McLintock's Calculated Risk

(Original from US Naval Institute Magazine, in 1959, by William McFee.
This edition from the "Compass Rose" newsletter of the Middle Harbor
Yacht Club of New South Wales, Australia. It appeared across four issues
of the newsletter from November 2006 to April 2007. The Sarus is a yacht
in Middle Harbor. I collected the PDFs from archive.org and made this
single page edition in 2020. This page is apt to disappear before 2021.)

The following story came from a marine engineer friend of Peter Dally’s and is
an amazing story of what men will do in an emergency and how they react in a
truly perilous situation. The way they improvised a sea anchor to achieve their
task of positioning the ship for the repair is worth considering for those of
us who might be caught at sea in conditions beyond our control. Sarus has a sea
anchor already prepared in case of such a situation; the only issue is will
Sarus ever find itself in such sea conditions? We gratefully acknowledge the
author, William McFee and the US Naval Institute for the story.

Here is Peter’s friend’s introduction:

I first read of this "at sea repair" back in the early 60's, and received a
copy again today. It really is a good read, especially to anyone who has worked
in a tail end gang either inside or outside the tunnel. This is a task that is
hard enough in a drydock and worse on a slipway, to do it like this at sea is
an achievement indeed.

The attached document is a true story about a 5,000 DWT ton tramp steamer that
lost it's propeller at sea in 1900. I first read it in a series put out by the
Queensland Institute of Marine Engineers about 12 years ago and was so
fascinated by it that I wrote to the US Naval Institute and they sent me a copy
of the whole event, written by William McFee.

The print was very small so it was difficult to read but my dear wife re-typed
it for me and I'm passing it on. I doubt if any present day marine engineers,
would have the guts to perform such a task at sea nor would the rest of the
ship's company.

Read and marvel at the tenacity and perseverance these men went through in what
must have been atrocious conditions.

McLintock’s Calculated Risk

By William McFee

On the 17th of June, in the year 1900, the British tramp steamer Titania, 5,000
tons deadweight, of London, with a crew of twenty-two, left Cape Town, South
Africa, for Buenos Aires, in ballast. She had come from Melbourne.

In Melbourne the chief engineer had been offered a job as manager of a factory.
His pay as chief was P18 a month – about $85.00 at that time. The shore
position paid much better – P25 – and a house. Skilled men were at a premium in
Australia. The captain cabled to the owners in London. The second engineer -
the first assistant – had a chief’s ticket, had been in the ship two years, and
he was, the chief said, highly competent. William McLintock was only
twenty-three; in fact he had been given his ticket at an unusually early age,
but he had made a sound impression on both his chief and the captain. How
competent he turned out to be we shall see. In addition, the captain cabled,
there was a young fellow in Melbourne – a mechanic – who was looking for a
passage home to England. He would sign on as a junior.

The owners, the Howard Steamship Company of Leadenball Street, were reluctant
to lose their chief engineer but they would not stand in his way. He had been
in the ship since she was built in Sunderland in 1885, and they could rely on
his judgment of the second engineer, in which Captain MacMillan, a Scot from
the Hebrides, concurred. The owners cabled their assent, and Captain MacMillan
signed off his chief engineer and paid him, and then proceeded to sign on
William McLintock as chief and the others in series.

This brought Mr Ferguson – the second-assistant, to be first. He was in his
forties, almost the oldest man on the ship. He was the roving type of seaman,
never long on any ship. He had been in big liners, he said, from which he had
mysteriously resigned. It was always the fault of some other person. He would
name no names, but he had left, rather than be put upon. He disliked
responsibility, yet paradoxically he resented not being promoted to chief when
the other man left. He did not mix socially with the other officers, but
vanished into his cabin when off watch, where he sat reflecting on the
injustice which a man could meet on the high seas. He had served his time at
Denny’s yard, on the Clyde, where bit private yachts and liners were built, and
he conveyed the impression that he was lowering himself to serve in tramps, and
would shake the dust from his shoes when he was paid off. He told the
donkeyman, a friend of his, that something would happen when they promoted a
whippersnapper like McLintock to be Chief. He was, Mr Ferguson said, green,
green as grass, and wet behind the ears.

