She was specifically designed for taking large numbers of people to Australia, but this never happened. Those who managed her have been criticised for their insistence on using her for the luxury market to the United States at a time when there was just too much competition on this route. If she had sailed to New York from Liverpool with a full complement of emigrants and brought back cotton or wheat, she could have made £45,000 per round trip. Eight hundred thousand emigrants left Europe for the United States in the Civil War years.

Had her creator lived beyond the age of 53 then perhaps he would have been able to steer his ship towards profitability. But Isambard Kingdom Brunel was gone and, in 1890, his dream disappeared, too. Only the spirit of the man lived on. His friend Daniel Gooch wrote on Brunel’s death, ‘the greatest of England’s engineers was lost, the man with the greatest originality of thought and power of execution, bold in his plans but right. The commercial world thought him extravagant; but although he was so, great things are not done by those who sit down and count the cost of every thought and act.’

2 The Bell Rock Lighthouse

‘There is not a more dangerous situation upon the whole coasts of the Kingdom, or none that calls more loudly to be done than the Bell Rock …’

Robert Stevenson, 1800

THE SAFE ANCHORAGE of the Firth of Forth on the east coast of Scotland has always been a refuge for shipping hoping to escape the wild storms of the North Sea. The safety of this natural inlet, however, is considerably compromised by the presence of a massive underwater reef, the Bell Rock, lying treacherously right in the middle of the approach to the Firth of Forth. It is far enough away from the coast for landmarks to be unable to define its position, being eleven miles south of Arbroath and a similar distance west from the mouth of the Tay. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, when a storm was brewing in the Forth and Tay area, those at sea faced a forbidding choice: ride out the storm in the open sea or try to find safety in the Firth of Forth and risk an encounter with the Bell Rock.

Hidden by a few feet of water under the sea, the craggy shape of the Bell Rock lay in wait for sailing ships, as it had for centuries, claiming many lives and ships and scattering them wantonly, like trophies, over its silent and mysterious escarpments. It bares itself briefly twice a day at low tide for an hour or two, and then disappears under the sea at high tide, sometimes its position given away by waves breaking on the submerged rocks and foaming surf over its rugged features. An outcrop of sandstone about a quarter of a mile long, it slopes away gently on the southern side, but to the north it rises steeply from the seabed, an unyielding barrier.

For early navigators the greatest danger was to come suddenly upon the northern cliff face. Any ship taking soundings north of the rock would find deep water and assume all was safe, only to learn the fatal error should the ship stray a few yards further south. All on board would listen for the last sounds they might hear of timber being torn and split as wood was crushed against rock. So many lives were lost, along the whole Scottish coast the notorious Bell Rock ‘breathed abroad an atmosphere of terror’.

For centuries the sea lanes were deserted, their wild highways left unchallenged, but from about the mid-eighteenth century the growth of trade in flax, hemp and goods for the weaving industry saw an increase in shipping and, as a consequence, a growing number of fatal collisions with the massive submerged cliff of the Bell Rock. The heavy toll brought pleas for some kind of warning light, although no one was sure how this could be done so far out to sea on a rock which for most of the time was under water.

The local people of the east coast had once succeeded in putting a warning on the rock. In the fourteenth century, it was said, a man called John Gedy, the abbot of Aberbrothock, was so concerned at the numbers who perished there that he set out to the rock with his monks and an enormous bell. With incredible ingenuity, they attached the bell to the rock and it rang out loud and clear above the waves warning all seafarers, an invisible church in the sea.

The good abbot, however, had not reckoned on human avarice. Soon after, a Dutch pirate called ‘Ralph the Rover’ stole the bell, in spite of its miraculous power to save life by its insistent warning ring. Ironically, he died within a year and must have regretted his act when his ship met bad weather and the great reef, and some said a deserving fate, as he and his ship disappeared beneath the waves. From that time, the rock acquired its name and became known as the ‘Bell Rock’.

