James Brindley E-Book

Nick Corble

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

It can be said of few men that without them the course of their nation's history would have been very different, yet through the force of his ideas and sheer bloody-mindedness, James Brindley, the first great canal builder, provided the spark that ignited the Industrial Revolution, united the nation and set Britain on course to become the world's first superpower. Born into poverty and barely literate, Brindley had a vision for the country that defied both established society and the natural order, dividing mid-eighteenth-century scientific and political opinion. Crowds flocked to marvel at this new canals and the engineering feats that accompanied them, with Brindley's inventiveness earning him the nickname 'The Schemer'.

Leseprobe

To Annette, for everything.

Contents

Title

Dedication

Introduction

1.Family Ties

2.From Bungler to Master

3.The Pull of Water

4.Patrons and Personalities

5.The Duke’s Cut

6.Chalk and Cheese

7.Money Like Water

8.The Grand Cross

9.James Brindley – Canal Engineer

10.Harassed on Every Side

11.Of Public Utility

A Note on Sources

Copyright

Introduction

Some had come to see a disaster, others simply for a spectacle, but what they in fact witnessed was the beginning of a revolution. All social strata were represented on the banks of the River Irwell just outside Manchester on that bright morning in July 1761, from the Earl of Stafford down to the humblest farmworker; and all were anticipating a show. The atmosphere amongst them was festive. Bunting decorated the few barges bobbing gently upon the water and a frisson of anticipation sharpened the mood.

A phalanx of stalls had appeared overnight, one of which was offering some kind of roasted meat. As the day settled, occasional gusts of wind started to spread smoke from the fires into the crowd, exciting the taste buds of those who hadn’t tasted meat since the previous Sunday, as well as their superiors, most of whom had breakfasted off bacon and fish that morning. Everyone began to wonder if the day’s events would be over in time for lunch.

There was no set schedule for those events, no printed handbill or official start time. In fact few of those present really knew what to expect. Most were simply enjoying the break from routine and the opportunity to be part of something different. Indeed, it wasn’t long before a question mark began to hang over whether anything was going to happen at all. It seemed that the man whose ingenuity and reputation had drawn them all to the river that morning had disappeared.

One man, one common man, who, some said, had managed to trick a peer of the realm into staking his entire fortune on a venture the like of which had never been seen before and most thought preposterous. This venture, this notion, defied all reasonable expectation and even nature itself. One man, a very singular man, insisted everything would be alright. This was to be his moment of truth, but the word beginning to spread amongst the crowd was that he had retired to his bed.

Once sown, this rumour spread quickly, as if it had hitched a ride on the smoke from the fires. As it did so, wry smiles began to spread across the faces of some of the more colourfully and finely dressed of the assembly. Quite reasonably, they began to wonder if rather than coming to witness a challenge to the natural order of things they’d in fact come to see its reaffirmation. This lowly born upstart was to have his comeuppance it seemed. Speeches laced with homage were rapidly being rewritten, with an emphasis on sympathy laced with schadenfreude.

Others, more likely to be dressed in browns and greys, felt the first stirrings of disappointment. Many had come to believe in this man whose exploits in the last few months had earned him the nickname ‘The Schemer’. They had already seen him perform marvels and they had begun to wonder if he might, just might, be about to deliver a miracle. They had bought into his dream of a new way of doing things and many had broken their backs for him making that dream a reality. More to the point, many of those looking for this miracle to happen were still owed wages.

By the end of the day everyone in the crowd would have their opinions and prejudices thoroughly tested, and debate on the merits of the missing man would be vociferous in the local inns. When they did finally get to eat that day, some sampled the sweet taste of success whilst others tucked into unseasoned slices of humble pie.

The man they would be talking about was James Brindley, the barely literate oldest son of an insignificant Staffordshire crofter; to some a mere millwright, to others an inspiration. We don’t know for certain if Brindley did actually witness the events of that day, but his physical presence turned out to be immaterial. What we do know is that what followed turned out to be a decisive turning point in his life and career, setting in train a sequence of events that was both to make him and, in a relatively short space of time, break him.

