Chapter 101: Working on the Plan Part 2
The success of the twenty-meter test did not make Ernest relax.
If anything, it made him more cautious.
A small telegraph circuit inside Laboratory Number One proved that the principle worked. It did not prove that the device could survive real use. It did not prove that the battery could remain stable for days. It did not prove that a signal could travel across hundreds of meters, much less from the Royal Palace to Northport. Most importantly, it did not prove that ordinary workers could operate and maintain the machine without Ernest standing beside them.
That was the difference between an experiment and an invention.
An experiment worked once.
An invention worked repeatedly.
A military communication system had to work when rain fell, when operators were tired, when the wire sagged, when batteries weakened, when officers shouted, and when nobody had time to calmly think through problems.
So Ernest’s next task was not to make the telegraph more impressive.
It was to make it boring.
Reliable.
Predictable.
Easy to repair.
The following morning, he ordered the twenty-meter setup disassembled and rebuilt from the beginning. The laboratory assistants looked shocked, especially because the previous day’s success had filled the room with excitement, but Ernest refused to let sentiment affect the project. A machine that could not be rebuilt by other hands was not yet a machine. It was still a trick.
"Again?" one assistant asked while carefully removing the copper wire from its supports.
"Again," Ernest said.
"But it worked."
"That is exactly why we’re rebuilding it."
The man looked confused.
Hollen, who had entered with a cup of tea, looked equally confused but far less surprised.
"He does this sometimes," the older man said. "Something works once, then he breaks it apart to make sure it wasn’t luck."
"It wasn’t luck."
"Then prove it."
That was the sort of statement Ernest liked hearing.
They rebuilt the circuit three times that week. The first rebuild worked immediately. The second failed because one copper joint had been poorly cleaned before fastening. The third worked at first, then became unreliable after several hours because the battery’s zinc plate corroded too quickly. Each failure was written into a notebook instead of hidden, because a failed test was only useless if nobody learned from it.
By the end of the week, the first official Telegraph Testing Ledger had been created.
Every trial received a number.
Every battery received a number.
Every wire length, voltage strength, contact condition, failure, and correction was recorded.
Hollen stared at the ledger one afternoon and shook his head.
"We’re keeping records for invisible lightning now."
"We keep records for soap."
"Soap behaves better."
"Soap also took months to perfect."
The older man considered that, then nodded.
"Fair."
The next major issue was copper wire.
A short wire inside a room was easy. Hundreds of kilometers were not. Copper had to be drawn into thin, consistent strands, strong enough to stretch between poles but not so thick that it became impossibly expensive. Existing metalworkers could hammer copper sheets and shape copper pipes, but wire drawing at this scale required new equipment, new dies, and new standards.
So Ernest turned part of Helmarte Machine Works into a wire drawing station.
The principle was simple enough. A copper rod was pulled through a hardened steel die with a hole slightly smaller than the rod itself. The copper stretched and narrowed. Then it passed through another die, and another, until the final diameter was reached. The problem was that simple principles often became irritating in practice.
The first wire snapped constantly.
The second stretched unevenly.
The third emerged too brittle because the workers had not annealed the copper between drawing stages.
Ernest corrected the process.
Heat.
Draw.
Anneal.
Draw again.
Measure.
Record.
Repeat.
By the time the fifth batch was produced, the wire had become good enough for testing. Not perfect, but consistent enough to transmit a signal across longer distances. Ernest ordered a hundred meters produced, then two hundred, then five hundred.
The factory workers had stopped asking why.
They simply watched as another strange industry emerged inside the machine works.
A week later, the first outdoor test began.
The setup ran from Laboratory Number One to an empty warehouse near the far end of the industrial complex. Workers planted wooden posts along the route and mounted ceramic insulators at the top. The insulators had caused their own set of problems, mostly because the first ceramic pieces absorbed too much moisture and leaked current during damp weather. Glass worked better, but glass was fragile. Porcelain was ideal, but the local potters needed guidance to produce it consistently.
Everything had a hidden problem.
Every hidden problem required a new workshop, a new process, or a new supplier.
That was what made the telegraph so demanding.
The receiver did not care whether the signal failed because of a bad battery, dirty contact, poor insulation, weak wire tension, wet weather, or a cracked ceramic cup.
It simply stopped working.
And Ernest had to find out why.
On the day of the first outdoor test, nearly thirty workers gathered outside despite not being asked. The rumor had spread that the Lightning Room was going to send a message across the factory grounds, and apparently that was more entertaining than lunch.
Hollen stood beside Ernest near the laboratory door.
"What happens if it fails?"
"Then we find out why."
"And if it works?"
"Then we make it longer."
The forge owner sighed.
"Of course."
Inside the warehouse, one assistant waited beside the receiver with a notebook. Inside Laboratory Number One, another assistant stood beside the telegraph key. Between them stretched several hundred meters of copper wire supported by rough wooden posts.
Ernest checked the battery one last time.
The copper sulfate solution was clear.
The zinc plate was fresh.
The contacts had been cleaned.
