Defying Destiny

By John H. Egbers

Stewart Fletcher is a restless young Englishman who desperately wants to become a part of the new technological advancements that are emerging with the turn of the century. With an intense ardor, he rebels against a life in which he will never find satisfaction or contentment and escapes prosecution by entering the United States illegally after a confrontation with a member of the elite British twentieth century society.

After his determination, vision, and a fair dose of good luck allow him to successfully enter the exciting automobile market stimulated by geniuses like Henry Ford and Ransom Olds, Stewart quickly attains success and wealth. But just as he thinks all is well, he must face a business and personal crisis triggered by venture capitalists and a failed marriage to a talented Irish maiden. But will he be able to defy destiny again after he drastically changes his lifes course with his childhood sweetheart in a renovated carriage house near the Delaware River?

In this historical novel, a young Englishman who sets out on a determined quest to become part of the motorcars early pioneering years is led to a destiny he never expected.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jun 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781480861367

John H. Egbers

John H. Egbers was reared in The Netherlands. After completing his engineering studies, he served as an officer in the Royal Netherlands Air Force and was employed by the Royal/Dutch Shell Group and the Du Pont Company in both Europe and the United States.

Book preview

Defying

Destiny

John H. Egbers

51786.png

Copyright © 2018 John H. Egbers.

Cover image:

1910 Stevens-Duryea

Photography: Gabor Mayer

By permission of

Hyman Classic Cars Ltd

St. Louis MO

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Archway Publishing

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-6135-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-6134-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-6136-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018946227

Archway Publishing rev. date: 5/31/2018

Contents

Historical Setting

Acknowledgments

Principal Characters

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

Epilogue

Appendix

Historical Setting

The steam engine, telegraph, and telephone drastically changed the way humanity interacted in the nineteenth century.

Numerous attempts were made later in that century to extend the achieved progress in a search for a mechanical means to replace the traditional dependence on animals for travel and transport.

Steam- and electric-propelled vehicles initially appeared to be promising and set speed and endurance records, but they failed to gain public acceptance.

Electrically powered cars (called the ladies’ car) failed because of limited battery capacity and the subsequent short operating range, while the quiet and smooth steam-powered motorcars turned out to be impractical because of the time needed to generate steam.

It was not until the internal combustion engine reached its common industrial and societal usefulness that motor-driven vehicles earned their dominant global status. During the 1860–1900 period, significant and permanent progress was made. Internal combustion engines had the great advantage of instant use without extensive preparation time and offered almost unlimited endurance.

Creative engineers such as Joseph-Étienne Lenoir, Karl Benz, Rudolf Diesel, and Nikolaus Otto were successful inventors, but many others contributed to performance improvements. Advanced production techniques reduced costs to a level that allowed common citizens to own and use motorized vehicles, which stimulated new applied technologies.

The motor-powered car, at times referred to as the horseless carriage, made it possible for people to travel individually from one location to another with increasing speed and comfort.

The automobile became more than a way of transport. Self-propelled cars replaced the horse as a symbol of pride and societal standing. The type of car that one owned expressed taste and importance; models ranged from sporting and fast to dignified and comfortable. Manufacturers’ names became a reflection of one’s societal preferences and status. President Ford quipped that he considered himself a Ford, not a Lincoln; common people typically owned Fords, whereas the societal elite frequently owned Lincolns.

Advanced technologies are erasing the automobile as a societal expression that existed for over a century. Most people in developed nations are able to buy a great variety of cars with ever-greater similarity in appearance, performance, and comfort, except for some ultraexpensive brands like the Bugatti, Maybach, Rolls-Royce, and other custom-made automobiles. The performance of these exclusive cars can, however, seldom be effectively applied, owing to the speed restrictions in most nations.

Abundant supplies and easy financing have diminished a sense of individuality and differentiation. Cost, economy, safety, comfort, and environmental impact are the major contemporary public interests.