But all this was to come. Where might Brindley have been as the stallholders pitched their stakes and the dignitaries gathered on the platform erected especially for the occasion? It is entirely likely that the rumours were true and he had retired to his bed, a habit he often adopted at moments of stress in his life. It’s not unreasonable to suspect that Brindley had appreciated the importance of the day and succumbed to an attack of nerves. He was also not immune to bouts of self-doubt, even if these were usually short lived.

A quiet man at the best of times, crowds were not his natural milieu. He had tasted failure a few times in his career, seeing it as a natural part of the learning process, but never had he done so before a specially invited audience of the regional great and good of early Georgian society. However confident he may have been in success, even the faintest prospect of such a public failure was perhaps something best avoided. Equally, his natural introversion may have led him to reject the spotlight in favour of watching events unfold from the sidelines amongst the comfort of his men, observing with a critical eye rather than merely sightseeing.

When the show did finally get underway that warm July morning it took only minutes before Brindley’s vision was vindicated and triumph was formally declared, but the crowds lingered for hours, unable it seemed to believe what their eyes had told them, before dispersing along with the last of the daylight. They were only the beginning. Others followed, and over the coming weeks tens of thousands would come and gaze and wonder at the structure before them, transforming the reputation of the man whose inspiration had made it all possible. From a moderately successful local figure, respected as someone who had hauled himself up from very little simply by dint of his skill and inventiveness, he would become a national guru in a whole new field of technology.

Before the year was out the process would begin that, in time, would cement his claim to be the country’s first civil engineering superstar and the progenitor of a new transport system that was to transform the physical, social and economic landscape of the nation. Over the next dozen years he would work tirelessly as the great and good of the newly emerging industrial centres paid homage to his expertise until he eventually died, exhausted by a combination of overwork and undiagnosed diabetes.

Others, often his personal disciples, would soon follow in the path he cleared and within years England would be gripped by a frenzy of activity the consequences of which would define the nation’s fortunes for succeeding centuries. From a land of simmering potential the country would find a new purpose, as well as the means to realise it, and in doing so become the world’s first global economic and military superpower, with the greatest empire the world had ever seen to prove it.

Before all this there was the little matter of a bridge. No ordinary bridge but a magnificent stone construction with three semi-circular spans, the middle one of which stretched fully sixty-three feet. Together the bridge spanned a total of 200 yards, an unbelievable distance, and was fully twelve yards wide. Like its designer, it was bold and simple in appearance, with no external fripperies – there to do a job. The early canal chronicler John Philips later remarked upon the considerable strength of the bridge with ‘every front stone [having] five square faces or beds, well jointed and cramped with iron run in with lead … the piers are the largest blocks of stone and camped as before’. Also like its designer it had hidden depths and solid foundations.

Perhaps most impressively the bridge was suspended thirty-nine feet over the murky black waters of the River Irwell at a place called Barton, an hour’s horse ride out from the centre of Manchester. Today, we would pass over such a bridge in our cars without a second glance, but in its day it was a remarkable feat of engineering, made all the more so by the fact that it was not only a bridge but an aqueduct, carrying a self-contained man-made river. Its calm even presence seemed to present a challenge to the more chaotic example nature and God had provided below.

It was this feature that made the construction so special. Much of its importance lay in the questions it posed, not only rational questions but also to the accepted order and God’s law. On a purely secular level, no one in England had thought of attempting anything remotely like this structure since Roman times, since when knowledge of how to do such things had been lost. Brindley had, in effect, reinvented the necessary technology. What was more, to those in the know the bridge was only half the achievement. Its construction had required the building of significant embankments on both sides of the river, a task that had required the mobilisation of armies of men equipped with little more than pickaxes and barrows.

One of these embankments, at a place called Stretford Meadows, was over half a mile long and 112 feet in breadth at the base, twenty-four feet at the top, and seventeen feet high. Although this was an age when slavery still thrived overseas, the men who had shifted the tons of earth involved had worked willingly under the direction of the Duke’s agent, John Gilbert, and the mere millwright James Brindley.

The structure broke all the rules and defied logic. To the uninitiated and educated alike there was the fundamental question of leakage, for didn’t common sense dictate that water always found a way out? Even if it didn’t leak, how safe was it? Everyone knew that it had been built in less than a year – by a man whose previous experience was mainly in working with wood, fixing mills. Anyone foolhardy enough to cross the bridge in a boat would at best go aground and at worst suffer a terrifying plunge into the ugly rocks and water below.

