Crosscurrents is set in 1830's Cornwall when the battle
between steam and sail was gathering strength.
Having taken control of the packet service which delivered
mail from the Cornish port
of Falmouth to ports all
over the globe, the Admiralty wanted to replace sail with steam. Their plan was
to increase profits by shortening journey times through removing reliance on
fair winds.
However, most naval officers of the day had little mechanical
knowledge, and no desire to learn about dirty engines. Neither had they any
understanding of, or sympathy for, the engineers who in most cases were civilians
provided by the engine manufacturers.
To many deck officers, the sign of an efficient and
attentive engine-room staff was plenty of smoke billowing from the funnel, and
steam constantly blowing from the safety valve.
But engineers knew these signs indicated all kinds of problems.
These early steam ships were powered by paddle wheels –
one on each side - driven by a pair of engines supplied with steam from two or more
boilers.
Side-mounted paddle wheels worked well on the American
river boats such as those carrying cargo and passengers up and down the Mississippi because
rivers are usually calm. But ocean-going paddle-wheel steamers were appallingly
uncomfortable. Wave motion caused the
paddle wheels to dig into the water at different times and different depths. This resulted in a jerky waddling motion that
made even hardened sailors seasick.
These early steamships were constantly
running out of coal, because the Admiralty hadn't organised enough refuelling
ports. With no sails to fall back on,
this meant burning spars, bulkheads, even furniture to raise enough steam to get
back to port. These ships also suffered frequent mechanical breakdown due to
heavy wear in the engines. But the greatest danger was boiler failure. When a
boiler failed the resulting explosion destroyed the ship, killing everyone on
board.
Excerpt:
The
heat in the steam packet’s engine room was stifling. Santo had shed his coat
and waistcoat soon after the ship left Falmouth.
His cravat had followed, stuffed into the pocket of his trousers, and his
shirtsleeves were rolled up.
At the sound of a groan, a muffled curse, then the thump
of a falling body, he glanced round and saw the stoker had collapsed.
Will McAndrew heaved a sigh. ‘Here, boy, soak rags in the
water bucket and wrap ’em loosely round his head and throat. Then see if you
can get a pint of small beer down him.’
Boy.
I’m twenty-eight. But he knew Will used the term in fondness, not as an
insult. Following the chief engineer’s instructions, Santo dragged the
semi-conscious stoker into a corner away from the boiler’s heat. After draining
a tankard of small beer himself, he poured another and offered it to Will who
swallowed it without pause for breath.
‘I’ll go and ask Lt Hellings for another stoker.’ Leaving
Will anxiously studying the gauges Santo climbed the wooden ladder. As he
reached the deck he breathed deeply, glad of fresh air after the heat and acrid
reek of soot and hot metal below. He thought of Bronnen, her shy smile, rosy
blush, and those amazing eyes, greenish-brown with glints of gold.
He had seen them spark in anger, widen in amazement, and
soften in trust as she allowed him past the wariness she wore like a protective
cloak. But last night in the lantern’s glow they had been bottomless pools.
Her passionate response to his kisses had
ignited a desire as complex as it was powerful. He wanted her with every fibre
of his body. But he also wanted to protect her, even from his own hunger. She
had kissed him with searing honesty, holding nothing back. Afterwards he could
see she was as startled as he was by her response to him.
Recognising her naivety, he had also
recognised the responsibility this placed on him. He could have taken what he
so badly wanted. She would have let him. But the aftermath would have been
devastating for her, and he would never have been able to look himself in the
eye again.
Instead, drawing on strength he didn’t
know was in him he had stepped back. Still lost in the feelings he had stirred
she had gazed up at him, her eyes wide, dazed. Looking into the limpid depths
he had felt himself falling.
He wasn’t good with words, not like
Richard Vaughan. But holding her hand, fighting the fierce desire she aroused
in him, he had seen both her strength and her fragility. It made her trust in
him a gift all the more valued.
He had known her only days yet couldn’t
get her out of his thoughts. Nor did he want to. Watching her suspicion of his
engine change to astonishment then fascination had given him more pleasure than
he had felt in a long time.
In the brewhouse he had seen exhaustion
etched on her face – the physical cost of completing the brew on her own. Yet
she had not spoken a single word of complaint. It was plain as day she knew her
job. So why did he feel this powerful need to protect her?
Glancing aft he saw two officers leaning
miserably over the side in the throes of seasickness. Three seamen sprawled by
the forward bilges in similar straits.
He sighed, unsurprised. For the first
hour he had felt unpleasantly queasy himself. Only through fierce concentration
on the machinery had he overcome it.
The change from sail to steam power was
intended to shorten voyage times by removing dependence on erratic winds. But
looking at the suffering seamen Santo wondered how many crews would survive
this so-called progress.
He glanced skyward. When he had stepped
aboard, a speedwell-blue sky had been reflected in the sparkling sea. Now a
blanket of high cloud patterned like a mackerel’s side covered the sky, and a
stiffening breeze curled the tops of the waves into foam.
He returned to the engine room. ‘It’s
just you and me, Will.’ Santo unbuttoned his shirt. ‘There isn’t a man to
spare.’
‘Sick, are they?’
Santo nodded. ‘And two of the officers.’
Stripping down to his drawers, he borrowed the stoker’s canvas trousers and
started shovelling coal into the fiery mouth of the ever-hungry boiler.