The coast of Scotland is long and rugged and has many jagged peninsulas and rocky islets. Even by the late eighteenth century for hundreds of miles, according to local accounts, these desolate shores ‘were nightly plunged into darkness’. To help further the safety of these coastal waters, the Northern Lighthouse Board was established in 1786 to erect and maintain lighthouses. At that time, the warning lights to shipping were often no more than bonfires set on dangerous headlands, maintained by private landowners. When the warning fires were most needed in bad weather, they were usually put out by drenching rain.

By 1795, the board had improved on these primitive lights with seven major lighthouses, but progress was slow. They were chronically underfunded, though never short of requests to do more by worried shipowners, and especially to put a light on the Bell Rock. The Northern Lighthouse Board was well aware of the desirability of a light on the rock. Its reputation as a killer lying in wait at the entrance to the enticing safety of the Firth of Forth had travelled well beyond England. However, with little in the way of funds and the difficulties of building so far out to sea on a rock that was submerged by up to sixteen feet of water for much of the day, such a request was improbable madness not even to be considered.

There was one man, however, who had been dreaming of the impossible, of building a lighthouse on the hidden reef and allowing the whole bay of the Firth of Forth to be useful as safe anchorage. Robert Stevenson was a man of strong character who by some strange fate had been given the very opportunities he needed to fulfil his ambition. In early life his chances of success had looked poor. His mother, Jean Stevenson, had been widowed and left penniless when he was only two. Years of hardship followed, but Jean Stevenson, a deeply religious woman, struggled on to ensure an education for her son. In later life, Stevenson always remembered ‘that dark period when my mother’s ingenious and gentle spirit amidst all her difficulties never failed her’.

Jean was eventually remarried in November 1792 to an Edinburgh widower called Thomas Smith who designed and manufactured lamps. At the time, Smith was interested in increasing the brightness of his lamps. A scientific philosopher from Geneva called Ami Argand had recently developed a way of improving brightness by fitting a glass tube or chimney around the wick. Smith was experimenting with taking this work further by placing a polished tin reflector behind and partly surrounding the wick, shaped in a parabolic curve to focus the light. This gave a much brighter beam than conventional oil lamps and the lamps from his workshops were now much in demand. He was soon approached by the Northern Lighthouse Board, who employed him as their lighting engineer. At a time when lighthouses were as basic as a fire or torch on top of an open tower or simple oil lamps encased in glass lanterns, Smith began to design oil lamps with parabolic reflectors consisting of small facets of mirror glass to create a powerful beam.

When the young Robert Stevenson visited his stepfather’s workshop, he found it a magical place where uninteresting bits of metal and glass were transformed into beautiful precision-made objects. Jean could see where her son’s interests lay and, much to his delight, Stevenson was soon apprenticed to Thomas Smith. One of Thomas Smith’s duties at the Northern Lighthouse Board was to visit the board’s growing number of lighthouses. During the summer months he and Stevenson would set out by boat and appraise the situation, repairing damage and deciding on the position of new lighthouses. By about the turn of the century this responsibility fell entirely to Stevenson.

‘The seas into which his labours carried the new engineer were still scarce charted,’ his grandson, Robert Louis Stevenson, wrote years later.

The coasts still dark; his way on shore was often far beyond the convenience of any road; the isles in which he must sojourn were still partly savage. He must toss much in boats; he must often adventure on horseback through unfrequented wildernesses; he must sometimes plant his lighthouse in the very camp of wreckers; and he was continually enforced to the vicissitudes of out door life. The joy of my grandfather in this career was strong as the love of woman. It lasted him through youth and manhood, it burned strong in age and at the approach of death his last yearning was to renew these loved experiences.

From May to October, Stevenson went on his round visiting the board’s scattered lighthouses, taking much needed supplies and solving problems. These could vary from the repair of storm-damaged buildings to the question of finding new pasture for the keepers’ cow. Stevenson was also employed to map out the position of new lighthouses and soon found that some of the inhabitants of the remote islands – who supplemented their income from wrecking – were openly hostile to him.

On one journey in dense fog his ship came dangerously near sharp rocks of the Isle of Swona. The captain hoped to get help towing the ship away from the danger from a village he could see on shore. The village looked dead; everyone was asleep. To attract attention, he fired a distress signal. Stevenson watched in disbelief, as ‘door after door was opened, and in the grey light of morning, fisher after fisher was seen to come forth nightcap on head. There was no emotion, no animation, it scarce seemed any interest; not a hand was raised, but all callously waited the harvest of the sea, and their children stood by their side and waited also.’ Luckily a breeze sprang up and the ship was able to make for the open sea.

