SCATTERING FRAMES.
By the modern process of scientific draughting, an exact mould of every
timber in the vessel is made in the moulding loft, from lines drawn
on the floor, the bevel of each timber ascertained, and marked on the
mould. These moulds are then taken into the forest, or wherever the
timber in its rough state is, and it is hewed out to these moulds.
They are often packed up, taken to Virginia or Delaware, and the
whole frame of a vessel moulded with such accuracy, that when it is
brought home and set up, if it does not come within half an inch, it is
considered bungling work.
Thus a vessel can be commenced at different points, by different
parties of workmen, and built with the greatest despatch. All that is
needed is men and money enough. They can all be at work at once, and a
large ship can be built in ninety days as well as in a thousand. One
gang begin to stretch out and put together the keel, which is brought
into the yard rough-hewed, and put on the midship frames, which are put
together and raised at once. While this is being done, another gang are
at work upon the stern, another upon the stem, which are ready to go
up with the rest, another making the windlass, and still another the
rudder. In the mean time the blacksmith, knowing the exact model of
the future ship, and size of everything, can make the iron-work ahead,
before the stem and stern are set up. Another gang begin to put on the
plank, and another, whose business it is, bore every hole and drive
every bolt. The joiners plane the whole outside of the ship, smooth
up everything, and do all that comes in their line. The calkers and
painters follow close at their heels, and after them the riggers.
But all this accuracy and despatch, resulting from a division of labor,
has been a work of time, brought about by the efforts of many minds,
and from very rude beginnings.
We cannot go into detail. It is sufficient to say that, in the present
system of what is termed close modelling in this country, the master
workman puts together with screws or keys, so they can be taken apart
at pleasure, some pieces of soft pine, half an inch in thickness, three
feet, two, or eighteen inches in length, according as he intends to go
upon the scale of a fourth of an inch or an eighth, more or less, to a
foot.
From this block he cuts out half his future vessel, making it to suit
his eye. As these pieces, being in leaves, can all be taken apart, he
can take by measurement the exact proportions of every part on the
floor of a large loft, mark them down, enlarged to the full size, and
from these make his moulds of every timber.
It is evident that the mechanical genius here lies in making this
model, shaping the vessel in the mind of the architect. All, after
this, is a matter of measurement and arithmetic. It requires
mathematical ability to take off this complicated system of lines from
the model, a clear head and mechanical ability to make the moulds; but
after this any one who can handle tools can follow the patterns, and
cut out the timber. But carpenters were hundreds of years getting as
far as this, although they were building vessels all the time, some
very good, where the workman was possessed of superior genius; but the
great majority were wretched models, requiring an enormous waste of
time, labor, and timber.
The first decided approach to the present method was the rack model,
which consists in fastening several pieces of board edgewise to a flat
surface, to represent the frames of a vessel, and cutting out the
model on the edges of these. By measurements from these, the moulds
were made, which insured accuracy, economized labor and timber. The
first water-line model now in use was made by Orlando B. Merrill, of
Newburyport, in 1794; but, like all new things, there were prejudices
against it. The old carpenters would have nothing to do with the
“newfangled thing.”
It was a long time before it was used in Massachusetts, and thirty-six
years getting into Maine. The first vessel built from the new plan
there was the ship Burmah, of Portland, built by Water-house, from New
York, in 1831, for the Messrs. Oxnards, who came there and modelled
her; but, after all, she was not so good a vessel as many built on
the old plan, to the great delight of the old carpenters, who “knew
it would turn out just so.” Even then they got no farther than the
forward and after frames, but had to timber out the ends by guess for a
long time. The fact is, the ground of success lies in originating the
model. Thus the same principles are involved in both methods, whether
a man holds all the proportions of a vessel in his mind to a great
extent, sets her up, and makes his model as he goes along, altering
his ribbands and cutting his frames to suit his ideas, or does it all
on a block of wood beforehand. The same man will build as good a model
in one way as the other. The difference is, that in one case he knows,
when he has made his model, precisely what kind of a vessel he will
have. The draughting from the model is a matter of mathematics. The
result must follow as inevitably as a sum in the rule of three, if
rightly stated and accurately worked. In the other way he cannot know
this till she is timbered out. To work by the first method, some little
education is needed; in the other, not the least.
Another more important matter is the great saving of time, rendering
it possible for all parts of a vessel to go on together, and the great
saving of timber.