This scheme went beyond any Roman aqueduct carrying drinking water, though. It was part of a major new water highway, a canal, capable of carrying cargo in boats as well as men and horses. The bridge had been designed to carry part of a second ‘artificial river’, free of tides or flow and with smooth straight edges, with a certain imperiousness over the natural conduit that God Himself had supplied to serve that rapidly growing town.

With this bridge man was corralling nature and attempting to tame water, one of her most perfidious agents. The natural order dictated that man should accept what he had been provided with and live with it. Brindley and his bridge challenged that assumption and turned it on its head. What if the will of man could be made to triumph over the will of God? This was radical, even blasphemous thinking, and who knew where it could end? If the natural order could be challenged where would it stop?

Those who felt most threatened that warm summer’s day hung onto the belief that the whole thing was the folly of a young and impressionable fool, Francis Egerton, the third Duke of Bridgewater. According to this gossip, this young playboy, whose antics had briefly lit up the London social scene, had been taken in by a convincing charlatan and embarked upon some glorious voyage of self-destruction. The well-known gambler had staked his entire fortune on a venture no one knew the outcome of. He was said to be on the point of bankruptcy.

It was common knowledge that Egerton had been the youngest of the great First Duke’s eight children. Gossip in fashionable circles suggested he was the runt of the litter, abandoned by his mother and lacking any formal education for the simple reason that no one had expected him to survive. By some freak of chance Egerton had survived all his siblings to inherit both title and lands, an unfortunate state of affairs but these things sometimes happened. Those with an interest in the status quo anticipated a mixture of sorrow and relief as they witnessed his final downfall, along with that of the bridge. Those who had invested their sweat in the project might despair, but the world would go on.

Some later engravings of the aqueduct suggest a backdrop of mills and smoking chimneys, but this is Victorian fancy as James Watt had yet to perfect his steam engine and the Spinning Jenny that would help crown Manchester as ‘King Cotton’ had yet to be invented. Although large by Georgian standards, Manchester still had a population of less than 20,000 and like many such towns was still largely a place of untapped potential. Isolated from markets beyond its immediate hinterland, the physical realities of geography represented a serious barrier to further growth. Supplying food and fuel to its people remained a major logistical problem, as was maintaining order and keeping the population gainfully occupied.

A mural by the pre-Raphaelite painter Ford Madox-Brown, commissioned in 1878 for Manchester Town Hall, is similarly poetic in its interpretation. In this the foreground is dominated by a broad-beamed boat called the Young Duke, barely under the control of a similarly wide-bottomed young mother wearing her finest dress, a black striped number with puffed sleeves. In the front of the boat sit her infant twins waving blue flags. The air of celebration is echoed on the left hand of the bridge – for the scene depicted is from the top of the aqueduct – where a small brightly liveried band, balanced precariously on the battlements of the bridge and complete with snow-white stockings, is in the process of striking up.

Next to them is another boat upon which stands the Duke of Bridgewater himself, his face innocent and his glass empty, although a fawn-coated Brindley is seen refilling it from the wicker-coated flask of brandy, his so-called ‘packet pistol’, he was said always to carry with him. The various coats of arms on the Duke’s boat are reflected perfectly on the still water. Just in front of them a small boy is preventing a small spaniel from becoming the canal’s first victim by fishing it out of the water, sending out the faintest of ripples.

Luckily photographs of the original structure survive, taken just before the aqueduct was demolished not long after Madox-Brown painted his mural. This confirms the main features of the structure as being built of sandstone with two stanchions sitting in the water, each faced with a vertical point, supporting the two main arches. The third, on the southern end, rests on the bank. A wooden wharf sits on the other bank on the Irwell.

These pictures show the aqueduct to be a solid construction, but unremarkable to modern eyes. The distance from the bridge to the Irwell also seems modest – a man could fall down one of the banks and expect to survive. The landscape around the bridge however would have been empty, save for a few trees, which would probably have made the structure stand out in its surroundings. As such, the bridge would have acted as a magnet for the idle and the simply curious on that fine midsummer’s morning, who would have walked or ridden to be there.