During these summer trips Stevenson learned a great deal. He could be impatient, not inclined to suffer fools gladly, but he never lacked confidence in his ability to tackle the most difficult problems. Over these years, as the Scottish coastline and its lighthouses became ingrained on his mind, he was nurturing his secret ambition to tame for ever the awful power of the Bell Rock. The fulfilment of his dream seemed remote. Stevenson was not a qualified civil engineer. As Smith’s young assistant he had little influence with the board. And he was only too aware that the commissioners believed that a light on the Bell Rock was out of the question.

Those living on the northeast coast of England and Scotland in December 1799 saw the old century dragged out with a thunderous storm of screaming winds and mountainous seas, which raged from Yorkshire to the Shetlands. All along the east coast, ships at anchorage were torn from their moorings and swept away. Those seafarers who could hear anything above the wind and crash of waves listened for the dreaded sound of wood cracking and splitting as it was thrown against rock – the sound of death. In Scotland, the haven of the Firth of Forth, guarded by the Bell Rock, was ignored. Ships preferred to make for the open sea and take their chances in the storm rather than try to steer their way past the dreaded reef. The storm lasted three days and was to sink 70 ships.

The call for a light on the Bell Rock grew louder. If there had been a lighthouse, shipowners argued, many more ships would have made for the safety of the Firth of Forth. The Northern Lighthouse Board began, at last, to give serious consideration to what they still saw as an insoluble problem and Stevenson was quick to present his own plan for a beacon-style lighthouse on cast-iron pillars. Although there was not a more dangerous situation ‘upon the whole coasts of the Kingdom,’ he argued, his design would be safe, relatively inexpensive and even pay for itself as the board collected fees from ships taking advantage of its warning light. The cautiously minded board was impressed with the idea of economy, but less sure of Stevenson’s design.

Despite his experience around the coast of Scotland, Stevenson had not yet managed to set foot on Bell Rock itself and was impatient to do so. In April 1800, he hired a boat, intending to survey the site, but the weather was too stormy to land. In May, as he sailed nearby on a journey north, it lay invisible, even at low tide. He had to wait until the neap tides of October before he could make the attempt again. At the last minute, however, the boat he had been promised was unavailable and no one was prepared to take him out to the rock, not even in calm seas. Time was running out for a landing on the rock before winter and, if he could not find a boat, he would miss the favourable tides. Finally, a fisherman was found who was prepared to take the risk; it transpired the man often braved the Bell Rock to hunt for valuable wreckage to supplement his income.

Once on the rock, Stevenson and his friend, the architect James Haldane, had just two hours in which to assess the possibilities that the rock might offer before the tide returned and the rock disappeared. It was covered in seaweed and very slippery. The surface was pitted and sea water gurgled and sucked in the fissures and gullies that criss-crossed the rock, but Stevenson was encouraged by what he saw. The exposed area at low tide was about 250 by 130 feet, revealing enough room for a lighthouse. Better still the surface of the rock was of very hard sandstone, perfect for building.

There was one problem though. He had thought that a lighthouse on pillars would offer less resistance to the sea, but when he saw the heavy swell around the rock, overwhelming the channels and inlets, pushing its bullying foamy waters into deep fissures even on a calm day, he knew his plan could not work. Visiting boats bringing supplies or a change of keeper would be shattered against the pillars in heavy seas, and the capability of the pillars to withstand the timeless beating of the waves was questionable, too. ‘I am sure no one was fonder of his own work than I was, until I saw the Bell Rock,’ he wrote. ‘I had no sooner landed than I saw my pillars tumble like the baseless fabric of a dream.’