A tramp steamer in ballast, in those days, was the gypsy of the Seven Seas. She
was a homeless wanderer. The Titania, for instance, was registered out of
London, but she had not seen her home port since she was launched. She had to
make long voyages in ballast in search of cargo. She had no deep tank she could
fill with water to keep her down on such voyages. Her propeller, on an even
keel, was one third out of the water. She resembled a balloon. When she
pitched, the engines alternately raced and almost stalled. Liners, as a rule,
had electrohydraulic governors, which controlled the engine speed under such
conditions.

Tramps had to take it. They were built to take it. They carried Britain’s
overseas trade. At that time there were ten thousand of them steaming over the
Seven Seas.

Leaving Cape Town, all went well. Buenos Aires and Cape Town are almost exactly
on the thirty-fifth degree of latitude south of the equator. It was a winter
voyage in ballast, and they expected bad weather – what Captain MacMillan
called dirty weather. It is 3,700 miles between the two ports, against a strong
current from the Falkland Islands, and prevailing westerly winds. As the
Titania threshed slowly to the westward, the wind and sea increased. She rolled
and she pitched. The fiddles were on the tables, and everything was lashed
down.

Lifelines were rigged from the forecastle to the bridge. The firemen, dumping
the ashes at the end of their watch, risked their lives carrying the buckets to
the rail.

Their bunks were awash. It was a normal voyage, winter South Atlantic. So long
as the propeller kept turning, there was nothing to it.

Now and then the Titania took a lurch and for a moment she would be on her beam
ends, and then pitched so violently that the propeller came right out of the
water. On one of these occasions she came down in a hollow – a veritable deep
valley in the sea – and hit the water with a blow like an explosion. It was
such a smashing concussion that everybody thought she had hit a rock or a
submerged wreck. They ran out on deck and stared around, but saw only sky and
sea, with a few Cape pigeons. A great white-winged albatross, watching the
galley chute with a beady eye, floated like a glider over the bridge. The third
mate, on watch, saw nothing else. It was a false alarm. Mr McLintock, who had
slowed his engines, revved them up again to full speed.

That afternoon, however, Mr Ferguson, who went on watch as usual at four
o’clock, was feeling the main bearings and the connecting rod ends, when the
speed of the engines suddenly increased from 60 to over 200 revolutions per
minute. It made him start back in alarm. The noise was terrific. The Chief,
having a cup of tea in his room, came down the ladder like lightning. Together
they rushed to the manoeuvring valve and whirled it shut. For a moment there
was a dazed silence. Then, with a shattering roar, the safety valves lifted. Mr
McLintock sent Mr Ferguson into the fire room to close the funnel damper and to
order the ash-pit dampers closed. Then he took a slush lamp from the rail and
went along the shaft alley to the stern tube. All was well. Bearings were cool
and the stern tube had the usual drip. The tunnel well was as usual. He came
back to the engine room looking extremely grave. Climbing the engine ladders to
the deck, he went along aft. He heard the safety valves give an occasional
hiccup, as if they were going to lift. He went right aft and, leaning over as
far as he could, he looked at the propeller. It was not there any longer.

He face still grave, he went forward to the bridge. Captain MacMillan was
waiting for him at the chartroom door. “She’s gone, Captain. We’re out of
control.”

For a moment the Captain did not speak. They were cast away on the wide
Southern ocean, in winter, some 1,200 miles from their nearest port. There was
no radio in those days. They would have to depend upon themselves.

It was already nearly dark. The long Antarctic winter night was closing in.
The first mate was getting the two red lights, the international signal for
“out of control”, hoisted on the signal halyards. The Captain, not yet thirty
himself, asked his twenty-three-year-old chief engineer, “Can ye do it?” He
meant, take out the broken shaft and put in the spare one with the spare
propeller.

“Aye, I can do it. But it’s risky”, Mr McLintock said.

“I’ll take the risk, if ye can do the job. Say the word, Mac.”