Four hours later, the muscles of his back
and shoulders ached like an abscessed tooth. He wondered how much longer he
could keep going, and thought of Bronnen doing the work of two.
He straightened, wincing. Leaning on the
shovel, waiting for his heartbeat to slow, he pulled a filthy rag from his
waistband. As he wiped sweat and coal dust from his face he glanced across at
the engineer who looked a decade older than his fifty years.
Will gestured helplessly. ‘I gave Lt
Hellings the extra speed he
wanted. He must’ve known it would use up more coal. If Annear’s had delivered
what I ordered – ’ Will shook his head. ‘We’d still be short.’
Santo eyed him, careful to keep his tone
free of accusation. ‘You took a hell of a risk holding down the safety valve.’
As Will’s furrowed cheeks flushed brick red with shame, Santo wanted to shake
the lieutenant until his teeth rattled.
‘You weren’t s’posed to see that.’
‘I’m not blaming you. If I was in your
place I might have done the same.’
‘Before we left Falmouth,’ Will said, ‘the lieutenant told me
if we didn’t reach speed today he’d have to put it in his report. What choice
did I have? But I tell you straight, boy, I didn’t like it. Not at all.’
Shaking his head he turned away, rubbing his haggard features with a filthy rag
as if that might wipe away his guilt.
Santo was furious with the Admiralty
whose demands for speed and economy were contradictory and unworkable.
Lt Hellings demanded results but took no account of the dangers involved. And
Hall’s, who had built the engine, had put Will in an impossible position.
Sweat trickled down his face and chest
leaving pale tracks through the grime. As he inhaled, the hot dust-thickened
air caught in his throat making him cough. Refilling the pewter mug Will passed
it across. Santo gulped down the weak beer and wiped his mouth with the back of
his hand.
‘I’ve met some fools in my time but the
lieutenant is one of the worst.’ He handed Will the empty mug then peered into
the coalbunker.
‘How much is left?’ Will asked.
‘Less than a quarter.’
Will blew out a breath. ‘Not enough to get
us back to Falmouth.’
Dropping his shovel onto the gritty floor
Santo started for the ladder. ‘I’ll go and tell Lt Hellings. Any crew still on
their feet had better find us something to feed the boiler with before it goes
out, or God alone knows how long we’ll be stuck out here.’
Book
Blurb:
Santo
Innis is developing a revolutionary new
engine to counter the lethal effects of high-pressure steam. His backer is
Richard Vaughan, heir to Frederick Tregarron, owner of Gillyvean estate.
Following the tragic deaths of his
wife and baby son, Richard immersed himself in work. But his world is turned
upside down by the unexpected arrival at Gillyvean of Melanie Tregarron, a
talented artist and Frederick’s
illegitimate youngest daughter.
Desperate to prove the viability of his invention, Santo
persuades Richard to let him fit one at Gillyvean’s brewhouse.
But when Bronnen Jewell - worried about her mother's
suffering at her father's hands - arrives to brew the harvest beer she's
horrified, fearing loss of the income on which she depends.
As the lives of these four become entwined, a shocking
revelation shatters Bronnen’s world; desperate for money Santo makes a choice
that costs him everything; Melanie fears she will never be free of her past;
and Richard has to face his deepest fear.
5 Star review
I received the book from the touring host for an honest review.
This was such an awesome read. I have never read Ms. Jackson's books before, but now I am definitely making a plan to add them to my TBR list and read more. If this book was any indication, I will love to read more from her pen.
The plot, the characters, every scene, even the topic was masterly crafted into the 1830's period. When all technology was relatively new, and many were skeptical of any new changes. Because of this skepticism many lives were lost. It took courages men to stand up and fight for what they believed was the right thing to do, that changed the minds of the people.
We get to know four people, Bronnen, Melanie, Santo and Richard. Each battling with their own fears, turmoil and mistakes as the story unfolds. But I must say that I was really impressed with the two women's strong characters, facing obstacles, standing their ground as they tried to come to grips with who they were, accepting themselves and moving on. Despite what people might say or men treated them they stayed true to themselves, giving themselves only to the men that really mattered. They were stubborn, willing to proof themselves, gifted and not afraid to work hard at their respective crafts. The one very talented with her sketchpad and pencil always at hand; for the other, to make the perfect beer, learned from her mother when she was still very young.
A beautiful and supportive friendship formed between them, with their lives so much a like, even though it seemed they were worlds apart. A fast paced gripping story that was told with so much emotion that takes you on a wonderful journey as you enjoy the wonder of a great historic romance. Experiencing the pain and laughter with these four made the book believable and the story realistic. A great asset for any bookshelf or Kindle.
Buy links:
Author
bio:
Jane Jackson has been a professional writer
for over thirty years, and twice shortlisted for the Romantic Novel of the Year
Award. Crosscurrents is her
twenty-eighth published novel.
Happily married to a Cornishman, with
children and grandchildren, she has lived in Cornwall most of her life, finding
inspiration for her books in the county's magnificent scenery and fascinating
history.
She enjoys reading, research, long walks,
baking, and visiting Cornish agricultural shows where her husband displays his
collection of 28 (and counting) restored vintage rotavators.
Michelle moved around the Midwest most of her life, transferring from school to school before settling down in the outskirts of Chicago ten years ago, where she now resides with her husband and two kids. She developed a love of reading at a young age, which helped lay the foundation for her passion to write. With the encouragement of her family, she finally sat down and wrote one of the many stories that have been floating around in her head. 