The two hours passed all too quickly. The fisherman, who had gathered spoils from wreckage on the reef, was anxious to leave as the returning tide swirled around their feet. For Stevenson, finding the Bell Rock and standing at the centre of its watery kingdom, with nothing but the ever-encroaching sea in sight, had been a revelation. It was clear that only an immensely strong tower would have a chance of surviving in such an exposed position – a building higher than the highest waves, made of solid sandstone and granite. With these thoughts in mind, he undertook an extensive tour of English lighthouses and harbour lights in search of a model on which to base his own plans. It was a journey of some two and a half thousand miles by coach or on horseback, which took many months of 1801. He soon found there was only one such stone sea-tower already in existence. It was built on a buttress of rock about nine miles from the port of Plymouth, off the south coast in Cornwall.

The Eddystone Lighthouse, so called because of the dangerous eddies and currents that swirled around it, had withstood the fearsome gales blown in from the Atlantic since 1759. It had been built by John Smeaton, a man revered by Stevenson and considered to be the father of the civil engineering profession. Standing 70 feet high, it was made from interlocking solid Portland stone and granite blocks, which presented a tall, smooth curved shape to the elements. It had been inspired, Smeaton said, by the trunk of an oak tree. ‘An oak tree is broad at its base,’ he explained, ‘curves inward at its waist and becomes narrower towards the top. We seldom hear of a nature oak tree being uprooted.’

There had been several attempts at lighthouses on the Eddystone rocks before Smeaton’s triumphant endeavour, the most notable being the Winstanley Lighthouse, built in 1698. Henry Winstanley, the clerk of works at Audley End in Essex, was also an enthusiastic inventor and he took it upon himself to build a remarkable six-sided structure on the Eddystone rocks standing over 100 feet high. With charming balconies, gilded staterooms, decorative wrought-iron work and casement windows for fishing, the whole curious structure was topped with an octagonal cupola complete with flags, more wrought iron and a weather vane. It might have been more appropriately placed as a folly on a grand estate, but Winstanley was confident it could withstand the most furious of storms. He was so confident that he longed to be there in bad weather to observe the might of the sea and by chance he was there on 26 November 1703. That night a bad storm blew in with horizontal rain, screaming winds and waves 100 feet high. Winstanley certainly had his wish. At some time in the night, the fury of the sea took Winstanley and his pretty gilded lighthouse and tossed them to a watery oblivion. In the morning, nothing remained but a few pieces of twisted wire.

On his return from his trip in September, Stevenson immediately set about redesigning his lighthouse along the lines of Smeaton’s Eddystone. He, too, would build a solid tower that curved inwards, the walls narrowing with height and accommodating the keeper’s rooms. It would have to be at least twenty feet taller than the Eddystone, which was built on a rock above sea level, unlike the Bell Rock, which at high tide was covered by eleven to sixteen feet of water. And if it was to be taller, it would also have to be wider at the base, over 40 feet, with solid, interlocking granite stone that would ensure it was invulnerable, even in roaring seas. More than 2,500 tons of stone would be needed and Stevenson calculated that the cost of such a lighthouse would be around £42,000.

He could foresee that this cost would be a major obstacle as the annual income collected by the Northern Lighthouse Board from dues was a modest £4,386. He was right; the board thought the cost prohibitive and also questioned Stevenson’s ability to undertake such an immense and difficult project. They felt he was too young and untried for this great responsibility and pointed out that he had in fact only ever built one lighthouse before, a small lighthouse at that, and on the mainland. The board made it clear that they intended consulting established men in the civil engineering profession, men with a body of work and high reputation, such as John Rennie, who was building the London Docks.

But Stevenson was a man who stood four-square to an unfavourable wind. The sweet wine of optimism flowed in his veins in generous measure and he took the negative epistle from the board as a simple invitation to his buccaneering spirit to try again. Meanwhile the commissioners of the Northern Lighthouse Board realised they would never generate alone the huge sum needed for a lighthouse on the Bell Rock. It would need an Act of Parliament to allow them to borrow the required amount, which they would then repay from the shipping dues they collected.