The man who works from the modern plan knows just what wood he needs to
form every timber; whereas, in the old way, some of the timbers were
half cut off, some had to be thrown away, and others that would not
fill up the ribband furred out; but neither time nor timber was worth
a third as much then as now. A mast that cost sixty dollars then now
costs two hundred and forty dollars, while those of the largest size
cannot be obtained at all, but must be _made_ in pieces and hooped. A
carpenter who was worth a dollar a day then is worth four now, and it
costs twice as much to feed him.
You will perceive, my young friends, there is the same, and
even greater, scope for ability now than there was then, with
this difference, that there is a greater opportunity for sham.
Ship-carpenters can now pony in ship-building as well as in these days
of mathematical keys and translations; students can “pony” in algebra
and Æschylus. Then they had to make their own keys and unlock their own
doors.
All the way a carpenter, who was a good mechanic, but not possessed of
ability to model a vessel, could build one, was to get some one who had
to timber her out to the ribbands, after which he could finish her; but
then everybody knew it. Now a person, by paying for it, may (privately)
get any kind of a model he likes, build from it, and nobody--or but a
very few--the wiser. Thus a man with modern helps can build vessels,
and good ones, who, for the life of him, could not have gone to work,
set up, and built a vessel, as Charlie did on Elm Island.
A master workman meant brains then, though the workmanship was rough
and the beginnings rude. Even in this first rudest form of building,
accuracy, by a person of genius, could be obtained. If they made
one side of the vessel fuller than the other, it was the result of
negligence, not of necessity, by suffering their shores to slip, or not
proving their work by a plumb line.
Mr. Foss was one of those rude beginners. He built vessels on the
same general principle as the May Flower. Charlie was another; but
having received the instructions of Mr. Foss, listened to the remarks
of seamen, the result of experience in the actual management of
vessels, and with greater genius than his master, he had already, and
even in this rude craft, made improvements. What is more, they were
improvements that he had originated, and the principles of which were
first suggested to his mind by taking the model from the fish.
We have seen how perfectly prepared the scientific draughtsman is
to go with his moulds into the forest, and mould his timber. Let us
now ascertain how our young ship-builder, alone on Elm Island, went
to work from the scanty data he had to make moulds to cut timber by.
All his three lines told him was the shape of the floor timbers, the
proportional length of them, the shape and sheer of the top; and his
pole, with a nail in it, the sweep of the side.
He made moulds from his rising line of the floor timbers, of the stem
and stern-post from their shape on the board; his shortening line gave
him a water line along the heads of his floor timbers, the rising-line
the shape of the bottom.
But now his lines fail him. He has not, like the scientific
draughtsman, a line for every timber, from which to make his moulds.
Well, he don’t make any more, except five or six, of what he calls
“scattering frames.” His third line has given him the length of the
vessel, and general shape on top, and the sweep on the sand of the way
in which her side will round; and he goes to work, and makes by his
eye, and what aid he can derive from these moulds futtocks, naval, and
top timbers, which, put together, form the side, cuts and alters them
till they suit his eye; and that is all there is about it. When he gets
them done, he calls them the moulds of the scattering frames. He makes
five or six of them, perhaps more--one amidships, one at the forward
and one at the after floor timber. They are called scattering frames
because they are scattered along the keel for guides. By and by we
shall see what he will do with them. Instead of making, as is now done,
a mould for every timber, amounting to hundreds, and occupying weeks,
he makes no more. His moulds are all made, and he is ready to cut his
timber. He will, however, lose four times the amount of time, fussing,
guessing, and moulding his vessel as he goes along, and doing work over
two or three times, than he would if he had known the present method.
In cutting timber there is a great deal of work to be done with the
narrow axe, and a great deal of digging out roots for knees, for
which it is not necessary to employ skilled labor. There were also,
in this new country, many men who had been used all their lives to
handling a broadaxe, hewing ton timber for exportation to Europe, and
ranging timber for the frames of buildings. The saw-mills, in those
days, especially in new places, where there were not means to purchase
machinery, were in a very imperfect state, possessed but little power,
could not saw greater length than twenty feet, while the carriage,
instead of being run back by touching a lever, and by the power of the
water-wheel, as at the present day, was slowly and laboriously pushed
back by turning a wheel with the foot. Mill-cranks were all imported
from England, and people, under the pressure of necessity, made cranks
of a crooked root, sometimes hunting for weeks in the woods to find one
that had the right turn, and was of tough wood. This was the case with
the mill in Charlie’s vicinity, which, however, was six miles off.