This story reflects the era of the motorcar’s early pioneering years and the impact it had on the life of a young man and on society at large.

Acknowledgments

The amazing development of research sources like Google, Bing, and Wikipedia allows fast and almost limitless access to historical information.

These resources were consulted for the development of this story, too many to list and mention. Their contributions, however, are gratefully accepted and acknowledged.

Thanks are also due to Dr. Ted Wilks, for his interest, comments, and advice, and to Edeltraud, who patiently guided me through the entanglements of the digital era.

There is a tide in the affairs of men.

When taken at the flood, leads on to Fortune.

Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows and in miseries.

—William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, act 4, scene 3

Principal Characters

Historical

Automobile Pioneers

Charles Stewart Rolls (1877–1910)

Frederick Henri Royce (1863–1933)

John Alfred Prestwich (1874–1952)

David Dunbar Buick (1854–1929)

Henry Ford (1863–1947)

Ransom Eli Olds (1864–1950)

Louis Joseph Chevrolet (1878–1941)

Whitelaw Reid (1837–1912), vice president nominee, owner of the New York Tribune, US ambassador to France and the United Kingdom

Fictitious

Stewart Fletcher, young Englishman, only son of his widowed mother

Lord Edward Rensingham, last member of an old English aristocratic family

-Lady Susan, his wife and former actress

-Celia, their only child

Mitchell Stafford, Delaware banker

-Silvia, his wife

-Mitchell Stafford II, their son

Ryan Sullivan, manager at the Oldsmobile plant in Lansing, Michigan

-Mary, his wife

-Fiona, their daughter

Bernard Buck Briggs, a Texas oil company owner

-Betty-Sue, his daughter

1

A blanket of dense fog spread over the partially hidden fields when Stewart Fletcher walked listlessly home after another long, monotonous day in the stuffy domain of the Rutherford and Collins solicitor’s office, where doors and windows remained rigidly shut to avoid exposure to the feared illness-carrying ambient air and where instead a heavy, stale odor of musty old documents, ash-filled fireplace, and human presence had to be endured.

A few gaslit street lanterns spread their dim, feeble rays into the gray mist to guide the occasional shivering pedestrians hastening to their destinies in the cloud-encapsulated realm, with its familiar and unmistakable scent of burning wood and coal.

The fog-enclosed world enhanced the morose state of his mind. Even the chirps of the birds had ceased, except for an occasional hoarse, grating caw of a crow.

How he abhorred the daily drab routine.

Was this all that his future had to offer—shallow exchanges, artificial smiles, and, above all, boring, senseless, empty repetition?

With an intense ardor, he rebelled against a life in which he would never find satisfaction or contentment—a life filled with long legal documents; the greed of obese, rich customers worrying about their wealth; and the insincere politeness of his superiors, who despised many of those they served.

He needed challenges that would test the limits of his abilities. He was eager to understand what was still beyond his present reach and to experience moments of elation and ecstasy or even the inevitable occasional failure that accompanies all progress.

If only he could fulfill a small role in some new technological developments, such as motorcycles or motorcars, and experience the thrill of speed, even reckless speed. He had eagerly perused and absorbed all the news that he had been able to find about the motor world. That was the future. What he was doing now made him feel as if he were living in a long-gone past.

During a rare conversation, he had argued with his superiors. Ships were propelled by the wind for centuries and depended on often unpredictable and capricious weather conditions. And just see what has happened! Steam-driven vessels are now going all over the world, independent of weather conditions. The same will happen with motorized vehicles. And there will be a motorized way to fly through the air. The German count Ferdinand von Zeppelin has already patented his new invention of a rigid motorized airship. Can you imagine what this could become, flying people and goods to their destinations as directly as the crow flies through the air or—come to think of it—hopefully straighter than a crow flies?

Nonsense, young man, had been the irritated response of Mr. Rutherford. Your fantasy is carrying you to unrealistic perceptions. Keep your feet on the ground, Fletcher. If God had intended for us to fly, He would have given us wings like a bird. But He has not. End of argument. And now, go back to work.