Amongst them would have been a cross-section of Lancashire society, including local gentlemen farmers and Manchester mill owners, many of whom may have had a few shares in the Mersey & Irwell Navigation Company, which held a monopoly over traffic on the river and would therefore be willing this potential competitor to fail. Members of the clergy would probably have been similarly inclined, although the concerns of some of the more free-thinking amongst their number, who may have been members of some of the informal discussion groups that had recently sprung up, may have been more intellectual than religious.

Others with a more direct stake would have included the men whose dedication and muscles had made the waterway a reality. Many had fled the land to join Brindley’s men and would have been unsure if a place remained for them there should the venture fail. Standing alongside them would have been riverboat men, who often had to physically haul their craft up and down the Irwell, dealing with its tides, floods and silt on a daily basis. Despite the direct threat to their livelihood, later, when in the tavern, many of these men would admit to a grudging respect for the men behind the bridge. These river men had witnessed some of the engineering involved, along with its speed and efficiency. Many had benefited from the bribes handed out to forestall them when a particularly delicate piece of work had required Brindley’s exclusive access to the river.

If they respected the effort, these men still had grave doubts over the end to which it was directed. To a man, none of them had ever expected the bridge to be completed, fully expecting a flood or the tide to have taken it away each time they passed it. Somehow it had stayed up, but everyone agreed that they were asking for trouble when they filled it with water. It stood practically no chance of surviving.

As it happened they were nearly right. With so much at stake it was hardly surprising that the three main protagonists, Brindley, the Duke and his agent, had agreed that a test run would be a good idea. It turned out just as well they did for when they first ran water into the aqueduct small cracks began to appear in one of the arches. It was at this point that Brindley retired to the Bishop Blaize Tavern at Stretford, presumably in despair, perhaps laying the grounds for the later rumour.

It was left to Gilbert to diagnose the problem – too much weight on the sides of the arch; and also to fix it. Working feverishly, he removed some clay at the weak point and covered the stonework with straw to prevent slippage before applying a fresh layer of clay. Disaster, it seemed, had just been averted.

Despite this, on the day itself it is likely that the Duke, his guest the Earl of Stafford and John Gilbert himself would have shared the anticipation of the crowd as the underwater gates that held the water back were lowered and liquid rushed in to fill the aqueduct. Against a background of hushed anticipation the sound of gushing water would have been clearly audible, its note changing as the channel in the bridge filled slowly. That note would have been a dull one, for the water was pouring into a mud channel, the stonework of the bridge having been covered by a mixture of earth held together by grass and kept firm by clay, giving the bridge the appearance of a furrow held suspended in mid air. Looking from the side it would have been easy to forget it was a bridge at all.

With a slight twist of his head the Duke would have been able to spot the silhouette of a horse emerging out of the late morning mist about a hundred yards down the water, growing larger as it approached the bridge. Attached to a harness on its back was a rope trailing out lazily to a flat bottomed barge carrying a load of coal, exactly the same sort of barge people were more used to seeing plying the river below. The Duke’s men had held a ballot to decide who would have the honour of leading the horse and the winner held no fear as he advanced slowly.

As he approached, the Duke would probably have been reminded of the words of the engineer John Smeaton who, in a rare moment of doubt he had allowed to examine the plans for the aqueduct and pass his opinion. It had not been favourable. To his face, this expert, no stranger to lofty structures, for he had recently completed the Eddystone Lighthouse, had pronounced that ‘I have often heard of castles in the air; but never before saw where any of them were to be erected’. After a moment of doubt, the Duke had followed his instincts, convinced by Brindley’s absolute certainty that he was right. That trust remained a gamble.

Suddenly the rest of the crowd noticed the approaching barge, their attention drawn more by the clanking of the horse’s harness than the soundless progress of the boat, discernable only by the slight V-shaped ripple thrown out by its bow. It is easy to imagine a gasp going up as the man leading it reassured the horse with a pat to its flanks as they stepped onto the battlements of the bridge and apparently walked across a stone tightrope.

Applause might have started somewhere to the left of the Duke and grown spontaneously until it developed into a crescendo, augmented by whoops and cheers. Hats would have been thrown into the air and all sense of social hierarchy would, at that point, have collapsed as men great and small, carried along by the moment, queued to shake the Duke’s hand. Wherever he was, Brindley might have allowed himself a slight smile.