The first Bill was rejected in 1803, but the subject was far from forgotten. The board was still hopeful for some sort of light and made it known that they would give consideration to any sensible plan that was submitted. A Captain Brodie stepped forward with his plan for a lighthouse on four pillars made of cast iron and a generous offer to provide, at his own expense, a temporary light until a permanent structure was in place. The board quietly shelved the lighthouse on cast-iron pillars but encouraged the temporary lights, which duly appeared, built of wood. And as each one was toppled by careless seas, it was replaced by Captain Brodie with growing impatience. Several budding engineers had proposed plans for a lighthouse on pillars, including one advocating hollow pillars, to be filled every tide by the sea, but the conservative-minded members of the Northern Lighthouse Board remained unconvinced.

The years were sliding by and Stevenson embarked on courses in mathematics and chemistry at Edinburgh University and worked on designs for other lighthouses. All the while, he was untiring in his efforts to interest the board in his now perfected design for a strong stone tower on the Smeaton plan. He envisaged a lighthouse standing over 100 feet tall, 42 feet wide at the base, with 2 feet embedded in the Bell Rock, and the whole exterior of the building encased in granite. The board were polite but cautious. If only ‘it suited my finances to erect 10 feet or 15 feet of such a building before making any call upon the Board for money,’ Stevenson declared with growing impatience, ‘I should be able to convince them that there is not the difficulty which is at first sight imagined’. While the officials procrastinated through 1804, a severe storm blew up and sank the gunship HMS York off the Bell Rock. Sixty-four guns and 491 lives were lost. With the loss of a gunship at a time of Napoleon’s unstoppable progress, the Admiralty at last woke up to the dangers of the Bell Rock.

The board, however, still took no action and somewhat dejected, in December 1805, Stevenson could see no alternative but to send his plans to John Rennie seeking his advice. Rennie was a man at the peak of his career, widely recognised as one of the best civil engineers in the country, with twenty years achievement in building bridges, canals and harbours. None the less, Stevenson felt reluctant to share his ideas after all this time, pointing out that the design had ‘cost me much, very much, trouble and consideration’. Rennie, however, was greatly impressed by his work and replied by return of post. He confirmed that only a stone building would survive the conditions of the Bell Rock and approved Stevenson’s basic plan. He even came to a similar conclusion on the cost of the enterprise.

Rennie’s approval was enough to unlock the door. Overnight, the Northern Lighthouse Board was transformed and unanimous: the commissioners wanted a lighthouse on the Bell Rock such as Rennie advocated. But first there would have to be a Bill passed by Parliament allowing the board to borrow £25,000. In April 1806, John Rennie and Robert Stevenson went in person to Westminster to explain their case to the Lords of the Treasury and the Lords of the Admiralty. Progress was slow, but eventually the Bill was passed and a date set for work to start on the infamous Bell Rock.

The Northern Lighthouse Board, mesmerised by Rennie’s reputation and charmed by his charisma, placed him in overall charge, with Stevenson merely acting as his assistant. Rennie himself, who had never built a lighthouse, argued that the light on Bell Rock should be a fairly faithful copy of Smeaton’s Eddystone Lighthouse, which was, after all, a proven success. He based the design of the lighthouse tower on this concept, but with a much greater curvature at the base to deflect the force of the waves upwards. Although a lot younger, Stevenson considered himself far more knowledgeable about lighthouses than Rennie, having now built several, and he was also familiar with the unique conditions of the Bell Rock. So without ever questioning the older man’s authority, he became quietly determined to work entirely from his own plan.

But no one had ever built a lighthouse where so much of it was underwater. Stevenson could not know for sure whether a stone lighthouse was feasible. There was an awful possibility that the critics were right. Perhaps he was attempting the impossible, endangering life and squandering money. The Bell Rock could so easily have the last word as his imagined sea citadel came tumbling down.

In spite of any misgivings and after the years of delay, Stevenson was anxious to start work on the rock no later than May 1807. His first challenge was how to manage his workforce so far out at sea. No one had ever tried to build a lighthouse on a rock only exposed for two hours in every twelve. As the tide was later by about an hour every day, there would be times when the rock was only uncovered during the night. When building the Eddystone Lighthouse of the Cornish coast, Smeaton had ferried his men to work on a daily basis, but Stevenson did not see that as a practical proposition for the Bell Rock. He decided to take the bold step of keeping his men out at sea, at first on a vessel moored at a safe distance from the rock and, later, in temporary quarters on the rock itself.