In this state of things there was a great deal of sawing done with a
whip-saw. It was cheaper, in many cases, to do this than to haul the
timber a great distance to a mill. There was no other way when plank
and boards were required longer than the mills; but with the whip-saw
you could have it whatever length you wished. In ship-building it is
especially desirable to have the stuff as long as can be worked, as
there will be fewer joints to calk, less danger of leaks, and greater
strength. Even now a great deal of long stuff is sawed with a whip-saw.
This species of labor then being so much in vogue, plenty of men could
be found, who, from youth, had been accustomed to the use of the
broadaxe and whip-saw. They were not carpenters, could not edge planks,
fay knees, make scarfs in keels, as Joe Griffin, Uncle Isaac, and
Yelf could; but for cutting timber in the woods, beating it out, with
a master workman to boss them, and for two thirds of the work in the
ship-yard, they were just as good, and would work for a great deal less
wages.
John Rhines, who would not have any blacksmith work to occupy him
till they began to put the timber together, was equally useful with
the narrow axe in cutting, and as a teamster in hauling the timber.
Charlie, who was keenly alive to all these matters, sat down, pencil in
hand, to calculate.
“My plank,” he said, “and wales must be sawed with a whip-saw. My deck
plank, I need about nine thousand five hundred feet; wales, three
thousand three hundred; outboard and ceiling plank, two thousand four
hundred feet.”
Knowing the price of sawing at the mill per thousand, how many feet two
men would saw in a day, and about what it would cost to hire the kind
of men I have described, who could saw and hew both, he found he could
saw his deck plank for less on the island than it would cost to raft
the logs to the mill, have them sawed, and get them back.
In addition to this, he knew what length the mill would saw, and that,
as the planks must butt on the beams, there would be a piece to cut off
of almost every plank, when he would lose the timber, and expense of
sawing and cutting; whereas, knowing the exact dimensions of his deck,
he could cut his logs the length he wanted them, lose no timber, and
only pay for cutting and sawing what he used.
The first thing Charlie did, after making these calculations, was to
construct fixtures for four men to saw, both out of doors and in the
barn, make a gin, with a windlass and a tackle on it, to hoist the
timber up on the stage. Thus, in fair weather, they could work beside
the vessel, and in stormy weather in the barn.
When the two boys had arranged these matters, Charlie hired four men,
such as we have described. Two of them were Eaton and his brother; one
of whom, Danforth, shaved the clapboards for Ben’s house. The others
were Thorndike, that smart man who worked with Uncle Isaac, and helped
the boys plough the garden; the other, our old acquaintance, Joel
Ricker, who came to Elm Island to wrestle with Ben. By the advice of
Uncle Isaac, Charlie sent for him.
“You don’t want many men,” said Uncle Isaac, “because Ben has not room
for a great crowd; so you must have them strong. He’s a master strong,
smart man, and he’ll be a real pleasant fellow, now Ben has brought him
to his bearings, and taken the wind out of him. Then, when you come to
have Joe, Yelf, and one or two more, you’ll have a whole team, I tell
you.”
“And you, Uncle Isaac, O, do come!”
“Well, if I can get anybody to do my harvesting, I will, when you begin
to put timber together, and need carpenters.”
Charlie hired the four men for three shillings each, per day. The first
thing he cut was the stocks for deck plank, hauled them out, and some
of them into the barn, in order to keep his men at work sawing in rainy
weather, and in order to permit the plank to season. He next began to
cut his floor. We have said that the modern carpenter takes a mould for
every timber into the woods. What do you suppose Charlie did? He took
a pole, thirteen feet long, the length of his longest floor timber,
with the dead rise of each timber marked on one side, and the length
of each, in letters of the alphabet, on the other. This he called the
rising rod. When the men cut a stick, he laid this across it, and
measured down from the middle for his rise, according to the scale
on the rod, and lined it out; then they cut it the right length, and
beat off the wood to lighten it for hauling. As for the other timber,
knowing the length, he guessed at the shape.
In this rude way, to modern eyes, he cut his frame; and in about forty
days the timber was in the yard, and the stocks for planks and wales
at the saw-pit. It required no small degree of mechanical ability to
build a vessel in this way. Sometimes they got them fuller on one side,
so they would sail faster on one tack than the other. It was just like
preaching without notes. Sometimes you’ll hit first rate, and then
again you won’t.