It was a momentous decision. Mr McLintock did not hesitate. He said he would do
it.

It was now dark. Mr McLintock was under no illusion about the task. It was an
appalling situation. He had assisted at such jobs at home, in a drydock with
adequate gear and many men – skilled men – on terra firma. It was a slow,
laborious business even then. He decided to sleep on it. He would need all his
youth and strength and courage to keep going.

Next morning, early, the Captain called the mates and engineers to his cabin to
hear his decision. The Chief Engineer said he could do the job, draw the broken
shaft, put in the spare and fit the spare propeller, which was in the after
‘tweendeck. All hands would turn to and render him every assistance. That
included himself, the Captain. Everybody but the cook. What did they think?

Some of them thought very little of the scheme. How were they going to get the
spare tail shaft out of the lower hold and into the shaft alley? How could they
get the spare propeller over the side in a sea like this? Once the broken shaft
was drawn from the stern tube the sea would pour in. It would sink her. But
when the Captain categorically asked them, would they go along? they fell
silent.

All but Mr Ferguson, the new First Assistant. He said they should take to the
boats and make for Tristan da Cunha. He would have nothing to do with such a
lunatic idea as changing a tail shaft at sea, it was a scheme to imperil all
their lives.  Mr McLintock looked at his First Assistant but said nothing. Then
he looked at his Captain. This was bad, bad. The first assistant is the
executive officer down below.  “Mister", Captain MacMillan said sharply. “Is
that your decision?” “It’s lunacy!” the First Assistant grumbled. He saw
himself with a tale to tell – being rescued from Tristan da Cunha and being
sent home as a distressed seaman. “Lunacy!”

“So you won’t turn to?” “We’ll be all drowned once the stern tube’s open.”

“All right, my laddie”, the Captain said. “We’ll leave you out of it. Ye’ll go
to your cabin and stay there until I say ye can come out. I’ll attend to your
business when we get home.”

“If you ever do!” Mr Ferguson muttered as he turned away.

(It must be emphasized that Mr Ferguson was sincere. In his view he was the
only sane man on the ship. As usual, he was misunderstood. His vast experience
was available and it was, as usual, rejected.)

“Everybody else turn to“ said the Captain, closing the conference.

They began at once. The mate started to make a sea anchor out of lifeboat oars
and awning spars, lashing them into a triangle, covering it with some awning
canvas, to the apex of which – inverted when in the sea – was attached a
fivefathom length of mooring chain with a kedge anchor. The ballast pump was
put on the after peak, and the two after double-bottom tanks, to raise the
stern. The forward tanks were pressed up, and eighteen feet of sea water run
into the forward hold. When the sea anchor was ready they passed a
three-and-a-half inch wire hawser through the chock on the forecastle head and
made it fast to the strap which had been made fast to the sea anchor. A winch
lifted it up and it was dropped over the side, where it sank. It suddenly
appeared on top of a wave, ahead. The wire was made fast to the windlass and
the ship steadied. Her drift was checked, and she lay head to wind and sea.
Then they rigged two tarpaulins to the mizzenmast rigging, where they acted
like storm trysails.

All this was only the beginning. Down below, the engineers were disconnecting
the broken tail shaft, and the next section – a short piece called the bobbin
shaft, about ten feet long, which had to be removed to allow the tail shaft to
be drawn from the stern tube. These pieces of steel were about ten inches in
diameter, with heavy flanges for the bolts. They weighed between one to two
tons each. The confined space in the shaft alley made the slackening of the
bolts, which were three inches in diameter, difficult. They were very tight and
the main engines had to be turned to bring them all into position. The turning
engine had been put into gear by the chief. The carpenter, as soon as he had
finished making the sea anchor, made stools to take the shafts, with wedges to
hold them steady. To draw the shaft they rigged heavy chain tackle to the
shaft-bearing-stools. Now the sailors and coal passers started to take bunker
coal forward in wheelbarrows.