Stevenson hoped to raise a sturdy wooden building, the beacon, on the Bell Rock that would stand on timber beams well above the reach of high tide. These temporary barracks would house the men and at night provide a warning light for passing ships. He was only too aware that such a building might be considered precarious, just a few feet above the swirling waters of the North Sea with no land in sight. After all, Captain Brodie’s beacons had not braved the relentless onslaught of the waves for long and Winstanley’s more substantial lighthouse had been blown away in the night like gossamer in the wind, but there was really no alternative. Should a sudden gale blow up, it might be impossible to row back in heavy seas to their vessel, and once the tide turned the exposed rock was all too quickly drowned again by the rush of incoming water. Some kind of temporary dwelling was essential.

Before the beacon could be built, he needed a ship that would fulfil a duel role providing a dormitory for men working on the rock and also a floating light warning ships at sea. The board was obliged to provide a warning light at night while work was in progress, which would enable them to charge dues from passing shipping and start repaying the loan. For this purpose he acquired an 82-ton vessel, the Pharos – named after the first celebrated beacon tower of ancient Egypt, the Pharos of Alexandria. The Pharos was then fitted out to provide 30 bunks for the workmen, quarters for the crew and a cabin for Stevenson that would give him some privacy.

The Pharos would have to be moored one mile from the rock since it was inadvisable to be too near the escarpment should she break anchor in bad weather. Here the water was particularly deep and, as high winds could easily set the ship adrift, a special heavy mushroom-shaped anchor was cast that would dig into the seabed and act as a drag. The men would have to row each day in small boats the mile from the Pharos to their work on the Bell Rock.

The starting date in May passed by and with it went the good weather. Stevenson was becoming impatient, as preparations took longer than anticipated. Another ship had to be built, a 40-ton ship called the Smeaton that would be used to bring out supplies to the rock. Stone from the quarries was ordered and masons were hired to cut each stone into its own individual design so that it interlocked with its neighbour and gave the tower stability. There were tools to be ordered, coal for the smith, food, alcohol, water and then the men to be hired who would labour possibly for years on the rock. Stevenson preferred to hire those who had worked for him before or were recommended. He was a good judge of character and men usually stayed with him on wages of 20 shillings a week, ‘summer or winter, wet or dry’, with rations of ¹/₂ pound of beef, 1 pound of bread, 2 ounces of butter and 3 quarts of beer a day. There was, too, the added bonus of papers, which protected them from the press gangs, which were quite ruthless in claiming men for service in the navy.

Stevenson made it quite clear to his men that nights would be spent on board ship and that no man could return home to his family for a month. After a month, he reasoned, the men would have adjusted to seasickness and, hopefully, fear too. He worried that if they were allowed home earlier they probably would not return. He also required the men to work on Sunday. This proved a problem to many, so before they began the epic journey to their new home in the middle of the sea, perhaps as some sort of insurance against the unknown dangers, the men crowded into the little church at the port of Arbroath to hear prayers.

Late in the evening on 17 August 1807, the Smeaton finally set sail. Ships in the harbour were flying their colours and friends and family had gathered on the quay to see the men leave. As the ship moved slowly out of the harbour towards the darkening sky, the sound of cheers rang out across the water and echoed around the town and then was lost to the sound of the waves.

They reached the rock, hissing and frothy with surf, at dawn the next morning. There was an air of excitement at being in such a strange place. It was too early to start work with the tide still pushing water over their feet, so Stevenson raised three cheers and poured a ration of rum to the men. By 6 a.m., the water had retreated and some of the workmen began drilling holes for the beams that would support the beacon. The smith, James Dove, who would soon be busy sharpening tools, found a sheltered corner near a rock pool while other men cleared seaweed away from the pitted and uneven surface of the slippery rock. A seaweed called dulse was collected with enthusiasm; many of the men were suffering from seasickness and this was thought to be an antidote. When the tide returned, the men were thankful to row back to the relative security of their temporary accommodation on the Smeaton. As they pulled away, the rock that only minutes before had been a firm foothold was swallowed up before their eyes, with not even a ripple to mark its position.

