Tessie, the reason they were all here, glinted in the sun twenty feet away. She’d been washed and polished, ready for inspection. The light caught on her brass trimmings, and he’d never felt prouder.
“We call her Ten-Tonne Tessie,” Benedict said as they walked toward it. “Although her actual weight with no additional wagons is closer to five tonnes.”
“And what makes her special?” Lord Bradenstock asked. “No offense intended.”
“She has a return flue boiler, and her cylinders concentrate on one drive shaft rather than two. Their vertical function makes it safer for the fireman. They don’t need to duck the piston rod in order to shovel coal into the firebox.”
His English guests looked at him blankly.
“More power and less chance of decapitation,” he said.
The young ones sniggered. “Do you think their blood would be red or black?”
“I’d rather be decapitated than spend my life shoveling coal.”
From the corner of his eye, Benedict saw the workers around them stiffen. A few shook their heads. One clenched his fists as if to take a swing.
The last thing he needed was an all-out brawl in front of the men they were hoping to be employed by. Oliver fixed each of his men with a glare and got them moving along with a small gesture.
“It’s no laughing matter,” Benedict said to his idiot guests. “Not to the families that have lost loved ones who were just trying to make a decent wage.”
The popinjays didn’t answer, just rolled their eyes.
“Flanged?” Grunt asked, bending over to run a finger over the cast-iron wheels. “We were planning to run a rack-and-pinion system. Can these be modified?”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t recommend it. In theory, the rack provides grip between the track and wheels. But in practice, there’s enough adhesion with smooth wheels—even in the wet—and it’s cheaper to produce and causes less wear. I’d suggest taking another look at your plans for the track.”
The Americans exchanged a glance Benedict couldn’t quite identify. Had he ruined his chances by criticizing their plans?
“We were hoping to see something…interesting,” Nathaniel said.
Benedict tried to ignore him and focus on the questions Harcombe was asking about the gear train and axle-load and the framing of the bogies. All things he knew like the back of his hand, but which he struggled to articulate with an audience of lords making snide remarks.
“Projected maintenance costs over a ten-year period?” Grunt asked as he examined the piston.
“Roughly one hundred—no, five hundred—pounds per annum using Trevithick’s train as a base and considering the decreased grinding to the gear train. Having one shaft—”
“What kinds of speeds is she getting?” Harcombe had a notepad out and was jotting down figures.
“She is the premier engine. She could make the trip between Boston and New York in—”
“In miles per hour, man. Give me the figures, not the story.”
Benedict struggled to get his thoughts to line up. He’d spent a week running through his pitch—the strengths and weaknesses, the financials, the social and economic benefits, his vision for the future. And now they were asking questions all out of order.
“The flue is smaller than others I’ve seen.”
“The psi is higher. The additional pressure creates additional force.”
Grunt nodded and continued his inspection, getting close up to every part of the engine, even getting onto his back and shuffling underneath. He fired question after question, barely stopping to hear the answer.
Harcombe was just as thorough, if less chatty.
It was a full half an hour before the two of them stood in front of Benedict, dusting off their hands.
“Well, let’s see it work then.”
Benedict nodded at Jeremy, who glowered at the visitors and then climbed onto the platform in front of the firebox. The glowing red of the smoldering coals reflected against his leather tunic. He transferred a shovel of black rock from the tender to the boiler.