Everything that had weight and could be moved was carried forward. There was
coal on the forecastle head, coal in the foredeck up to the doors of the
forecastle.  Remember, the ship was now and again leaping like a terrier in the
swell as the sea anchor held her head to the sea. She began to assume a
grotesque appearance as she nosed down in the waves and her stern rose in the
air. Finally, the stern tube and broken shaft were right out of the water, and
they could make a start on the main job.

The spare tail shaft was lying at the bottom of the after hold, made fast by
chains to the knees of the frame. The rule about carrying a spare is due to the
vibration.  Incessant vibration sets up what engineers call mechanical
hysteresis. The molecular structure of the steel becomes strained and its
inherent strength weakened. The long rest as a spare in the hold restores the
molecules to normal.  But the changing of the shaft is not regarded as a sea
job. It is done in drydock, during a survey. Mr McLintock proved that it could
be done under very adverse circumstances. But he has had no imitators. His feat
remains unique in the history of the Seven Seas and the Merchant Marine.

This was the situation at the end of July 9th, when darkness came. They were
becoming accustomed to a dead ship. It is a singularly daunting experience –
the sensation of a ship in mid-ocean with the engines stopped. Every now and
then the Captain and his chief engineer had glimpses of what might happen, with
the stern tube open to the sea, and an Antarctic gale boiling up from Cape
Horn. They had oaken hearts, but it was a grim outlook. They needed not only
courage, but luck, if they were to come through. The wind that howled, the seas
that slithered past their portholes as they sat in their wet, fouled clothing,
eating salt meat and hard biscuits – for the cook had no time to make bread –
made them think gravely of the possibilities. Would they make it? Would Mr
Ferguson prove a true prophet? They did not waste much time thinking about it,
but kept on, giving each other spells at the back-breaking toil.

There was another anxiety which the Captain kept to himself. Owing to the South
African war, stores had been scarce and dear in Cape Town, and he had taken a
minimum that would serve for a normal eighteen-day voyage to the Plate. Now,
there might be a shortage. He told the steward to take very care of what he
had.  He did not want to be forced to make a choice of starving on a derelict
or death in open boats. He could not make the men work on short rations, but
there must be no waste.

Faith in their captain upheld these men. The effect of the sea anchor was
dramatic.

It did not bring peace, but it did still the mad commotion, the unbearable
rolling, the endless misery of trying to rest wedged in a reeling bunk. There
can be madness in watching an oil lamp rocking insanely in its gimbals, or
seeing a wardroom door burst open and a derby hat bound around the cabin. The
seas still slavered along the plates, still leapt on the foredeck, but all
hands not at work at the moment stayed amidships. There were neither sailors
nor firemen, officers or men. As in Sir Francis Drake’s famous exordium, when
he hanged a mutinous gentleman, all had to pull together. These were now just
twenty men consecrated to the task of saving their ship. They probably had no
time to figure out what they owed to their young commander when he ordered the
flooding of the forward hold to a depth of eighteen feet. It was a horrible
risk, but he took it. Everything he did now was a calculated risk.

The worst remained ahead. With the broken shaft disconnected and ready to be
drawn, Mr McLintock faced the problem of getting the spare shaft into the
tunnel.  In a modern ship the spare shaft is located right above the running
shaft, ready to be utilized at once if wanted. The one in the Titania, as
already explained, was in the after-hold. They had no oxy-acetylene burners, no
electricity. Mr McLintock had to cut away the side of the tunnel – 3/8 inch
steel – with cold chisels, and then move the three-ton shaft to where it could
be raised into position. A slip and it might take charge and massacre them. In
the echoing empty hold, with the slush lamps throwing great shadows, they
fought furiously with the huge mass of steel.

They must have resembled men who had died and gone to hell. They tore up
timbers from the hold flooring to serve as levers, to make fenders, to make
stools.  The daylight died, but they were unaware of its passing; the hours
were unregarded. The Captain, as dirty as they, crept along the tunnel from the
engineroom to order them to come and eat. They would only collapse if they did
not eat.  The worst was yet to come.

All this time they had to keep steam, dump the ashes, put coal in the galley,
pump the bilges, and watch the water-level in the boilers – the crazy, upended
boilers.

