They had kept the hardest work to the last, as boys save Latin prose, and, worn though they were, Mr. Wardrop did not dare to give them rest. The piston–rod and connecting–rod were to be straightened, and this was a job for a regular dockyard with every appliance. They fell to it, cheered by a little chalk showing of work done and time consumed which Mr. Wardrop wrote up on the engine–room bulkhead. Fifteen days had gone—fifteen days of killing labour—and there was hope before them.
It is curious that no man knows how the rods were straightened. The crew of the Haliotis remember that week very dimly, as a fever patient remembers the delirium of a long night. There were fires everywhere, they say; the whole ship was one consuming furnace, and the hammers were never still. Now, there could not have been more than one fire at the most, for Mr. Wardrop distinctly recalls that no straightening was done except under his own eye. They remember, too, that for many years voices gave orders which they obeyed with their bodies, but their minds were abroad on all the seas. It seems to them that they stood through days and nights slowly sliding a bar backwards and forwards through a white glow that was part of the ship. They remember an intolerable noise in their burning heads from the walls of the stoke–hole, and they remember being savagely beaten by men whose eyes seemed asleep. When their shift was over they would draw straight lines in the air, anxiously and repeatedly, and would question one another in their sleep, crying, "Is she straight?"
At last—they do not remember whether this was by day or by night—Mr. Wardrop began to dance clumsily, and wept the while; and they too danced and wept, and went to sleep twitching all over; and when they woke, men said that the rods were straightened, and no one did any work for two days, but lay on the decks and ate fruit. Mr. Wardrop would go below from time to time, and pat the two rods where they lay, and they heard him singing hymns.
Then his trouble of mind went from him, and at the end of the third day's idleness he made a drawing in chalk upon the deck, with letters of the alphabet at the angles. He pointed out that, though the piston–rod was more or less straight, the piston–rod cross–head—the thing that had been jammed sideways in the guides—had been badly strained, and had cracked the lower end of the piston–rod. He was going to forge and shrink a wrought–iron collar on the neck of the piston–rod where it joined the cross–head, and from the collar he would bolt a Y–shaped piece of iron whose lower arms should be bolted into the cross–head. If anything more were needed, they could use up the last of the boiler–plate.
So the forges were lit again, and men burned their bodies, but hardly felt the pain. The finished connection was not beautiful, but it seemed strong enough—at least, as strong as the rest of the machinery; and with that job their labours came to an end. All that remained was to connect up the engines, and to get food and water. The skipper and four men dealt with the Malay boat–builder by night chiefly; it was no time to haggle over the price of sago and dried fish. The others stayed aboard and replaced piston, piston–rod, cylinder–cover, cross–head, and bolts, with the aid of the faithful donkey–engine. The cylinder–cover was hardly steam–proof, and the eye of science might have seen in the connecting–rod a flexure something like that of a Christmas–tree candle which has melted and been straightened by hand over a stove, but, as Mr. Wardrop said, "She didn't hit anything."
As soon as the last bolt was in place, men tumbled over one another in their anxiety to get to the hand starting–gear, the wheel and worm, by which some engines can be moved when there is no steam aboard. They nearly wrenched off the wheel, but it was evident to the blindest eye that the engines stirred. They did not revolve in their orbits with any enthusiasm, as good machines should; indeed, they groaned not a little; but they moved over and came to rest in a way which proved that they still recognised man's hand. Then Mr. Wardrop sent his slaves into the darker bowels of the engine–room and the stoke–hole, and followed them with a flare–lamp. The boilers were sound, but would take no harm from a little scaling and cleaning. Mr. Wardrop would not have any one over–zealous, for he feared what the next stroke of the tool might show. "The less we know about her now," said he, "the better for us all, I'm thinkin'. Ye'll understand me when I say that this is in no sense regular engineerin'."
As his raiment, when he spoke, was his grey beard and uncut hair, they believed him. They did not ask too much of what they met, but polished and tallowed and scraped it to a false brilliancy.
"A lick of paint would make me easier in my mind," said Mr. Wardrop, plaintively. "I know half the condenser–tubes are started; and the propeller–shaftin''s God knows how far out of the true, and we'll need a new air–pump, an' the main–steam leaks like a sieve, and there's worse each way I look; but—paint's like clothes to a man, 'an ours is near all gone."
The skipper unearthed some stale ropy paint of the loathsome green that they used for the galleys of sailing–ships, and Mr. Wardrop spread it abroad lavishly to give the engines self–respect.
His own was returning day by day, for he wore his loin–cloth continuously; but the crew, having worked under orders, did not feel as he did. The completed work satisfied Mr. Wardrop. He would at the last have made shift to run to Singapore, and gone home without vengeance taken to show his engines to his brethren in the craft; but the others and the captain forbade him. They had not yet recovered their self–respect.
"It would be safer to make what ye might call a trial trip, but beggars mustn't be choosers; an if the engines will go over to the hand–gear, the probability—I'm only saying it's a probability—the chance is that they'll hold up when we put steam on her."
"How long will you take to get steam?" said the skipper.
"God knows! Four hours—a day—half a week. If I can raise sixty pound I'll not complain."
"Be sure of her first; we can't afford to go out half a mile, and break down."