The Battery and the Boiler: Adventures in Laying of Submarine Electric Cables. Robert Michael Ballantyne
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the cable broke and was lost. A second attempt was made in 1858, and was successful. In that year, my boy, Ireland and Newfoundland were married, and on the 5th of August the first electric message passed between the Old World and the New, through a small wire, over a distance of above 2000 miles. But the triumph of Field and his friends was short-lived, for, soon after, something went wrong with the cable, and on the 6th September it ceased to work.”
“What a pity!” exclaimed Bob; “so it all went off in smoke.”
“Not quite that, Bob. Before the cable struck work about 400 messages had been sent, which proved its value in a financial point of view, and one of these messages—sent from London in the morning and reaching Halifax the same day—directed that ‘the 62nd Regiment was not to return to England,’ and it is said that this timely warning saved the country an expenditure of 50,000 pounds. But the failure, instead of damping, has evidently stimulated the energies of Mr Field, who has been going about between America and England ever since, stirring people up far and near to raise the funds necessary for another attempt. He gives himself no rest; has embarked his own fortune in the affair, and now, at this moment, in this year of grace 1865, is doing his best, I have no doubt, to induce our governor, Mr Lowstoft, to embark in the same boat with himself.”
It would seem as if Fred had been suddenly endowed with the gift of second-sight, for at that moment the door of his employer’s room opened, and Mr Lowstoft came out, saying to his visitor, in the most friendly tones, that he had the deepest sympathy with his self-sacrificing efforts, and with the noble work to which he had devoted himself.
Bob, in a burst of sudden enthusiasm, leaped off his stool, opened the office-door, and muttered something as the distinguished visitor passed him.
“I beg pardon,” said Mr Field, checking himself, “what did you say?”
“I—I wish you good luck, sir, with—with the new cable,” stammered the clerk, blushing deeply.
“Thank you, lad—thank you,” said Mr Field, with a pleasant smile and nod, as he went away.
“Mr Sime,” said Mr Lowstoft to Bob, turning at the door of his room, “send young Wright to me.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the obedient Bob, going to a corner of the room and applying his lips to a speaking-tube.
Now young Wright was none other than our hero Robin grown up to the mature age of fifteen.
He was perched on the top of a three-legged stool, and, from the slow and intensely earnest manner in which his head turned from side to side as he wrote, it was quite evident that he dotted all his i’s and stroked all his t’s with conscientious care. As he sat there—a sturdy little broad-shouldered fellow, so deeply engrossed with his work that he was oblivious of all around—he seemed the very beau-idéal of a painstaking, hard-working clerk. So deeply was he engrossed in his subject—the copying of an invoice—that he failed to hear the voice of his fellow-clerk, although the end of the speaking-tube was not far from where he sat. After listening a few seconds at the other end of the tube, Bob Sime repeated the summons with such vigour that Robin leaped from his stool as though he had received one of his favourite electric shocks. A minute later he stood in the presence of the Head of the House.
“Robert Wright,” said the Head, pushing his spectacles up on his brow, “I shall be sorry to lose your services, but—”
He paused and turned over the papers before him, as if searching for something, and Robin’s heart sank. Was he going to be dismissed? Had he done anything wrong, or had he unwittingly neglected some duty?
“Ah! here it is,” resumed Mr Lowstoft, “a letter from a friend who has come by a slight injury to his right hand, and wants a smart amanuensis and general assistant. Now I think of sending you to him, if you have no objection.”
As the Head again paused while glancing over the letter, Robin ventured timidly to state that he had very strong objections; that he was very much satisfied with his situation and work, and had no desire to change.
Mr Lowstoft did not appear to listen to his remarks, but said suddenly— “You’ve studied the science of electricity, I believe?”
“Yes, sir—to some extent,” answered the lad, with a look of surprise.
“I know you have. Your father has told me about your tastes and studies. You’ve heard of Mr Cyrus Field, I presume?”
“Indeed I have,” said Robin, brightening up, “it was through his efforts that the Atlantic Cable was laid in 1858—which unfortunately went wrong.”
“Well, my boy, it is through his efforts that another cable is to be laid in this year 1865, which we all hope sincerely won’t go wrong, and my friend, who wants an assistant, is one of the electricians connected with the new expedition. Would you like to go?”
Robin’s eyes blazed, and he could scarcely find breath or words to express his willingness—if his father did not object.
“Go home at once, then, and ask leave, for the Great Eastern is almost ready for sea, and you have to hasten your preparations.”
Robin stroked no more t’s and dotted no more i’s that day. We fear, indeed, that he even left the invoice on his desk unfinished, with the last i imperfect.
Bursting into his father’s house, he found Madge—now become a pretty little slip of feminine thread-paper—seated at the piano agonising over a chord which her hand was too small to compass.
“Madge, Madge, cousin Madge!” he shouted, seizing both the extended little hands and kissing the musical wrinkles from her brow, “why am I like a magnet? You’ll never guess.”
“Because you attract everybody to you,” said Madge promptly.
“Pooh! not at all. A magnet doesn’t attract every body. It has two poles, don’t you know, and repels some bodies. No, Madge, it’s because I have been electrified.”
“Indeed? and what has electrified you, Robin?”
“The Atlantic Cable, Madge.”
“Well, that ought to be able to do it powerfully,” returned Madge, with a laugh; “but tell me all about it, and don’t make more bad conundrums. I’m sure something has happened. What is it?”
Mrs Wright, entering at the moment, her son calmed himself as well as he could, and sat down to tell his tale and talk the matter over.
“Now, what think you, mother? Will father consent?”
“I think he will, Robin, but before going into the matter further, I will lay it before our Father in heaven. He must show us the way, if we are to go right.”
According to invariable custom, Robin’s mother retired to her own room to consider the proposal. Thereafter she had a long talk with her husband, and the result was that on the following day our hero found himself in a train with a small new portmanteau by his side, a new billy-cock hat on his head, a very small new purse in his pocket, with a remarkably small sum of money therein, and a light yet full heart in his breast. He was on his way to the Nore, where the Great Eastern lay, like an antediluvian macaroni-eater, gorging itself with innumerable miles of Atlantic Cable.
To say truth, Robin’s breast—capacious though it was for his size—could hardly contain his heart that day. The dream of his childhood was about to be realised! He had thirsted for knowledge. He had acquired all that was possible in his father’s limited circumstances. He had, moreover, with the valuable assistance of Sam Shipton, become deeply learned in electrical science. He had longed with all his heart to become an electrician—quite ready, if need were, to commence as sweeper of a telegraph-office, but he had come to regard his desires as too ambitious, and, accepting his lot in life with the quiet contentment taught him by his mother, had entered on a clerkship in a mercantile house, and had perched himself, with a little sigh no doubt, yet cheerfully, on the top of a three-legged stool. To this stool he had been so long attached—physically—that he had begun to regard it almost as part and parcel of himself, and had made up his mind that he would have to stick to it through life. He even