The donkeyman, firing the furnaces, would find the glowing coals falling out on
his feet. As the tired, blackened men poured out of the tunnel, six firemen,
two coal passers, the messroom boy, the two junior engineers, followed by the
chief they were like nothing in the world. Most of them wore beards now and did
not recognize each other. The chief glared around at the familiar scene, at the
engines, at the log board, with its record in chalk of the last day’s run,
revolutions per minute, total revolutions in the last completed twenty-four
hours, the steam pressure, the vacuum, the “remarks”. Ah, the remarks! There
were now no remarks. He followed the others up the ladder, exhausted.

This was only intermission. They could not knock off. They ate ravenously, lit
pipes, and descended to their hell again. The tail shaft was ready to be shoved
into position, but the nut was rusted and would not start. It weighed 300
pounds. They built a fire under it and around it, and they began to flog it
with big hammers. It was a round piece of steel with holes in the
circumference, into which would fit the “key” or wrench, for tightening it when
it was screwed into place behind the propeller. There was also a pin which went
through nut and shaft to lock it. That, too, was rusted. They had to work half
the night on it. The bosun had opened a corner of the hatch tarpaulin to let
the smoke out. They worked like demons.

When they got the pin out, and the nut moving on the thread, the chief
carefully oiled and examined the thread, while the bosun rigged tackle to hoist
it to the deck.

Meanwhile, the sailors and the mates had begun to get the spare propeller out
of the ‘tween-deck. By the time Mr McLintock had the tail shaft drawn (this had
to be done with double chain tackle made fast to tunnel-bearing-stools) they
were ready to swing out the five-ton propeller through the now open hatch.
Then, beaten to their knees with toil, they slept where they lay. They waited
for daylight.

It was a desperately delicate job. The ship’s stern, being high, made it doubly
delicate. She still had an uneasy motion, both roll and pitch, with an
occasional lurch. A propeller is a difficult shape to handle at any time. It
required several lines, two men at the winch and two men to tend the boom. The
bosun, at the fall on the winch, took the weight, while they drew the propeller
from under deck.

Then, when it swung clear they had to harness it with three lines or it might
come thundering across the deck and sweep them overboard. It might kill them
and leap overboard. When it was finally resting on the deck and made fast –
everything had to be made fast at every moment of every operation – they faced
the most horrendous job of all.

The Titania had the usual elliptical stern, yacht-fashion, of those days; in
fact, it was an unusually beautiful stern, so that her taffrail extended far
out over the rudder. Under the counter, however, on either side of the
rudder-post, was a large, strong, eyebolt fastened to the ship. These were used
for shipping the rudder and propeller when the ship was built. Now, Mr
McLintock – who had often seen the job done at home – had to get the propeller
around under the counter in what was a half-gale. The shape of a propeller is
admirably designed for slipping out of its slings. The Captain had several
coils of new hemp rope broken out from the bosun’s store. It was for mooring
the ship in Buenos Aires, but there could be no dependence on old rope now. Old
hemp perishes in sea air and water. If they dropped the propeller into the sea
their goose would be cooked. Every movement was now a problem, every moment a
crisis.

Now the good chain strap, passing through the hole in the boss of the
propeller, had to be discarded. This hole had to be left clear to fit onto the
tail shaft when it appeared through the stern tube. The chief had plugged the
tube with bags and wood – to keep the men in the tunnel from being completely
submerged.

The Titania was a well-found ship of her day, and in addition to the usual hand
steering gear on the poop she had what is called a mooring winch, to haul the
stern ropes in when docking. This now came in every useful. Now the propeller
was over the quarter one of the new ropes was led from around the boss under
the stern, up through a cleat, to the mooring winch. As the after winch paid
out, this new rope drew the propeller into position. The taffrail had been
removed and all was going well when they were electrified by a shout from the
cook.