It was no use to continue.

It’s impossible to persuade people who are mired in their self-made, protected, and comfortable world of a boring routine.

Stewart had heard the driveling argument about humans having no wings before. But he just knew that he was right, that great things were going to happen, things that could not even be imagined. He desperately wanted to become a part of it, no matter how insignificant, by using every bit of his talent and energy until they were completely consumed, exhausted, gone.

He shook his head. Put your feet back on the ground, Stewart. You can only achieve what destiny and opportunity allow you, he told himself repeatedly but not convincingly. Somehow, in some way, he resented being the victim of fate and circumstances.

You should count your blessings, my son. Be grateful for what God has given you! his mother had reminded him.

Should then someone who is born blind like poor Katy Ward also be grateful? he had countered once in a rare intractable mood, immediately regretting his rebellious comment.

His mother had looked at him with a frown, a most unusual frown that had knitted her brows.

God gives to everyone what they need to pursue peace, Stewart—also the blind, to be sure!

It was pointless to continue the discussion.

The last thing he wanted was to quarrel with his mother. So he had remained silent and never discussed the subject with her again. But his questions, restlessness, and sense of injustice remained.

Shivering in the dying day, he shook his shoulders and walked on.

When he passed the gray, foreboding walls of St. Barnabas Church, he halted and listened for a moment. From behind the large Gothic windows, dim candlelight flickered, and the subdued sound of an organ could be heard in the stillness of the autumn dusk.

Buxtehude, he said and smiled briefly. He knew the preference of his elderly, kind, talented music teacher, who spent countless hours in the dark, hollow gray edifice in an attempt to suppress his loneliness after his wife died over a year ago.

Music lessons had kept his life aglow in the dreaded daily routine, and it was the music that kept his dreams alive, tested his ability to achieve, and challenged his understanding.

Critique and encouragement circled in his mind when he lay in bed at night before sleep set in. Schubert and Chopin were his favorites. J. S. Bach and Czerny were good for demanding practice, but their music could not create that special feeling of connection and emotion.

Often he had wondered if a preference for certain music was determined by environment and education or a matter of feeling and individual taste. Probably both, he had concluded.

No, Stewart, my boy, not so hasty! Legato, legato. The melody must flow, Liam McHale had encouraged him repeatedly.

Stewart owed so much to the invalid old organist, who had broken his hip when he had fallen from the tight stairs leading to the organ. Liam had never completely recovered and walked with great difficulty. He had been, and still was, both a teacher and good and wise friend. Stewart’s only true friend, really.

After taking a deep sigh, he continued toward his cold, empty home.

How different it had been when his mother still was alive. She would be sitting in her chair and calmly waiting for him while the teakettle was blowing silent puffs of vapor in the quiet atmosphere of their small house. After his gentle, routine kiss on her forehead, he would ask if she was well that day, expecting the same answer.

I am very well, Stewart, but how was your day?

How proud she was of her only child—her six-foot-tall, slender, handsome son—with his abundance of wavy hair, with a touch of the Celtic auburn of his ancestry; his pensive, questioning green eyes; his strong, straight mouth; and his clean-shaven appearance. Among his peers and friends he stood out—not conspicuously but naturally, as it was supposed to be. He always listened with keen interest, and his speech was eloquent compared to the earthy, rustic dialect of the area. But among his friends or neighbors he would speak their way, with at times crude but often humorous folksy expressions.

Liam McHale, however, had insisted that Stewart speak correct English, which had greatly benefitted him when he had tried to be accepted as an apprentice clerk, a much-desired position for which many young men had applied. Stewart was not introverted. He just did not say more than needed, and when he said something, people normally listened.

His mother was aware, however, of his restless nature and how his temperament could flare with sudden, fierce force, but she had never seen any hint of uncontrolled behavior—that is, when she was around.

