The chief engineer, a blunt-spoken Englishman, with bushy side-whiskers,
was amiability itself, and readily consented to escort his visitors down
to the region where he was king.
"There's nothing very attractive down there!" he said, by way of
warning.
"Oh, I'm very anxious to see the poor fellows at the furnaces. It must
be a most interesting sight," exclaimed Grace, with a flush of
pleasurable anticipation.
"Won't it spoil our frocks?" demanded Mrs. Stuart, apprehensive of
damage to her white chiffon gown.
The engineer took the question as almost a personal insult.
"Bless you, no, m'm. It's as clean as Delmonico's kitchen. We're proud
to show it for that reason. Of course, there's plenty of coal-dust
flying down in the stoking-pit, where the firemen are, but you'll not go
near enough to hurt. Follow me!"
He led the way through a narrow door amid-ships, on the port side, and
they found themselves in a steel-lined gallery, well lighted and fitted
on all sides with steel ladders, pipes, and valves. The hissing of
escaping steam and the roar of powerful machinery in motion made any
attempt at speaking impossible.
"This is the engine-room," shouted Mr. Wetherbee.
Looking down, they saw mighty arms of polished, well-greased steel rise,
swing slowly and descend rapidly on the other side. The huge rods of
metal ascended and fell again with great rapidity, with a rhythmical,
irresistible sweep that was fascinating to watch, making at each thrust
and uplift a rushing, roaring noise like the simultaneous blows of a
hundred sledge-hammers.
"A man was caught in there once," shouted the engineer, so as to make
himself heard above the din. "It was just before the ship sailed. The
poor fellow noticed that the crank needed oil, and thought he had time
to do it before we started. Just as he was finishing, the signal 'Go
ahead' came from the bridge. We didn't know he was in the pit, and we
pulled the steam-chest lever. The massive arm rose. He shrieked. Before
we could stop the machinery, it dropped again, and he was ground to
pieces before our eyes."
Grace shuddered while the engineer calmly went on to explain the
particular use of each part of the wonderful mechanism over which he had
supreme control, speaking of each with as much affection as if it were
his own offspring.
"Those cranks turn the shaft which gives the propellers their thousand
revolutions a minute. The vibration you notice is caused by the enormous
steam pressure. Two hundred pounds of steam pressing against every
square inch of boiler surface represents power equal to the strength of
10,000 horses." Patting the head of the great beam as it rose to him, he
added: "This is the best friend we've got--never tired, always true. But
for this we should not be cutting through the water at the speed of
twenty knots an hour."
Turning to an iron staircase on the left, he said:
"We'll go now to the boiler-room and see how we make the steam that
gives life to the cylinders."
Beckoning them to follow, he disappeared down a steep stairway, spiral
in form, which reached from the promenade-deck down to the very bottom
of the vessel. The engineer gallantly extended his hand to assist Grace,
and Professor Hanson, not quite sure himself of his footing, made a
pretense of rendering similar service to Mrs. Stuart. Mr. Fitzhugh
brought up the rear, stepping gingerly. Down they went, round and round,
threading their way along an amazing labyrinth of valves, levers,
gauges, eccentrics, tubes, and steam-pipes. They were now deep down in
the bowels of the ship, a region with a sickening smell of machine-oil
and steam. Down, down they went, past the coal-bunkers, following the
engineer. The stairway being only imperfectly lighted by electric bulbs,
they had to tread carefully. It grew perceptibly hotter. Presently they
saw double rows of boilers set sideways. They were in the stoke-hold.
"Look out!"
The warning cry came from Mr. Wetherbee, who stopped short and held out
his arms to prevent the visitors proceeding any farther. Then he
shouted: "There are the furnaces! You'd better shade your eyes!"
There was a sudden glare which was almost blinding, a roar of flames
under forced draught, and a wave of sickening heat. The air all at once
became so thick with flying particles of coal that it was difficult to
breathe. Choking, coughing, Grace and her companions clutched nervously
at the slender guard-rail which alone interposed between the steel
gallery where they stood and the inferno of smell, noise, and heat
below.
An extraordinary spectacle presented itself to their eyes. In the
blackness underneath, between the rows of boilers, were the
stoking-pits, in which fourteen fires, each raging at a fierce white
heat, glowed angrily like the red cavernous maws of legendary monsters.