The wire joints were tight.
He nodded.
"Send."
The assistant pressed the key.
A moment passed.
Too long.
Then a worker came running from the warehouse, waving his notebook above his head.
"It moved! It clicked!"
A cheer erupted across the yard.
Several workers clapped.
One of the machinists laughed as if he had personally defeated nature.
Hollen looked toward Ernest.
"That was several hundred meters."
"Yes."
"And the message arrived instantly?"
"More or less."
The older man stared toward the line of wooden posts stretching across the yard.
"I hate that I’m getting used to this."
They spent the rest of the day sending signals back and forth until the novelty wore off for everyone except Ernest. Short clicks, long clicks, repeated patterns, intentional errors, battery replacements, wire inspections, and timing tests continued until sunset.
By evening, the results were clear.
The concept worked outdoors.
But it was not ready.
The signal weakened over distance more than Ernest liked. The battery output drifted as the plates aged. Moisture affected insulation. Operators sometimes misheard long and short signals when they were sent too quickly. The receiver spring had to be adjusted every few hours.
The problems were ordinary.
That made them solvable.
Over the next two weeks, the project became less dramatic and much more professional. Ernest formed small teams and assigned each one a narrow responsibility. The battery team worked on stability and plate life. The wire team improved copper drawing and joint quality. The insulation team tested glass, ceramic, porcelain, and resin coatings under wet conditions. The signaling team refined the key and receiver mechanism. A clerical team began drafting the first signal code.
That last part mattered more than most people realized.
Without a standard code, the telegraph was only a clicking toy.
Ernest created a simple system of short and long signals assigned to letters. Common letters received shorter combinations. Rare letters received longer ones. Numbers, pauses, stops, and urgent military commands received separate codes. He did not call it Morse code, for obvious reasons. Instead, he labeled it the Belfast Signal Code.
Hollen found the draft one afternoon and stared at it for nearly a minute.
"So this is a language made of clicks."
"Yes."
"You made a language for invisible lightning."
"Yes."
The older man placed the paper down with care.
"I don’t know why I still ask questions."
By the end of the second month, Ernest had a working plan for the palace demonstration.
It would not be a mere tabletop experiment.
It would be a controlled presentation.
Two stations would be set up in separate rooms inside the Royal Palace. A copper line would run through the corridor between them, supported by temporary brackets and insulated from the stone walls. One operator would remain with the king. Another would wait in the far room. The king would choose a short message, write it down, and hand it to the sending operator. The receiving operator would decode it without seeing the original.
Simple.
Clear.
Impossible to dismiss.
Ernest even prepared backup batteries, spare wires, duplicate receivers, and replacement contacts.
Because demonstrations had a special talent for failing in front of important people.
One evening, as he reviewed the final design inside his office, Ernest found his eyes drifting again toward the oil lamp on his desk. He had been doing that often lately. More often than he wanted to admit.
The flame flickered behind glass, steady but weak.
Every room in Belfast depended on fire for light.
Candles.
Oil lamps.
Lanterns.
Torches.
Expensive, smoky, dangerous, and dim.
Electric lighting was not yet practical. He knew that. A proper electric lamp required more than batteries and telegraph wires. It required better generators, better conductors, filaments, vacuum techniques, and an entire electrical distribution system.
Still, the principle was beginning to exist in this world.
That was the dangerous part.
Once a principle existed, improvement became inevitable.
Perhaps not now.
Perhaps not in a year.
But someday.
Ernest leaned back in his chair and looked at the papers spread before him.
The king had asked for military communication.
Ernest was building that.
But beneath the official project, something much larger was taking shape. Copper wire production was improving. Battery chemistry was becoming standardized. Workers were learning electrical concepts. Suppliers were discovering new markets. The first electrical code was being written.
The world was not ready for electric light yet.
But for the first time, it had taken a step toward it.
A knock sounded at the door.
Hollen entered without waiting, carrying another letter.
"From the capital."
Ernest took it.
The seal belonged to the Royal Household.
Inside was a short message.
His Majesty requests a progress report on the Royal Telegraph Project.
Hollen leaned over the desk.
"What will you tell him?"
Ernest looked at the outdoor test results, the battery records, the code sheets, and the demonstration plan.
Then he smiled.
"I’ll tell him we’re ready to show him something."
Hollen stared at him for a long moment.
"The palace demonstration?"
"Yes."
"When?"
Ernest folded the letter and placed it beside the telegraph plans.
"Two weeks."
The older man slowly nodded, though his expression carried the weary acceptance of a man who had long ago learned that Ernest’s timelines meant sleepless nights for everyone involved.
"Two weeks," Hollen repeated.
Then he sighed.
"Of course."
Outside the office, Helmarte Machine Works continued operating under the glow of oil lamps and the fading evening light. Workers hammered iron, drew copper, fired ceramics, mixed chemicals, and assembled devices whose purpose many of them still only half understood.
Inside the office, Ernest dipped his quill into ink and began writing his reply to the king.
The first line was simple.
Your Majesty, the proof of concept is ready.
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