Calm weather with whispering seas and wide, pearly-gold skies of late summer surrounded the enterprise in the first few weeks. Stevenson’s first task was to set up the forge. Everybody helped James Dove erect the iron framework which would form the hearth. This was supported by four legs set up to twelve inches into the rock and secured with iron wedges. A huge block of timber which would carry the anvil was treated in the same way and water was fast encroaching again as the weighty anvil was placed. James Dove was invariably up to his knees in water and sometimes up to his waist but this was considered a minor problem compared to keeping the forge fire from the ever-playful waves.

The next task was to start work on the temporary hut or beacon. This was uppermost in everyone’s minds since if there were an accident to the rowing boats when attempting to land, then this beacon on the Bell Rock would at least provide something to cling to until rescue arrived. Willing hands took on the difficult task of gouging out the hard sandstone that would take the stanchions supporting the uprights. Fifty-four holes in all, each two inches in diameter and eighteen inches deep, were needed to hold the iron stanchions. The upper part of the stanchions above ground would be riveted into the six massive 50-foot upright beams that formed the core framework of the beacon and other supporting beams.

One morning as the men rowed towards the rock, Stevenson was astonished to see what looked like a human figure lying on a ledge of rock. His mind was in turmoil, assuming that there must have been a shipwreck in the night and the place would be littered with dead bodies. He was afraid his men would want to leave. They would see the Bell Rock living up to its reputation as a place of dread. As soon as he landed, and without a word, he made his way quickly to where the ‘body’ lay, only to discover, with immense relief, that it was, in fact, the smith’s anvil and block.

Six days after leaving Arbroath, the men, who had been very cramped on the Smeaton, were transferred to the lightship Pharos, now anchored a mile away. Everyone was pleased to be going to the larger ship, which had a well-equipped galley and bunks for the men. Her only drawback was that she did roll rather badly even in light winds. This made it extremely difficult for the men even to get into the rowing boats for the mile-long row to the rock. Indeed, her rolling was so great ‘that the gunwale, though about five feet above the surface of the water, dipped nearly into it upon one side,’ recorded Stevenson, ‘while her keel could not be far from the surface on the other’. Everyone hoped the good weather would continue, not daring to imagine what she would be like if the weather turned. Seasickness, which had largely been conquered, now became a very big problem. Even Stevenson was affected.

On Saturday night, all hands were given a glass of rum and water and every man made a contribution to the occasion, singing, playing a tune or telling a story, so that the evening passed pleasurably, ending with the favourite toast of ‘wives and sweethearts’. By Sunday morning, however, the atmosphere was much changed. There was the seriousness of breaking the Commandments to be considered. Several were opposed to working on the Sabbath, but Stevenson pointed out that their labour was an act of mercy and must continue without fail, although he emphasised no one would be penalised for following his conscience. Prayers were said, and then Stevenson, without looking back, stepped into the boat. To his relief, he was followed by all but four of the masons.

Several days passed with work progressing well. The site for the lighthouse was marked out, a huge circle 42 feet in diameter in the middle of the reef, and the foundation holes for the beacon house were underway. On 2 September, however, their luck changed. A strong wind blew up and a crew from the Smeaton, who had rowed to the rock that morning, bringing eight workmen, was concerned that the Smeaton might break loose from her riding ropes and took its rowing boat back to check. No sooner had it reached the Smeaton than she broke from her moorings and began drifting at speed. The men who had remained on the rock were so intent on their work that they did not notice the rowing boat leave, or see that the Smeaton herself was floating quickly away.

Stevenson, alone, realised their terrible dilemma. He could see that with the wind and tide against her, the Smeaton could never get back to the Bell Rock before the tide overflowed it. There were 32 men working on the rock and only two boats, which in good weather might hold twelve men each. But now the wind was blowing in heavy seas. In such conditions, it would be fatal to put more than eight men in each boat to row the mile back to the floating light. It meant that there was transport for only half the men.

He watched the ship too far away to help and the men still involved in their work. As he stood there, trying to make sense of this insoluble problem, the waves came in with a sudden fury, overwhelming the smith’s fire, which was suddenly put out with a protesting sizzle and hiss. Stevenson himself was now ‘in a state of suspense, with almost certain destruction at hand’.