Where could his restlessness come from? She often had wondered since she and her husband had been calm and temperate in character.

After Stewart’s return from work, they would quietly sip the tea she had served with the same dry, tasteless, but cheap cookies, and she would smile at him with her warm and endearing smile.

Smiles can be very different, Stewart concluded. Some could be mysterious as the Mona Lisa, making art lovers wonder what the thought behind the smile could be; some could be teasing, some devious, and some even treacherous. But his mother’s smile had always been warm and innocent, perhaps somewhat ignorant, yet a mirror of a soul without guile. He had needed that quiet moment every day, for it gave him a sense that at least part of his life knew warmth and compassion, so remote from the cold reality of the long days in the office. He had always looked forward to coming home.

Until that black Monday two months ago. The house had been dark and enclosed in a foreboding silence when he had entered anxiously. His mother had been sitting in her chair, as she always had been, but with her head down and hands folded as in prayer. The teakettle had been silent and cold. The painful, devastating truth had been immediately clear.

She had died, probably from a heart attack. Or maybe just from being tired of life.

She had been living so long without her husband and trusted friend. Together, they had decided to take the risk of buying the corner unit of the row of nine attached dwellings built for the servants of Ashton House. It had been a surprising, unexpected opportunity, offered because of his father’s excellent contributions as a mechanic in an age of rapidly advancing technology. That was what his father had been told. But they had suspected that the lords of the manor needed cash.

The free and open image of the corner house, situated at the end of a row of the houses, was enhanced by the large window in the living room overlooking their small garden, against the backdrop of fields and forests beyond. It had been a once-in-a-lifetime, mind-boggling decision.

They had sat close together at the table in deep thought and weighed the heavy burden of what—in their opinion—would be a great mortgage debt against the joy and pride of having the ownership of their own dwelling. Reluctantly, hesitantly, they had decided to buy the house and accept a recent opportunity that his father had received to work as a mechanic taking care of the new steam-driven water pumps in a Welsh coal mine.

Accepting the job offer would separate him from his family for many weeks, but it allowed a much more expedient payoff of their mortgage. And when the mortgage was paid, all their financial resources would be available for Stewart’s education.

That was the plan. It almost succeeded. But during the last month of his contract, an explosion in the mine had instantly killed his father—and, in the same moment, his mother’s hopes and dreams.

Stewart only vaguely remembered his father, having been four years old at the time.

Thinking about the mechanical skills of his father brought back the memory about the unusual event that had disturbed the boring hours in the solicitor’s office two weeks ago, a very unwelcome yet exciting event when a harsh noise had awakened the serene quietness. All office occupants had hastened to the windows to stare at a sportily dressed young man who had stopped while letting the engine roar of his motorized sort of bicycle, which was surrounded by mainly young admirers.

He had immediately recognized the source of the disturbance.

Nonchalantly but with a touch of arrogance, he had informed his superiors and colleagues that it was a Coventry-Eagle motorcycle with a 293-cubic-centimeter JAP engine.

What engine? a skeptical Mr. Collins had wanted to know.

JAP is an abbreviation of John Alfred Prestwich, who has started to produce superior engines, sir, that are now even exported to France and Germany.

The beginning of the end, Mr. Rutherford had stated with melodramatic certainty. These monsters will make street traffic dangerous, fill the air with malodorous clouds, make it impossible to have a civil discussion, and endanger people—especially children—with speeds never seen before while horses get spooked and bolt! The result will be absolute chaos.

He had responded with an eagerness he later regretted. But they will get better, sir. This is just the beginning. He had dared to oppose his superior again. "You must have read that the Locomotives on Highways Act has already been changed for vehicles under three hundred tons so that the restrictions of a three-man escort and maximum two miles per hour in cities has been lifted. Last week, I saw a Napier motorcar—you know, the one that now includes a number of improvements compared to the French Panhard that won the Paris-to-Marseille-to-Paris race. Can you imagine? All that distance for a motorcar race?

