superintendent threw up his head and laughed, and his hand reached out across the desk, the gesture of a genial extrovert who had never, in his entire life, been embarrassed.
“Damn me, I would have wagered a month’s salary against one of those cigars you were a spy,” he said, blandly. “I even gave those damned lawyers credit for trying a new approach.” Then, suddenly, “But why did you want that map? What possible use could it be to you? We issue timetables.”
“It’s a long story,” Adam said, “and I couldn’t put more than half of it into words that would make sense to you.”
“Try. If you succeed I’ll give you the map.”
“You mean that?”
“I scrap it and replace it every week. That one goes into the waste-paper basket the moment tomorrow’s mail comes in with the latest amendments. You’re thinking of investing in railway stock?”
“If I did it would be in my own branch.”
“You came home to build a railway?”
“Not necessarily. I came home from a war that made no sense in order to engage in one that did, one in which I was required to use brains as well as brawn. My name is Swann, Adam Swann, and I’m the sixth Swann in line to hold a commission in the armed forces. It has taken me thirteen years to break with family tradition. It’s not an easy thing to accomplish, Mr.…”
“Walker. Aaron Walker, onetime railway architect under Brunel, now shunted into this,” and he spread a hand across the littered desk. “No, that isn’t easy to accomplish, and I ought to know. My father was a parson, the third of his line, and he sum moned the family doctor when I told him I intended to build rail ways. All the same, I wouldn’t apprentice a son of mine to the trade now.
In its heyday it was high adventure, particularly working under a genius like Brunel. Now it’s a carcase torn by jackals. And I took you for one of ’em,” and he laughed his booming laugh again. “Listen, Mr. Swann, I owe you an apology so here it is, plus some advice. Do something more original than build a railway. You look to me the kind of man who might, or why else should you have turned your back on India where the pickings now promise to be legal and substantial?”
“I helped to empty the well at Cawnpore.”
GodIsAnEnglishman.indd 49
3/27/09 5:13:16 PM
5 0 G O D I S A N E N G L I S H M A N
Walker looked at him with a new interest. “That has a bearing on why you’re here? But a man doesn’t make money out of with drawals, Mr. Swann.”
“I should enjoy making money as much as the next man, but it would have to be from some form of personal enterprise. India needs policing but I’m not a policeman. Maybe I have too much sympathy with the burglar or, at all events, with the burglar’s motives. But even that isn’t the whole truth.”
“What is the whole truth, Mr. Swann?”
“Let’s say I’ve had my fill of risking my skin to glorify buffoons, like that prize idiot Cardigan of the Light Brigade.”
“You were in the Crimea as well as the Mutiny?”
“I saw the Light Brigade shot to pieces. I daresay I should have died with it if I hadn’t had the luck to be riding a lamed horse that particular day. You could say I’ve had luck of a kind all along. Only two of my Addiscombe class survived the Mutiny, me and one other. But it can’t last for ever and if I go down it’ll be in my own cause. Does that earn me the map, Mr. Walker?” The superintendent settled himself, shooting his long legs under the desk and tilting his chair. “Why take it for granted commercial warfare is less chancy? Or more civilised for that matter? I assure you it isn’t, or not nowadays. The best times are behind us. It’s a costermonger’s scramble for money and power today.
There’s no idealism or personal initiative left in it. A thousand companies, most of them bucket shops, scrambling for concessions and for Johnny Raw’s cash to squander. No cohesion. No unity of purpose. Just quick
“Damn me, I would have wagered a month’s salary against one of those cigars you were a spy,” he said, blandly. “I even gave those damned lawyers credit for trying a new approach.” Then, suddenly, “But why did you want that map? What possible use could it be to you? We issue timetables.”
“It’s a long story,” Adam said, “and I couldn’t put more than half of it into words that would make sense to you.”
“Try. If you succeed I’ll give you the map.”
“You mean that?”
“I scrap it and replace it every week. That one goes into the waste-paper basket the moment tomorrow’s mail comes in with the latest amendments. You’re thinking of investing in railway stock?”
“If I did it would be in my own branch.”
“You came home to build a railway?”
“Not necessarily. I came home from a war that made no sense in order to engage in one that did, one in which I was required to use brains as well as brawn. My name is Swann, Adam Swann, and I’m the sixth Swann in line to hold a commission in the armed forces. It has taken me thirteen years to break with family tradition. It’s not an easy thing to accomplish, Mr.…”
“Walker. Aaron Walker, onetime railway architect under Brunel, now shunted into this,” and he spread a hand across the littered desk. “No, that isn’t easy to accomplish, and I ought to know. My father was a parson, the third of his line, and he sum moned the family doctor when I told him I intended to build rail ways. All the same, I wouldn’t apprentice a son of mine to the trade now.
In its heyday it was high adventure, particularly working under a genius like Brunel. Now it’s a carcase torn by jackals. And I took you for one of ’em,” and he laughed his booming laugh again. “Listen, Mr. Swann, I owe you an apology so here it is, plus some advice. Do something more original than build a railway. You look to me the kind of man who might, or why else should you have turned your back on India where the pickings now promise to be legal and substantial?”
“I helped to empty the well at Cawnpore.”
GodIsAnEnglishman.indd 49
3/27/09 5:13:16 PM
5 0 G O D I S A N E N G L I S H M A N
Walker looked at him with a new interest. “That has a bearing on why you’re here? But a man doesn’t make money out of with drawals, Mr. Swann.”
“I should enjoy making money as much as the next man, but it would have to be from some form of personal enterprise. India needs policing but I’m not a policeman. Maybe I have too much sympathy with the burglar or, at all events, with the burglar’s motives. But even that isn’t the whole truth.”
“What is the whole truth, Mr. Swann?”
“Let’s say I’ve had my fill of risking my skin to glorify buffoons, like that prize idiot Cardigan of the Light Brigade.”
“You were in the Crimea as well as the Mutiny?”
“I saw the Light Brigade shot to pieces. I daresay I should have died with it if I hadn’t had the luck to be riding a lamed horse that particular day. You could say I’ve had luck of a kind all along. Only two of my Addiscombe class survived the Mutiny, me and one other. But it can’t last for ever and if I go down it’ll be in my own cause. Does that earn me the map, Mr. Walker?” The superintendent settled himself, shooting his long legs under the desk and tilting his chair. “Why take it for granted commercial warfare is less chancy? Or more civilised for that matter? I assure you it isn’t, or not nowadays. The best times are behind us. It’s a costermonger’s scramble for money and power today.
There’s no idealism or personal initiative left in it. A thousand companies, most of them bucket shops, scrambling for concessions and for Johnny Raw’s cash to squander. No cohesion. No unity of purpose. Just quick
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