At the Ferry Turning Basin, the training of local hands took precedence over foreign test. Ada Morland didn’t touch the heavy five-foot hand-wheel herself. She stood behind eighteen-year-old Apprentice Bram and Miller Tom’s second lad, her right arm resting comfortably in her calfskin brace, her voice guiding their strokes.
‘Don’t throw your back into it like you’re heaving an anchor, Bram,’ Ada instructed gently. ‘Feel the thread through your palms. The water catches the bottom lip of the gate. Then, you will feel a tiny flutter in the bronze spokes. That’s your zero point. Turn it two spokes clockwise—that gives you exactly one quarter-inch of lift.’
The two local apprentices worked the wheel with slow, measured care. He watched the animal fat gauge mark on the upright spindle. They learned how to feather the gate, how to catch the high-pressure surge without binding the threads, and how to drop the leaf instantly if Eren’s whistle sounded.
Within thirty minutes, the eight local apprentices could adjust the gate to within an eighth of an inch without looking at the scale. The field skill of Yorkshire had not replaced the workers of Lathmere. It had given them the tools to master their own river.