Soon others followed the horseman onto the bridge, testing their luck and bravery. Other boats floated out over the river, some making the journey back and forth several times, with the more enterprising boatmen even starting to charge for taking passengers. Over the middle span it was possible to see a man being dangled by his ankles over the side of the bridge, occasioning further gasps from the women in the crowd, whilst a colleague stood to one side holding his waistcoat and hat.

This was the correspondent of the Manchester Mercury, and he was later to file the following despatch: ‘A large boat carrying upwards of fifty tons was towed along the new part of the Canal over arches across the River Irwell which were so firm, secure and compact that not a single drop of water could be perceived to ooze out of any part of them.’ His colleague, commenting on the wider implications of what he’d seen suggested slightly less enthusiastically that, ‘The Canal will be of very great use as well as amusement’.

The three men behind the Duke’s Cut, soon to be renamed the Bridgewater Canal, had issued a statement of intent: canals represented the future. But that intent needed to be implemented. Finishing this first canal and making money from it was to preoccupy both the Duke and his agent for a few years yet. It fell to Brindley, the master of water, to realise the potential they had unleashed that day, to digest the lessons learned and to form and implement a much grander vision: one of a network of canals that would link the nation and bind together a disparate population in a way that allowed them to realise their latent collective energies.

Who then was this man and what made him so special? What were the qualities that drove him on and allowed him to succeed where others had previously failed? What right has he to be called the man who united the kingdom?

The journey to answering these questions takes in success and failure, aristocrats and navvies, dramatic changes in circumstance, both personal and financial and, as we have already seen, some of the most daring challenges to conventional wisdom ever suggested. It is a journey that begins unpromisingly in a damp stone church in the Staffordshire Moorlands.

one

Family Ties

It is Easter Day, the most significant point in the Church calendar, in the year 1664, the year before the Black Death was set to lay Europe low. The local people are gathering at the local parish church, St Edward’s. It is the only church in the Staffordshire town of Leek and it proclaims its position proudly from the top of the hill that is Mill Lane. Solidly built out of local red sandstone it had, until the dissolution of the monasteries, been attached to the local Abbey of Dieulacres whose presence had dominated the local community.

The congregation inside on this unseasonably warm day is obediently silent as the local priest George Rhodes makes the sign of the cross over the sacrament. There is only a slight rustling amongst those standing and crouching on the cold stone floor as they shuffle to get more comfortable.

Motes of dust dance lazily in the rays of sunshine that angle in from the rose window. Although the day outside is a good one, inside the darkness is leavened only by the burst of colour seeping through the stained glass above, an unusually ornate feature for such a plain town. A respectful silence descends. Heightened senses can just detect the scent of the best of what remained of last year’s hay, scattered that morning on the floor.

The Reverend Rhodes turns to his flock, raises the host and makes to speak. The next voice everyone hears is not his, however, but that of a young woman, dressed all in black, who has risen from the floor in the centre of the church. A hat hides her hair and her plain long skirt scrapes the floor. The Reverend Rhodes casts his face up to the beautifully crafted ceiling of the nave in frustration. His eyes briefly take in the magnificence of its ornately carved wooden roses sitting at the intersection of solid oak beams, which in turn rest on plain white corbels.

The woman’s name is Alice Bowman and she is a known troublemaker. Some know her better as a dissenter. Before that moment few had noticed her, she rarely if ever went to church. The fact that she was there at all should have been enough to signal trouble. Sighs fill the air as she stands and points her finger round the congregation.

‘Reject these mere symbols of faith!’, she proclaims, her voice strong and absent of doubt. ‘Reveal thy inner Christ!’

A few frustrated murmurings echo around the main body of the church. The service is long enough without interruptions, there’s much to be done at home, day of rest or not. The Reverend, shaken out of his reverie, begins to recover, but not fast enough. A few of the congregation start to rise. The Reverend pauses.

‘Reject this finery and ceremony’, Alice continues, gaining yet more confidence despite the gathering menace. ‘Ye have no need of priests and robes!’ This last pronouncement is, it seems, the final straw for the party advancing towards her, although in truth Alice’s fate had probably been sealed the moment she’d stood up. A deep cry goes up, one tinged with anger and venom.

‘Grab her!’

