Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

So we left his arithmetical engines, thank heavens, and I followed him out into the open air, where he paused in front of what seemed to be a large barrel with a tall tube coming out of the top. This he regarded with a sad, wistful look on his face, then shook his head heavily and sighed.

“Is this what you wished to show me?”

“No,’’ he said regretfully. “This I have reluctantly abandoned.”

“Why is that? Does it not work?”

“Far from it. It works too well. It was an attempt to harness the power of gunpowder to the problem of pumping. You see, it is a great problem in mining. The distance below the earth of mines these days—sometimes four hundred feet or more—means that the effort required to extract water, which means raising it by an equivalent distance, is formidable. Do you know the weight of a tube of water four hundred feet high? Of course not. If you did, you would be astounded at the audacity of man in even thinking of the idea.

Now you see, my conception was to get a sealed container above earth filled with air which descended into the water below ground, with another linked tube coming up into the open.”

I nodded, although he had largely lost me already. “In the container, you explode a small measure of gunpowder, which causes a great rise in tension within. This rushes down the one tube, and forces the water up the other. Repeated often enough, you would get a constant flow of water upward.”

“Sounds splendid.”

“It does. Unfortunately, I have not yet thought of a way of ensuring explosions of the right quality and consistency. Either the tube bursts, which is dangerous, or you get a single plume of water fifty feet high which then stops. I have a patent on the idea, so I am in no danger of being overtaken by rivals, but unless I figure out the solution a very good idea may well be wasted. I have considered using heated water, because water turned into vapors demands a much larger space—some two thousand times, did you realize that?—and acquires irresistible strength in the process. Now, if some way could be made to force the vapor down the tube, or into some pumping mechanism, then the strength required to lift the water would be there.”

“And the problem?”

“The problem is making the hot vapors go in the direction required, rather than in any other.”

I understood scarce a word, but his animation and enthusiasm were such that I could imagine no way of shutting off the flow of words from his mouth. Besides, my willingness to listen seemed to endear me to him, and thus rendered him more likely to give me the information I required. So I plied him with questions, and affected the gravest of interest in all those matters which normally would have excited nothing hut my contempt.

“So you do not have a pump which works, is that what you are telling me?” I asked eventually.

“Pumps? Of course. Pumps aplenty. All sorts of pumps. Chain pumps and suction pumps and cylinder pumps. I do not yet have an efficient pump, an elegant pump, which will perform its allotted task with simplicity and grace.”

“So what about these fens? What is used there?”

“Oh, that,” he said almost scornfully. “That is a different matter entirely. Of little interest at all in matter of technique.” He glanced at me, and remembered, again, why I was there. “But, of course, all the better an investment for that, as it requires no novelty. The problem is a simple one, you see, and simple problems should best have simple solutions. Do you not agree?”

I agreed.

“Many areas of fenland,” he said, “lie beneath the level of the sea, and properly should actually be underneath the sea, very much as the greater part of the Low Countries should be, because, if not, they would have to change their name.”

He chuckled at his little joke awhile, and I joined in politely. “You know this, of course. Now, it is easy enough to prevent more water from entering by building dikes; the Hollanders have been doing this for centuries, so it cannot be very difficult. The problem is to evacuate the water that is already there. How is this to be done?”

I confessed my ignorance, which pleased him.

“Rivers are the simplest; you cut a new river, and the water flows away. Pipes are another. Wooden pipes underground which collect the water and allow it to flow off. The problem with that is that it is both expensive and slow. What is more, the land around (you remember) is higher, as is the sea. So where is this water to go?”

I shook my head again. “Nowhere,” he said with vehemence. “It cannot go anywhere, for water will not flow uphill. Everyone knows that. This is why much of the fenland has not been completely drained. With my pumps, you see, the problem can be overcome and in the contest between man’s wishes and nature’s desires, nature can be made to yield a victory. For water will indeed flow uphill, and be carried off, leaving the land useful.”

“Excellent,” I said. “And very profitable.”

“Oh, indeed. Those gentlemen who have formed a company for the drainage of their lands will become prosperous indeed. And I hope to turn a profit myself, for I have some land there, in Harland Wyte. Sir? Are you all right?”

I felt almost as though I had been struck a heavy blow in my stomach, for the mention of Harland Wyte, my family land, the heart of my father’s entire estate, was so unexpected that it left me breathless, and I fear must almost have given myself away by the way I turned pale and gulped for air.

“Forgive me, Sir Samuel,” I said, “I am prone to this momentary light-headedness. It will pass.” I smiled reassuringly, and pretended to be recovered. “Harland Wyte, you say? I do not know it. Have you owned it long?”

He smirked cunningly. “Only a few years. It was a great bargain, for it was going cheap and I saw its value better than those selling it.”

“I’m sure you did. Who was the seller?”

But he brushed my question aside and would not be drawn, preferring to expand on his cleverness than on his turpitude. “Now I will complete the drainage, then sell it on, and pocket a handsome profit. His Grace the Duke of Bedford has already agreed to purchase it, since he already owns most of the land all around.”

“I congratulate you on your good fortune,” I said, giving up the line of enquiry and trying another approach. “Tell me, sir, how you know Dr. Wallis? I ask as he has tutored me on occasion. Does he consult you on his experimentations and mathematics?”

“Good heavens, no,” Morland replied with sudden modesty. “Although I am a mathematician myself I freely admit that he is my superior in all respects. Our connection was very much more worldly, for we both at one stage were employed by John Thurloe. Of course, I was a secret supporter of His Majesty’s cause, whereas Dr. Wallis was a great man for Cromwell in those days.”

“You surprise me,” I said. “He seems a loyal subject now. Besides, what services could a priest and mathematician provide for someone like Thurloe?”

“Many and varied,” Morland said with a smile at my innocence. “Dr. Wallis was the finest maker and breaker of codes in the land. He was never beaten, I think; never yielded to a stronger in cryptographical technique. For years Thurloe used his services; bundles of letters in code would be sent to him in Oxford, and the translations would come back on the next coach. Remarkable. We almost felt like telling the king’s men that they really should not waste their time putting letters into code at all, for if we captured them, Wallis could always read them. If he is your tutor, you should ask to see some; I’m sure he has them still, although he naturally does not advertise such records of his past activities.”