He was standing amidships by the rail near his galley and shouting “A sail! A
sail!” He was pointing aft. They had been so desperately occupied with what
they were doing at the swinging propeller that they had not looked at the sea
at all.  Now they stared at the tumbling water astern. A barkentine was
standing in from the northwest. The Captain left the Chief in charge and went
to the bridge. As the sailing ship came closer they saw she had flags out. They
got out the Code book and looked up the name. She was the Antigua of Halifax,
Nova Scotia, 900 tons.

Captain Jackson of the Antigua, when a steamer was reported on the horizon,
immediately made for her. He had been a long time at sea and wanted to be
reported. In the days before radio, a sailing ship left port and had no means
of communication with the shore until she reached her destination or her first
landfall. So she always signalled the code letters of her name to a passing
steamer, who reported her at the next Lloyd’s station, who would cable the news
to the owners. Coming closer, the Titania must have presented an extraordinary
sight. She must have seemed in charge of lunatics who were preparing to plunge
her to the bottom, head first.

Captain Jackson went back to his own Code book and signalled DO YOU NEED
ASSISTANCE? And waited for an answer. Meanwhile, he had noted the two black
balls – which had been hidden by the funnel – and through his glass he could
now see the propeller hanging under the stern. This was probably beyond
anything he had ever seen in his years at sea. The flags flew out on the
Titania and he looked up her name in the book: Titania, London. The flags went
down and a new signal was made: I AM SENDING A BOAT.

Captain Jackson said to his first mate, “Now we shall know!” He knew steamer
folk were peculiar at times, but he was curious about that propeller, hanging
over one ear, so to speak.

A boat, with the Titania’s third mate coxing, and four sailors rowing, was
lowered slowly into the sea, the falls dangerously slanted owing to the ship’s
unusual trim.  It was a ticklish operation, but most of the Titania’s deck
personnel had been in sail and knew their stuff. It was a long pull across the
big seas. The Antigua’s captain could see they had sailors on board that
steamer. He prepared to receive them on the lee quarter of his ship. When the
boat came alongside, the third mate – who had served his apprenticeship in sail
– nimbly grabbed the rope ladder and came up hand over hand like a monkey. He
looked down to make sure his crew had the painter that had been flung to them,
then shook hands with the Captain, and said he had been sent to see if they had
any stores they could spare. He told the Captain they had lost their propeller
and were shipping a spare one. He explained about the shortage of stores. The
Captain told his steward to break out some biscuit and bread and a can of
preserved potatoes. This last was only used in emergencies and the Captain was
willing to part with it. It was very nourishing, but nobody liked it. The third
mate pointed to the sea anchor, which he said was good. Then he helped the
steward lower the stores into the boat, shook hands again, and was over the
side and into the boat.

“Mind you report me, “the Captain said, leaning on the rail. “In B.A.”, the
third mate said, “if we ever get there.”

Captain Jackson watched the boat awhile and then he gave the order to square
away and make sail. He saw the signal on the Titania’s bridge: THANK YOU.

He dipped his Red Ensign three times in benediction. He did not know it, but he
had had a ringside seat at one of the most unusual achievements that ever took
place on the high seas.

The propeller was now in an approximate position, so that they could proceed
with an even more difficult and hazardous operation. They had to get it into
the space between the rudderpost and the stern tube. It was growing dark again,
but they could not stop now. Two buckets, with oakum and tar, were lowered over
the stern, and two bosun’s chairs, used for working on the masts and rigging,
were brought up, and Mr McLintock went over the stern in one of them with a set
of chain blocks on his shoulder, to hook to the big eyebolt already mentioned.
He came up and got another set of chain tackle for the other eyebolt. Then he
was lowered to the stern tube, where he attempted to grapple with the swinging
propeller. To get the stern-tube clear of the water the vessel had been tipped
till the eight-foot mark was awash; but as her stern dipped, the water was
sometimes rising to the sixteen-foot mark, and the sea boiled and swirled under
her counter.

He managed to lay hold of the rudder, but the ship took a dip and he went
under.  He was hauled up and prepared to make another try. Finally he made a
connection and they could take the weight from the lines to the winch. When the
two chain tackles were drawn tight the propeller was reasonably secure, if
another gale did not come up. But that was the inevitable and calculated risk.
He was hauled up for the night and they took a spell.