Despite the priest’s half-hearted protestations half a dozen of the larger members of his flock descend upon Alice and lift her from the ground, two on each thrashing leg and one on each arm. A cheer goes up, destroying the atmosphere of peace and due reverence that had pervaded the church less than a minute before.

There is a loud wooden thump as the door is pulled open and crashes on its jamb. Alice continues to declaim her beliefs, but her voice has become more distant, stop she is pushed face downwards into the soft, drying mud outside. It is only when her infant son, left behind in the melee and stranded on a small knitted rug on the floor, starts to cry that people realise that she had not come alone.

**********

These days the moorlands of north Staffordshire are a magnet for tourism, but even today it is easy to imagine how, at the end of the seventeenth century, they would have been a bleak and uninviting place, especially if you had to eke a living out of them. Men and women worked hard to ensure survival for themselves and their families and could go for days without seeing someone outside their immediate kin, let alone figures of authority such as the local lord or clergyman. Villages were barely more than loose collections of houses, and towns were an abstract notion for most.

A contemporary record describes the climate of that part of the county as ‘cold and wet, like that of the adjacent parts of Derbyshire and Cheshire; snow lies long on the moorlands and the west wind seldom fails to bring rain’. The most noticeable feature to someone new to the area would indeed have been the wind that raged off the moors, a constant whistle oscillating in pitch, that seemed to send a rasping, cleansing draught through the landscape.

It is perhaps unsurprising therefore that Brindley’s maternal great-grandparents, Alice and Henry Bowman, were early members of the Society of Friends, or Quakers, with its emphasis on the simple life, on unadorned worship and the rejection of creeds and priests. Those who adopted the Society’s ways chose also to stand out from the crowd, but the self-righteousness and spiritual certainty of the early Quakers no doubt gave some kind of comfort against their self-inflicted ostracism from their neighbours. They would have needed it. With memories of the Civil War still raw this was not a good time to be different.

What was more, their absence from church and subsequent refusal to pay tithes seemed to accentuate their determination to be seen as somehow special. Although they may have regarded all men as equal, going so far as to refuse to take their hats off in court, this was still an age when some were more equal than others and prudent so-called dissenters would have needed constant looks over their shoulder when they walked home down tracks lit only by the moon. Fatal clashes were not unknown and probably went unpunished.

The Bowmans were not exempt from punishment for challenging the prevailing orthodoxy. Three years before Alice’s outburst at St Edward’s her husband Henry had spent a year and seven months in jail for refusing to pay tithes. Quakers believed that no man had a prior call on another. Alice’s ejection cost her a spell in the local House of Correction and it cost her infant son Matthew, still suckling his mother, his life – prison being no place for an infant. No price, it would seem, was too high for her principles.

This behaviour would have seemed very strange to Alice’s father and indeed her grandfather, both of whom could legitimately describe themselves in their lifetimes as Gentlemen. Neither lord nor yeoman, this title described a man of independent means, a sort of incipient middle class. Alice’s grandfather Samuel Stubbs had had property to his name and been a relatively wealthy and well-read lawyer, who had practised in Tunstall in Staffordshire and had even represented clients in London. Her father Walter was said to live modestly, but his will showed he had the distinction of owning more animals than his neighbours.

Both had died before Alice married and perhaps it was this freedom from family influence, and the general air of rebelliousness around at the time, that gave her the confidence to make her own mark. It was 1658, when the country was still being ruled as a King-less Commonwealth and at a time when her cousin was a local rector, that Alice had became a Quaker.

Occasional lapses into defiant anarchy beside, despite their aversion to material goods, those of Alice’s children who survived infancy and adolescence maintained the family tradition of a steady and unostentatious accumulation of wealth. In time, Alice’s sons purchased and developed farms in the surrounding areas, becoming particularly skilled in animal husbandry, notably with sheep, but also with pigs, cows and goats. When he died in 1714, Alice’s eldest son was worth over £1,000, twice the amount she herself had left a quarter of a century before.

Her eldest daughter Ellen, however, was another story. It may have been in the blood, because Ellen too appeared determined to plough her own furrow. Her act of rebellion however was to marry beneath her. By so doing she created her own version of the ancient story of maternal disapproval of a daughter’s choice of life partner. Although probably a Quaker too – marriage outside the faith would have been a step too far – Ellen’s new husband Joseph Brindley was very clearly persona non grata with his mother-in-law. When she died Ellen was left the princely sum of £40 by her mother, and although enough at the time for a working man to just about support a family for a year, this was half the amount left to her unmarried sisters.