Through the open furnace doors issued a blinding light that only
intensified the surrounding gloom. Standing about, recoiling from the
withering heat, could be seen a dozen stalwart forms. Every now and then
they advanced quickly to the furnace, to throw on fresh fuel or to rake
the glowing coal, and in the vivid light they were seen to be human
beings, but so begrimed and terrible of aspect as to be well-nigh
unrecognizable as men. They were entirely naked from the waist up, and
so covered with coal-dust from head to heel that they looked like
negroes. Only the white circles around the bloodshot eyes and their
straight hair betrayed the true color of their skins. They worked
silently and resignedly, like men accursed, and doomed for some sin
committed to everlasting toil and torment. Mere machines of flesh and
sinew, they executed with the rapidity and expertness of long practise
certain mechanical movements, their toughened muscles and iron frame
standing the strain and heat with amazing endurance, sweat literally
pouring off their faces and bodies in streams. At moments the heat
became intolerable--the stoker himself caught fire. His skin began to
blister, his hair started to smoke. He gave a shout, and a comrade
quickly emptied a bucket of water over him, throwing off a cloud of
steam. Thus temporarily relieved, he set to his devilish task again. It
was the hardest kind of labor known to man, but, like the ancient
stoics, the stokers gave no sign of their suffering. They toiled
uncomplainingly in grim silence, as if resigned to accept this degraded,
painful occupation as their proper lot in life. They worked on and on
until gradually even their great strength gave out. Overcome by the
appalling heat, suffocating from lack of fresh air, one by one they were
forced to fall back and give place to fresher men.
The daintily gowned, carefully groomed passengers from the first cabin
watched them, fascinated. It was difficult for Grace, who had seen
nothing but plenty around her since she came into the world, to
understand that there were human beings so miserably poor, so low down
in the social scale that they had to earn their bread in this way. The
literalness of the saying "making a living by the sweat of one's brow"
dawned upon her for the first time. She was shocked, and then she felt
sorry--sorry that any human being should be so degraded. A sense of
guilt came over her, as if she realized that the luxuries her class
loved and exacted were responsible for this degradation, this
suffering.
She wondered where the refractory fireman was, and presently she
perceived him, emerging from the gloom, approaching the roaring furnace,
steel rod in hand, to rake the fiery coal, covering his face with his
unemployed hand to ward off the blistering heat. He was easily
recognizable in spite of his forbidding, ghoulish aspect, towering as he
did several inches above his comrades. Built like a Hercules, he had a
torso that would have given joy to the great Praxiteles himself. His
lines were academic, the muscles on his massive yet admirably molded
shoulders and arms stood out like whip-cords, and as he stood before the
open fire, working the steel rod in and out, one leg thrust forward, the
rest of the body thrown backward to avoid the heat, his pose recalled
one of David's Latin warriors about to let fly a javelin at the enemy.
"By Jove!" exclaimed Mr. Fitzhugh. "There's the chap who made such a
fuss when we sailed."
"Yes, that's the fellow!" said the chief engineer. "He's going his
'shift' readily enough now, but we've had a hard time with him. He had
to be driven to work like a dog. He's a surly brute and always ready
for a fight. You'd better not attract his attention."
So far, the stokers had not noticed the visitors' presence, but Mr.
Fitzhugh's exclamation made them look up. One of the firemen laughed,
and said something in an undertone to a comrade, whereupon the man
grinned, and, turning to the others, pointed to the Hon. Percy, who,
with his monocle, his green Tyrolian hat and white spats, looked comical
enough to excite derision. The jeers attracted the attention of
Armitage, who dropped back from the furnace he was cleaning out and
glared up at the intruders. He clenched his fist and ground his teeth as
he saw these perfumed, pampered passengers watching them as they might
view wild animals in a cage. It made his blood boil to see their clean
skins, their fine clothes. No doubt, they had not done a day's honest
work in their lives. That animated monkey with the monocle and white
spats, and those dainty dolls in laces and jewels, came simply from idle
curiosity, to gibe at their dirty, miserable appearance, to mock at
their sufferings. The thought maddened him. In a frenzy of rage, he
shook his fist in the direction of the little gallery where Grace and
her party stood.
"Get out of here!" he shouted furiously. "We don't want you! This isn't
a circus! Get out--do you hear?"
He stooped quickly, and, picking up a heavy piece of coal, lifted his
arm as if about to hurl it in their direction. Grace, frightened,
recoiled, and her companions also shrank back. Mr. Fitzhugh and the
professor had already bolted up the spiral stairway. The chief engineer
said quietly to Grace:
"You'd better go. There's no telling how he might excite the other men.
I regret very much that you should have been subjected to his insults.
He's half-crazy. Leave me to deal with him!"
Shaking his fist at the fireman, he shouted:
"You'll pay for this, Armitage. This means another dose of the
'hospital' for you!"
"Go to hell!" cried the stoker's hoarse voice.
Grace and Mrs Stuart were breathless when they reached the deck, and
they gave a sigh of relief when they were able once more to fill their
lungs with fresh air.
"What a shocking place!" exclaimed Mrs. Stuart, examining her gown to
see if she had sustained any damage.
"What a terrible man!" echoed Grace.