And a now a Mr. Lawson has obtained the right to use the Daimler engines from Germany. You may remember him from organizing the Emancipation Race from London to Brighton and driving a 1900 Lanchester with a two-cylinder, horizontal, air-cooled engine. And Napier now has a wheel to steer instead of side levers …"

His voice had suddenly faltered when he became aware of the disturbed faces around him and realized that he had been carried away.

Back to work, Fletcher, and get all these foolish notions out of your mind. This is a solicitor’s office! Mr. Collins had warned and made it clear that those noisy motorcars were not a topic that he would spend his valuable time on.

He had felt embarrassed. What had made him say all these unbidden things? Yet, truculently, he had continued.

Just imagine, sir, a time in which there is no longer a need to go to the stable and get the horse and carriage ready. You just go to the motorcar and drive wherever you want to go! No time wasted! Would that not be wonderful?

By now, Mr. Collins’s patience was exhausted.

Enough of this! This young man needs to stop living in a dream world and get those strange notions out of his mind!

For the last time, Fletcher, I warn you. If you don’t erase those irrational ideas from your mind, there will be no place for you in this office! You’d better concentrate on what your task is here! So go back to work!

He had calmed down. Just had to.

With a meek Yes, sir, he had returned obediently to his high desk stool, yet with an obstinate conviction that someday, even these overly conservative and inflexible people would have to admit that he had been right.

Better concentrate on what he had to do. Back to the grindstone!

Where did his interest in new technology come from? From his father? For a moment, he felt a deep sorrow at never having known his father. All he knew was what his mother had told him. She had obviously adored his father and repeatedly emphasized what he would have said or done, as if he were still with them.

A close bond with his mother had developed, a bond that formed the foundation of his youth within the limits and constraints of a class-dominated society.

When he turned the last corner to enter the narrow, unpaved path in front of the Ten Commandments—the nickname given by the community to the row of houses, even though there were only nine—he saw the outline of a large man standing under the marquee over the front door and obviously waiting for his return, staying out of the impact of the inclement weather.

When he came close enough to recognize the person, he was disconcerted to see the imposing figure of Mr. Horace Westcott, the butler of Ashton House, whose self-assurance was accentuated by his balloon-size belly. The butler himself? Personally? That spelled trouble!

He had never liked the man, whose demeanor could change as fast as a swallow’s flight by displaying a humble submission toward his aristocratic superiors and an irritating, dictatorial superiority toward servants. It all seemed artificial, as if his true character was mysteriously hidden.

Good day, Stewart, was nevertheless his friendly formal greeting.

Good day, Mr. Westcott. What a miserable weather! What can I do for you?

"I hope that you can help us out at the manor, Stewart. I am in a very difficult situation. Mrs. Newman is in bed with an attack of the flu that is spreading everywhere, as I am sure you very well know. She cannot serve the food dishes, as you will understand, during a formal dinner tonight. The only one who can replace her is a young maid called Sallie Evens. I am sure that you know her. She is a good girl, but inexperienced, so I need someone to stand by to ensure that all is going well at this very important dinner tonight.

I would be very grateful if you could be there. You know the rules from previous experiences. I cannot keep an eye on her when I serve the drinks. So could you help me out and come at about seven? I will increase the normal pay because of the short notice and the inconvenience.

He had expected such a request but was in no mood to oblige. He knew Sallie, of course, who with her mother also occupied one of the Ten Commandment row houses.

I am sorry, sir, but I am very tired and have an important day at the office tomorrow. I regret that I cannot be of service to you, Mr. Westcott, he said briskly.

But Horace Westcott had expected the refusal and was in no mood to accept it.

"The guests tonight are Lord and Lady Fenwick, Colonel Arthur Robinson and Mrs. Robinson, their son Captain Lionel Robinson, Bishop Grey and Mrs. Grey. You are aware, of course, that that Colonel Robinson and