The Battery and the Boiler: Adventures in Laying of Submarine Electric Cables
yne
The Battery and the Boiler: Adventures in Laying of Submarine Electric Cables
Chapter One.
In which the Hero makes his First Flash and Explosion
Somewhere about the middle of this nineteenth century, a baby boy was born on the raging sea in the midst of a howling tempest. That boy was the hero of this tale.
He was cradled in squalls, and nourished in squalor—a week of dirty weather having converted the fore-cabin of the emigrant ship into something like a pig-sty. Appreciating the situation, no doubt, the baby boy began his career with a squall that harmonised with the weather, and, as the steward remarked to the ship’s cook, “continued for to squall straight on end all that day and night without so much as ever takin’ breath!” It is but right to add that the steward was prone to exaggeration.
“Stooard,” said the ship’s cook in reply, as he raised his eyes from the contemplation of his bubbling coppers, “take my word for it, that there babby what has just bin launched ain’t agoin’ to shovel off his mortal coil—as the play-actor said—without makin’ his mark some’ow an’ somew’eres.”
“What makes you think so, Johnson?” asked the steward.
“What makes me think so, stooard?” replied the cook, who was a huge good-natured young man. “Well, I’ll tell ’ee. I was standin’ close to the fore hatch at the time, a-talkin’ to Jim Brag, an’ the father o’ the babby, poor feller, he was standin’ by the foretops’l halyards holdin’ on to a belayin’-pin, an’ lookin’ as white as a sheet—for I got a glance at ’im two or three times doorin’ the flashes o’ lightnin’. Well, stooard, there was lightnin’ playin’ round the mizzen truck, an’ the main truck, an’ the fore truck, an’ at the end o’ the flyin’ jib-boom, an’ the spanker boom; then there came a flash that seemed to set afire the entire univarse; then a burst o’ thunder like fifty great guns gone off all at once in a hurry. At that identical moment, stooard, there came up from the fore-cabin a yell that beat—well, I can’t rightly say what it beat, but it minded me o’ that unfortnit pig as got his tail jammed in the capstan off Cape Horn. The father gave a gasp. ‘It’s born,’ says he. ‘More like’s if it’s basted,’ growled Jim Brag. ‘You’re a unfeelin’ monster, Brag,’ says I; ‘an’ though you are the ship’s carpenter, I will say it, you ’aven’t got no more sympathy than the fluke of an anchor!’ Hows’ever the poor father didn’t hear the remark, for he went down below all of a heap—head, legs, and arms—anyhow. Then there came another yell, an’ another, an’ half a dozen more, which was followed by another flash o’ lightnin’ an’ drownded in another roar o’ thunder; but the yells from below kep’ on, an’ came out strong between times, makin’ no account whatever o’ the whistlin’ wind an’ rattlin’ ropes, which they riz above—easy.—Now, stooard, do you mean for to tell me that all that signifies nothink? Do you suppose that that babby could go through life like an or’nary babby? No, it couldn’t—not even if it was to try—w’ich it won’t!”
Having uttered this prophecy the cook resumed the contemplation of his bubbling coppers.
“Well, I suppose you’re right, John Johnson,” said the steward.
“Yes, I’m right, Tom Thomson,” returned the cook, with the nod and air of a man who is never wrong.
And the cook was right, as the reader who continues to read shall find out in course of time.
The gale in which little Robin Wright was thus launched upon the sea of Time blew the sails of that emigrant ship—the Seahorse—to ribbons. It also blew the masts out of her, leaving her a helpless wreck on the breast of the palpitating sea. Then it blew a friendly sail in sight, by which passengers and crew were rescued and carried safe back to Old England. There they separated—some to re-embark in other emigrant ships; some to renew the battle of life at home—thenceforward and for ever after to vilify the sea in all its aspects, except when viewed at a safe distance from the solid land!
Little Robin’s parents were among the latter. His father, a poor gentleman, procured a situation as accountant in a mercantile house. His mother busied herself—and she was a very busy little creature—with the economics of home. She clothed Robin’s body and stored his mind. Among other things, she early taught him to read from the Bible.
As Robin grew he waxed strong and bold and lively, becoming a source of much anxiety, mingled with delight, to his mother, and of considerable alarm, mixed with admiration and surprise, to his father. He possessed an inquisitive mind. He inquired into everything—including the antique barometer and the household clock, both of which were heirlooms, and were not improved by his inquiries. Strange to say, Robin’s chief delight in those early days was a thunderstorm. The rolling of heaven’s artillery seemed to afford inexpressible satisfaction to his little heart, but it was the lightning that affected him most. It filled him with a species of awful joy. No matter how it came—whether in the forked flashes of the storm, or the lambent gleamings of the summer sky—he would sit and gaze at it in solemn wonder. Even in his earliest years he began to make inquiries into that remarkable and mysterious agent.
“Musser,” he said one day, during a thunderstorm, raising his large eyes to his mother’s face with intense gravity,—“Musser, what is lightenin’?”
Mrs Wright, who was a soft little unscientific lady with gorgeous eyes, sat before her son, perplexed.
“Well, child, it is—it—really, I don’t know what it is!”
“Don’t know?” echoed Robin, with surprise, “I sought you know’d everysing.”
“No, not everything, dear,” replied Mrs Wright, with a deprecatory smile; “but here comes your father, who will tell you.”
“Does he know everysing?” asked the child.
“N–no, not exactly; but he knows many things—oh, ever so many things,” answered the cautious wife and mother.
The accountant had barely crossed his humble threshold and sat down, when Robin clambered on his knee and put the puzzling question.—“Fasser, what is lightenin’?”
“Lightning, my boy?—why, it’s—it’s—let me see—it’s fire, of course, of some sort, that comes out o’ the clouds and goes slap into the earth—there, don’t you see it?”
Robin did see it, and was so awestruck by the crash which followed the blinding flash that he forgot at the moment to push his inquiries further, much to his father’s satisfaction, who internally resolved to hunt up the Encyclopaedia Britannica that very evening—letter L—and study it.
In process of time Robin increased in size. As he expanded in body he developed in mind and in heart, for his little mother, although profoundly ignorant of electricity and its effects, was deeply learned in the Scriptures. But Robin did not hunger in vain after scientific knowledge. By good fortune he had a cousin—cousin Sam Shipton—who was fourteen years older than himself, and a clerk at a neighbouring railway station, where there was a telegraphic instrument.
Now, Sam, being himself possessed of strongly scientific tendencies, took a great fancy to little Robin, and sought to enlighten his young mind on many subjects where “musser’s” knowledge failed. Of course he could not explain all that he himself knew about electricity—the child was too young for that,—but he did what he could, and introduced him one day to the interior of the station, where he filled his youthful mind with amazement and admiration by his rapid, and apparently meaningless, manipulation of the telegraph instrument.
Cousin Sam, however, did a good deal more for him than that in the course of time; but before proceeding further, we must turn aside for a few minutes to comment on that wonderful subject which is essentially connected with the development of this tale.
Chapter Two.
Refers to a Notable Character
Sparks, as a rule, are looked upon as a race of useless and disreputable fellows. Their course is usually erratic. They fly upward, downward, forward, and backward—here, there, and everywhere. You never know when you have them, or what will be their next flight. They often create a good deal of alarm, sometimes much surprise; they seldom do any good, and frequently cause irreparable damage. Only when caught and restrained, or directed, do sparks