THE GATUN DAM.
The scene changes to a day when the boys had their first view of the
mighty Gatun Dam, a work that, as President Taft said, is "as solid as
the everlasting hills." Picture a vast valley hemmed in by hills heavily
timbered with tropical growth. Across the valley floor the current of the
muddy Chagres slowly serpentines, with workmen's huts clustered along its
sides, and everywhere preparations being made to hem it in, much as the
Liliputians set about harnessing Gulliver, a giant to them.
The floor of the valley, once a trackless jungle and destined within a
short time from the moment that the Boy Scouts gazed upon it to become a
mighty lake, was crisscrossed in every direction by lines of railroad
along which contractors' engines were puffing and hauling long winding
trains of dirt cars. In places, great steam shovels were at work eating
out whole hillsides, taking great mouthfuls at a time.
"Like Tubby eating pie," laughed Merritt, as he watched one of them.
Across the valley floor, the huge dam, a veritable mountain of concrete,
was rising. Busy human ants swarmed everywhere and, at the spot on which
the boys stood, with Mr. Mainwaring and some assistant engineers to
explain things, hundreds of black workmen were working like beavers on
the summit of the great wall. Where they stood the wonderful dam was 100
feet wide, just one-fourth the length of the steamer on which they had
come to the Isthmus.
At the base of the dam the width of the gigantic structure is 1,900 feet,
and its massive foundations go down into the earth for many feet more.
"Just think," exclaimed Rob, aglow with the wonder of it all, "before
long all this valley floor will be a huge inland sea across which vessels
can push their way from Pedro Miguel to Gatun."
The roar of an excavating machine drowned his comrades' replies, but
their looks showed how deeply they were impressed.
"It makes you feel like a--a fly speck," exclaimed Tubby, when the uproar
ceased for an instant.
Up along a line of rails glided a movable steam shovel. On a side track a
busy little locomotive had already bunted a train of flat cars. There was
a loud clatter of chains; two white spouts of steam leaped high above the
shelter which protected the steam shovel's engineer from the burning sun.
Down swung the huge steel dipper. Almost like a hungry human being,
rather like some famished giant, it swung its iron-toothed jaws apart and
bit deep into a bank which had to be moved. In an instant its mouth was
closed again and the receptacle was full of rough, broken material. Big
rocks were among the earth, but that made no difference to this devouring
leviathan.
"Hi!" shouted a big shining negro man on the flat car.
The big steam shovel gave a sharp scream of warning, the steam spurted
forth again from the vent pipes and up swung the load. The long arm
slowly reached out above the flat car. A mighty scampering of the negro
loaders followed.
"Hi!" came the cry of the boss negro again.
The bottom of the dipper opened. There was a roar of falling rock and
earth and a flat car was filled. Then the process was repeated till the
hillock that was to be removed melted away like a plate of ice cream
before a healthy boy.
Thus, amid shouting, seeming confusion, the clanging and crash of metal,
the scream of steam whistles, shouted orders and the noise of steam and
the fog of smoke, the work went on,--the mighty job that Uncle Sam,
contractor, is putting through for the benefit of the civilized world.
Mr. Mainwaring told the boys that there is keen rivalry among the
steam-shovel men. Prizes are given every month for the record amount of
dirt that flies. Each shovel is pushed to the limit of its capacity. In
an eight-hour day one of the steam shovels excavated and loaded on flat
cars 3,500 cubic yards. This means about 160 carloads for the day, or a
carload every three minutes.
The boys noticed, too, that the negroes, Italians and Spaniards toiled
away at their tasks without appearing to take much interest in their work
beyond keeping just hard enough at it to avoid getting into trouble. But
on the faces of the "gold-men," as the engineers and American officials
are termed, was the stern determination of men animated by a great
purpose. Off duty, the gold-men, so called because they are paid in
American gold and not in Panama coinage, are a joking, jolly lot of men,
who like to play tennis and baseball, and indulge in all sorts of sports.
But on duty, clad in khaki and gaiters, with great sun helmets to keep
off the baleful rays of the tropical sun, they are like changed men.
The expression the boys noticed on their faces as they hurried about with
blue prints or levels and theodolites was set and stern. They seemed to
be, in a way, instruments of a great destiny. Each bore himself as if he
knew that the work in hand required the best that was in him.
"It seems to me," said Mr. Mainwaring, "that these great steam shovels
and their crews, the activity and all the purposeful bustle and hustle
down here, represent more fully than anything that I have ever seen the
determined, fearless American spirit that has overridden what appeared to
be impossibilities, and is carrying the Canal through to a triumphant
completion. It's a great thing for a boy to be able to say that he has
seen such a work, and it will be a still greater thing if he takes to
heart the lessons to be learned here on every hand."
Here he looked at Tubby who, not paying any attention to this
"preachifying," as he mentally termed it, was drinking the milk out of a
cocoanut. The fat boy had become very fond of the cocoanut, which can be
bought on the Isthmus for little or nothing. He had slung several around
his waist and at intervals, amidst the dust and turmoil of the work on
the great dam, he refreshed himself by a copious draught of their cool
contents.
At the boys' feet, as they stood on the lofty concrete battlement, lay
the cut for the Gatun locks, which will raise and lower vessels
eighty-five feet. There are no such locks anywhere in the world. While
the boys watched, a steady stream of concrete was being poured into giant
moulds for the locks, and rows of arc-light poles, like gaunt trees,
showed that under the glare of electric lights the work was pushed
forward even at night. Not a minute of time was wasted all through that
vast system. They soon had become aware of that.
While the boys stood there an erect, military-looking man came up to Mr.
Mainwaring, who greeted him with every appearance of respect. The
newcomer was tall, bore an air of authority, and was dressed in a white
military uniform.
"Colonel," the boys heard Mr. Mainwaring say, after a few minutes' grave
conversation, "I wish to introduce to you my son Fred and his three
chums,--all, as you see, Boy Scouts."
Tubby hastened to chuck his empty cocoanut shell off the top of the dam
as he saw that a social ceremony was going forward. The shell lit on a
negro's skull far below and bounded off with a loud crack.
"Mah goodness, dem musquitoes is wusser dan ebber to-day," the negro
remarked to the man shoveling at his side, which would have made Tubby
laugh if he had heard it.
After a few kind words to the chums, the military-looking man passed on,
stopping every now and then to examine the work with every appearance of
minutest care.
"Wonder what kind of a boss he is?" remarked Tubby nonchalantly after he
had passed on. "Steam shovel boss, concrete boss, dynamite boss,
engineering boss or surveying boss,--there are other kinds but I forget
'em."
"Why, you chump," roared Fred, "don't you know who that was?"
"I didn't catch his name," rejoined Tubby.
"Well, that wasn't anybody more important than Lieut.-Col. George W.
Goethals, chairman of the Isthmian Canal Commission, and known as the
'man who dug the ditch.'"
"Oh-h-h-h-h-h!" mumbled Tubby, a great light breaking upon him, "I guess
I'll take another cocoanut on that."
And the fat boy selected a fine specimen from the several that adorned
his belt like scalps hanging round an Indian warrior.