The Iron Horse Race: Live from Rainhill, 1829

Good morning! This is Thomas Sterling, speaking to you—impossibly—from the muddy, coal-dusted fields of Rainhill, Lancashire. The date is October the eighth, eighteen-twenty-nine. I am standing on the edge of a newly laid track of iron rails, part of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway. The air here is cold, biting at the cheeks, but the atmosphere? It is electric. It is positively feverish. Ten thousand people have gathered here—ladies in bonnets, gentlemen in top hats, and labourers in flat caps—all jostling to witness what many are calling a miracle, and others, a monstrosity.

Today is the decisive day of the Rainhill Trials. Five hundred pounds and the contract to build the locomotives for this new railway are at stake. But it is more than money. It is a battle for the future of motion itself. Standing beside me to make sense of these fire-breathing beasts is a local millwright and man of mechanics, Mr. William Ashworth. Mr. Ashworth, thank you for joining me.

Aye, you’re welcome, Mr. Sterling. Though I’ll admit, I’m not sure what to make of that small metal box you’re speaking into. Is it some newfangled steam gauge?

Something like that, William. Now, look at this crowd! I’ve never seen anything like it. They say the directors of the railway were considering hauling the trains with stationary engines and ropes because they didn't believe a moving locomotive could climb the hills.

That’s the talk in the taverns. And rightly so. You look at these machines—heavy, iron brutes. The idea that they can pull themselves, let alone a carriage of people, at ten miles an hour? It flies in the face of nature. A horse has muscle, it has heart. These things... they have only fire and water.

Speaking of fire and water, the crowd’s favourite—the machine called the 'Novelty'—has been the talk of the trials so far. It ran two days ago. Tell us about that machine, William.

Ah, the Novelty. Now that is a pretty thing. Built by Ericsson and Braithwaite. It doesn’t look like a factory engine. It’s blue, with bright copper fittings. It looks like a carriage you’d see on the streets of London, just... without the horses. And it was fast, I’ll give it that. Darted off like a startled hare. They say it hit twenty-eight miles an hour!

Twenty-eight! That is faster than a galloping horse!

Aye, but it’s too light, Mr. Sterling. It’s a toy. A tea-urn on wheels. It relies on bellows to force the air, like a blacksmith’s forge. And what happened? The bellows burst. Then a pipe went. It’s delicate. You can’t build a railway on delicate. This is Lancashire, not a London drawing room.

And that brings us to the machine lining up on the track right now. The entry from the North. George Stephenson’s 'Rocket'. It certainly doesn’t look like a carriage. It looks... well, it looks like an insect. A giant yellow insect with a tall white chimney.

Stephenson’s a rough sort, but he knows his iron. Look at the Rocket. It’s painted yellow and black—bold colours. But the secret isn’t the paint. It’s the boiler. You see that big barrel?

Yes?

Most engines just have one big flue running through the water to heat it. Stephenson, or his man Booth rather, they’ve done something clever. Inside that boiler, there isn’t one big pipe. There are twenty-five small copper tubes.

Twenty-five?

Aye. Multi-tubular, they call it. More surface for the fire to touch the water. Means it makes steam faster. Much faster. And you see the two cylinders on the side? They’re angled, like grasshopper legs, driving the front wheels directly.

They’re stoking the fire now. I can see the heat shimmering off the boiler. The driver—I believe that’s George Stephenson himself at the controls—is checking the pressure. There’s a distinct smell here, William. It’s not the thick black coal smoke I’m used to in the city.

No, that’s the rules of the competition. They have to 'consume their own smoke'. They’re burning coke—baked coal. Burns cleaner. If you look at the chimney, it’s mostly white steam coming out, blasting up with a rhythm. Chuff... chuff... chuff.

He’s releasing the brake! The wheels are slipping slightly on the iron... there! It’s caught. The Rocket is moving!

Watch the piston rods. See the motion? It’s smoother than the others. The Sans Pareil—Hackworth’s engine—it waddles like a duck. But the Rocket... she strides.

It’s picking up speed. It’s passing the grandstand now! The crowd is leaning forward... oh, my goodness! Look at it go! It’s not just trotting; it’s sprinting!

She’s passing fifteen miles an hour... eighteen...

I have never seen a mechanical object move this fast! It’s blurring! The noise—it’s a rhythmic, heavy panting, getting faster and faster. The ground beneath our feet is trembling, William!

She’s holding together! The steam pressure is holding! That multi-tubular boiler is doing the work!

He must be doing twenty-five miles an hour! Maybe thirty! People in the front row are actually stepping back in terror! A woman there just swooned! It’s unnatural, William! It’s terrifying and beautiful all at once!

Thirty miles an hour... Lord save us. If a man were to stick his head out, the air would surely suffocate him at that speed!

And yet, Stephenson stands there on the footplate, his coat flapping in the wind, looking as calm as if he were sitting by his hearth. He’s reached the end of the mile-and-a-half course and he’s braking... he’s stopped. And now... he’s reversing! He’s bringing it back just as fast!

Well, I’ll be. I was a skeptic, Mr. Sterling. I thought the iron horse was a fancy for the rich. But looking at that... that yellow beast... that’s power. That’s the end of the canal boat, mark my words. The world just got a lot smaller.

You heard it here first. The 'Rocket' has not just completed the course; it has demolished the doubts of an entire nation. The Novelty was pretty, but the Rocket is power. As the yellow engine rolls back toward us, the crowd is no longer silent. They are roaring. A new age has dawned here in Rainhill. The age of steam. For William Ashworth, I’m Thomas Sterling. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to try to get a word with Mr. Stephenson before he changes history any further.