On its own this is not that remarkable, after all Ellen had probably already benefited from a marriage settlement. What were unusual, however, were the strings to which the inheritance was very firmly attached. Alice’s will stated specifically that the money was to be used solely for the maintenance of Ellen and her children, that it be held by Ellen’s brother and that if she went to court to challenge the will she would get nothing. The message could not have been clearer: Joseph was not to be allowed within a mile of the money.

The reasons behind this rift are not known. Little is known of Joseph’s background, Brindley actually being a rather common name in Staffordshire at the time. Whatever the reasons, the suspicion must be that Joseph’s enthusiasm for Quakerism didn’t match that of his wife’s family. Ellen was the only one of her siblings not to be buried a Quaker and their oldest son James, father of our James, gained something of a reputation for betting and practising country sports with those who could afford to pursue them, suggesting he was hardly brought up in a strict Quaker household.

Whatever his faults though, James was Ellen’s only son and it seems her family was prepared to forgive him his parentage and take him to their bosom, perhaps in the hope of providing the spiritual guidance they suspected he was not getting at home. His predilection for play over work clearly grated with their Quaker ideals. James senior spent some of his boyhood years at the family’s modest estate, probably more of a large farm, at Stockley Park in Tutley, Staffordshire and learnt farming from his Uncle Harry, Ellen’s older brother.

Despite these good intentions, if the aim was to redeem James it seems they largely failed. At the age of thirty-one he got married to one Susanna Bradbury. This was a rushed affair and a second attempt to complete the ceremony. The first had been scheduled for the famous crooked-spire church of Chesterfield, fully thirty miles away, suggesting a need for secrecy. What is certain is that parental consent was not given and James omitted to bring a friend or relative with him to complete the marriage bond, causing the whole enterprise to be abandoned.

Three months later, in January 1716 they tried again. Once more there was no parental consent, but this time it didn’t matter, with Susanna having turned twenty-one in the interim. The reason for this haste became clear when James junior was born a few months later. There is also a suspicion that Susannah wasn’t a Quaker, which if true would have cast further despair on his grandmother’s family. It was in these unpromising circumstances that the man who transformed his nation, and by extension the world, was born.

**********

Fresh fencing has recently been installed around Brindley’s birthplace, where the tree grows which replaced the original ash that broke the flags of his parents’ cottage.

James Brindley’s later success certainly can’t be put down to any advantage bestowed at birth. Although his wider family were relatively well to do, they owned their own land and had capital, his parents had cast themselves firmly as the black sheep of the family. They lived more than a full day’s walk away from the family farm and not even in the same county – effectively in a different country.

The cottage where James first saw the light of day no longer exists, but its location is marked both by a modest black plaque and a tree, in an unprepossessing hamlet called Tunstead, near Wormhill in north Derbyshire, about three miles outside Buxton. Even three-quarters of a century later Wormhill had only twenty-nine houses and was described as a hamlet with a chapel. Tunstead was appreciably smaller, possibly no more than two or three cottages grouped together for convenience rather than through any true sense of community.

No more than six inches by eight, the plaque in Tunstead has weathered significantly over the years and become quite difficult to read. A small stockade fence has recently been erected to make access easier. When you get closer it is just possible to make out the following words:

James Brindley 1716–1772, Millwright and Civil Engineer.

Here stood the cottage in which James Brindley was born. Of humble birth, he became famous as the pioneer builder of the great canals of England. This plaque was erected by the local history section of the Derbyshire Archaeological Society unveiled by J.L. Longland Esq. MA on November 1st 1958 and Miss Y.H.B. Hartford planted the adjacent ash tree.

Such a message befits the man. It is simple, states the facts and hints at greatness without making any undue claims.

The tree replaced an original ash that had grown up through the flags of the floor of a cottage that long before had fallen derelict. The Brindleys were the last to inhabit this modest dwelling and after they left its stones were ignominiously removed to build cowsheds. At one time a labourer was sent to clear a path to the neighbouring farmhouse but was reluctant to fell a healthy sapling. As a consequence it was left and fittingly acted as Brindley’s only memorial for many decades.