With the obscuring smoke gone and the sea rolling quickly over the rock, the workmen gathered their tools and moved to their respective boats to find, not the expected three boats, but only two. Stevenson watched helplessly as the men silently summed up the situation, only too aware of the rock fast disappearing under the sea. They waited. ‘Not a word was uttered by anyone. All appeared to be silently calculating their numbers, and looking to each other with evident marks of perplexity.’

A decision had to be made. Soon the rock would be under more than twelve feet of water; they would have to take their chances. Sixteen men could go in the boats and the rest would have to hang on somehow to the gunwales while they were rowed carefully back through the boisterous seas to the Smeaton, now three miles away. There was no point trying to row to the Pharos, although it was nearer, as she lay to windward. Those clinging on to the rowing boats would stand little chance. So which men could have a place in the boats?

Stevenson was about to issue orders, but found his mouth was so dry he could not speak. He bent to a rock pool to moisten his lips with the salty water and, as he did, heard someone shout, ‘A boat! A boat!’

Looking up he saw a ship approaching fast. By sheer good luck, James Spink in the Bell Rock pilot boat had come out from Arbroath with post and supplies. As he approached, Spink had seen the terrible dilemma of those on the rock and come to the rescue. This episode left a deep impression on Stevenson. The picture of the men silently standing by the boats awaiting their fate made him acutely aware of his responsibility for their safety and that, on this occasion, only a stroke of luck had averted a terrible catastrophe.

On 5 September 1807, the tide receded late in the day and as the sea was running a heavy swell, making the rowing boats hard to handle, Stevenson decided to cancel the trip to the rock. This proved to be a most fortunate choice as the stiff breeze turned rapidly into a hard gale and would have made rowing back from the rock in the darkness a terrifying, if not fatal, experience. The storm raged all night and the next day; the little lightship was hit by successive waves of such force that for a few seconds, as she met each wave, her rolling and pitching motion stopped, and it felt as though she had broken adrift or was sinking. The skylight in Stevenson’s cabin near the helm was broken and water poured in from the waves, which were crashing on deck. Later in the morning, Stevenson tried to dress but was so violently thrown around in his cabin he gave up.

At two o’clock in the afternoon, an enormous wave struck the ship with such terrifying force that tons of water poured into the berths below, drenching bedding and sloshing as one body from side to side as the ship moved. ‘There was not an individual on board who did not think, at the moment, that the vessel had foundered,’ wrote Stevenson, ‘and was in the act of sinking.’ The fire had been extinguished in the galley and the workmen, in darkness, were deep in prayer, swearing that should they survive, they would never go to sea again. But by the evening the storm had blown itself out and the workmen were grateful to find the crew returning the ship to normal with a fire in the galley and bedding dried.

By mid-September, the bad storms that had prevented work on the rock were replaced by quiet seas and kind weather in which Stevenson hoped to raise the six main beams of the beacon house. It was essential to get the 50-foot beams up and secure quickly as a day or two of bad weather could destroy any work left unfinished and autumn was approaching. More men were recruited from Arbroath. There were now as many as 40 carpenters, smiths and masons on Bell Rock. Their first task was to get a 30-foot mast erected to use as a derrick and a winch machine bolted down. The six principal beams – with iron bars and bolts already in place – were rowed on two rafts from Arbroath. In order to get the first four timbers securely in place in the space of one tide, the men worked in teams. They began before the tide was out, labouring deep in water, hoisting the beams into their allotted places. Others bolted them to the iron stanchions already fixed in the rock to a depth of almost twenty inches and yet more men were ready to secure the uprights with wedges made of oak then finally iron.

Every man worked with great intensity before the inevitable returning water claimed the rock. As the waves engulfed them first up to their knees and then their waists, the four main beams were put in place and securely tied to form a cone shape; the timbers were temporarily lashed together with rope at the apex and mortised into a large piece of beechwood. As the last men were leaving, up to their armpits in water, a rousing ‘three cheers’ rang out from the men already in the rowing boats. The beacon was standing bravely above the waves.

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