Page 3 of Blowing Off Steam

So he was led into the sweltering furnace of the engine room, his brain furiously broiling thinking of an escape plan. He might be able to pull something off, but how would he get his unconscious partner out of that pile of shit?

“See, I’ve replaced this fulcrum pin, and this eccentric sheave is a big improvement over the old one.”

Grundman seemed to have only a basic understanding of how the engine worked. “Let me move the valves!” he cried.

Field rightly pointed out, “That would be idiotic, with no one in the pilothouse to steer her.”

But good old Mike Hunt insisted. “Show him how to work the valves.”

So Field was pantomiming what must have been the most exciting feature of a paddlewheel steamer, for children who loved to crash large objects into other large objects.

“Valve these levers, see? Up bar, down bar.”

“Up bar, down bar!” Grundman pantomimed along with him.

Field was at his wit’s—and his heart’s—end when came the most glorious sound ever. The pilothouse gong right above their heads.

Two taps. Emergency. Give her all she’s got.

Mike wheeled about, nervous for the first time. “What’s that?”

Field didn’t have to fake his immense relief. “That must be the mate up in the pilothouse! Reliable old Cincinnatus—he must want me to fire the boilers to keep them from rusting. Think nothing of it—just an old steamboat custom.” Field eagerly leaped to the firebox and began tossing in logs.

“There’s another fellow aboard?” Mike asked.

“I reckon I didn’t know Cincinnatus was up there.”

Mike asked Grundman, “Is that true? Does he need to fire the boilers to prevent it from rusting?”

“Sure!” Grundman apparently didn’t want to seem moronic, especially if he was going to be the El Dorado’s new engineer.

“Grundman!” Field barked. “Take over stoking these boilers! We’ve got to get the boat moving if we want to stop them from rusting!” And he sprinted back over to the valve levers, eyeing the steam gauge to await their moment to move.

“But I want to work the valves!”

Mike Hunt shoved Grundman at the firebox. “Stoke it, you jackass!”

When Field valved, a subdued roar of steam filled the compartment, and a big piston moved. When Field reversed the direction of the steel bar, far overhead on the hurricane deck the walking beam rose to its apex. The boat shuddered and began to chug forward.

“Where are we going?” Mike asked in a high-pitched woman’s tone.

“Just around the harbor. Oh, damnation.”

“What damnation? What damnation?”

“One of the side wheels is stuck.”

Indeed, whether by design or accident, only one of the side paddlewheels was churning, with the result that the boat was carving ever-more concentric circles in the water. She was plowing through a group of Celestials standing waist-deep in the salt water, the garments they were washing flying as they thrashed for the shore.

“Well, unstick it then!” Mike commanded, his arm holding the revolver wavering with nerves.

Field yelled truthfully, “We’ll have to get into the paddle box to unstick her! Grundman! Get over here. Hold these valves true.”

Grundman didn’t seem concerned about the fact that the boat was now tearing out a rickety dock, plank by plank, tossing the wood into the air and onto their main deck. “I’ll hold her steady!” he claimed as Field grabbed a long wooden bar and headed for the paddle box, Mike following with his shaky revolver.

Field shoved the wooden bar at Mike. “You’ll have to save us, Mr. Hunt! Stand on that bucket and pry the wheel over. Just a quarter turn should do it.”

Mike brandished the wooden bar as though it were a spear and he a Viking. “Why can’t you do it?” He wobbled as the boat churned into a small skiff—apparently with someone in it, as the terrified shrieks that emanated from it soon stopped, silenced by the creamy froth from the El Dorado.