The forge yard became something else entirely over the next weeks. Where once converters and stationary engines had been the focus, now the ground was a forest of scaffolds, molds, and half-finished parts. The men had been divided into teams: boiler fitters, wheel casters, frame builders, machinists. At the center of it all was Phillip, moving from group to group with parchment in hand, offering guidance, correction, or encouragement.
The first great hurdle was the boiler. Eight feet long, three feet wide, built from steel plates two inches thick. Henry Carter stood with his arms crossed as riveters swung hammers in steady rhythm, each strike ringing like a bell.
"Double rows, remember," Phillip reminded them. "Each seam takes twice the rivets. No shortcuts."
One of the younger fitters grumbled, "That's twice the work, my lord."
Phillip crouched, chalking a quick diagram onto a plank. "Steam is not forgiving. At one hundred pounds per square inch, one weak seam becomes a cannon. Do it right, and it will run for years. Do it wrong, and it will kill us all."
The man paled, then nodded, striking his hammer with renewed care.
Days later, the boiler was set upon its cradle. A fire was lit beneath it to test the seams. The men held their breath as the pressure climbed. At fifty pounds, one seam hissed. A jet of white steam cut through the air.
Henry cursed, but Phillip only nodded. "Better here than on the rails. Drain it, patch it, rivet again."
It took another week, but the second test held—no leaks, no whistles of escaping steam. The boiler was sound.
The next task was the wheels. Four feet across, each with a flange to grip the rail. The foundry team poured molten steel into great sand molds, sparks cascading as the metal hissed against damp edges. Two castings cracked as they cooled. Phillip bent over one, tracing the jagged line.
"Too fast," he said. "You cooled the mold too quickly. Steel must breathe. Slow the pour, keep the heat steady."
The third batch succeeded. Four wheels, heavy as anvils, gleamed dully in the autumn sun. Mounted on axles, they turned with surprising smoothness.
Meanwhile, the machinists labored on the cylinders and pistons. Phillip spent hours at the lathes, sleeves rolled, helping guide the cutting tools. Each cylinder was eighteen inches across, bored smooth so that the pistons slid without binding.
Henry approached one evening, wiping sweat from his brow. "The tolerances you ask for, my lord—half a hair's breadth! Our tools barely manage it."
Phillip held up a piston ring, its edge gleaming. "Half a hair now means years of service later. Steam engines do not forgive leaks. Keep the fit tight, the oil clean, and it will serve us faithfully."
By November, the frame stood assembled. Steel beams bolted together, holding the boiler above, the cylinders mounted low. Shafts and rods connected pistons to the great driving wheels. It looked crude—little more than a boiler on wheels—but to Phillip, it was beauty.
Still, problems arose. The first time they tried linking piston to wheel, the connecting rod bent under strain. Men groaned, Henry swore, but Phillip only chalked another drawing on the workshop floor.
"Thicker here," he said, pointing to the joint. "Reinforce with a cross-brace. Strength is not only in the rod, but in how it takes the load."
Three days later, the new rod held firm. The wheels turned.
Rails were the final piece. The carpenters laid wooden sleepers across the yard, and smiths spiked steel rails to them. A track one hundred yards long stretched straight from the sheds. Men stood at its edge, marveling.
"Looks like a road for iron wagons," one whispered.
"Exactly," Phillip said.
At last, in December, the prototype stood complete. Eight feet of boiler, four steel wheels, twin pistons, a smokestack rising like a chimney. It was ungainly, rough, but alive with potential.
The men gathered for the trial. Coal was shoveled into the firebox, flames licking at the boiler. The pressure gauge—an invention Phillip had insisted on—climbed slowly. Ten pounds. Twenty. Fifty.
"Open the valves," Phillip ordered.
Steam hissed into the cylinders. The pistons shuddered, then drove forward. The connecting rods jerked, the wheels lurched. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the locomotive groaned, shuddered, and moved.
The men roared. Some laughed, some shouted, others clapped each other on the back. The crude machine rolled forward down the track, slow but steady, its wheels clanking.
At the far end, Henry pulled the brake lever, and the prototype squealed to a halt. His face was grimy, but his grin was wide.
"It works," he breathed.
Phillip exhaled slowly, the tension leaving his shoulders. "Yes. This is only the first. But we have done it. Fire now moves steel."