Next morning, the Chief and bosun, who volunteered, went over the stern in
bosun’s chairs. The Captain, who was watching, ordered the carpenter to make
another chair. When it was ready, he too went over. He and the Chief lashed
themselves to the rudderpost and waited. The ship sank, and they went under. It
rose, and they began to work. The water was very cold. The counter above them
would lift dizzily one moment, and dip the next to create a smother of foam in
which their heads would be revealed, at the next lift, to the watchers hanging
out over the quarter on both sides. Less determined men would have given up the
job there and then; men with less powers of endurance could not have stood it.
It was so cold that their fingers refused to grasp the colder steel of the
rudderpost.

They had arranged a series of signals with hammer blows to the engineers in the
tunnel, who were working hip deep on the tail shaft. The chief had a hammer
slung on a line around his neck. For three hours the three of them tried to get
hold of the propeller, which was now and then banging against the ship. The
plug they fitted to the stern tube had gone. At times the seas threatened to
dash them against the propeller, but before they could get hold they were flung
away again. The watchers face down on the poop above them and clutching the
coaming waiting for orders, must have thought they were gazing into the lower
circles of hell.

At last the signal came, after hours of frustration, and the half drowned
engineers in the tunnel began to haul the new tail shaft into the tube. It was
a long, slow business. They had a twenty-ton jack and double chain tackle. The
jack had to be continually shifted for a new purchase, but every inch they
gained cheered them.

They were winning! If only the Chief got the propeller into position, the rest
would be – by comparison only – easy. Now the sea could no longer surge in and
drown them. The bilge pumps soon left them clear of the water in the tunnel.

Outside, the Chief was keeping the propeller as nearly straight as possible so
that when the tapered end of the shaft appeared he would be ready. At last they
heard the chief’s hammer. The shaft had come through. Work fast now! The
propeller was about right; work fast! They sweated and worked fast. It was four
o’clock again, and darkness was falling before the shaft was in position and
the chief was ready for the nut. The men in the tunnel had no idea of the time.
They had to go on sweating to get the bobbin shaft into place. The Chief and
his assistants, Captain and bosun, came up for a rest. The gale was increasing,
the wind, laden with sleet, howled over the grey waste of foaming ridges, but
they dared not stop.

They had to work another hour or two by the flares before the Chief was
satisfied the propeller was safe. Another day of inhuman toil.

Next morning at daybreak, they went over again and made themselves fast to the
rudder pintles. By noon they were ready to start on the nut, which was to be
lowered to them. It was a cylindrical affair, not hexagonal, with holes into
which the wrench fitted to turn it. The nut was 300 pounds, and the wrench was
even heavier, and it took three powerful men to handle this part of the job
Great care had to be taken:The ticklish part was to get the nut started on the
thread of the shaft Some trouble was occasioned by the bosun not understanding
that the thread was left-handed. You had to turn it to the left to get it
started – he kept trying to turn it the conventional way at first. Finally the
Chief had the thread ready to go.

He was able to make nearly one turn by hand, then the key or wrench, which had
a hole for a line at the end of it, was lowered to them and they got it on the
nut.  The men above started to pull on it. It was a long job. It took six
shifts of the wrench to make one turn on the nut, and twenty complete turns to
get the nut hard up against the boss of the propeller. By this time the men
above had the line taken to the winch to pull it tight. Human strength was no
longer sufficient.

But this was not the end. The Chief had to get the nut exactly into position so
that he could put the pin through the hole in the shaft. It was heartbreaking.

Sometimes he took half an hour to make them understand he wanted it back a
sixteenth of an inch. This involved reversing the wrench. Then they would drag
it too far and the whole weary business had to be gone through again. Finally
he yelled “STOP HER!” He had the pin around his neck on a piece of spun yarn.
It was now dark again but the pin triumphantly sank into its hole and he
flogged it with his hammer.

The bosun had come into contact with one of the flares when the ship had
lurched, and was badly burned. He was now hauled up, and the Captain followed.
At last the Chief came up over the coaming and the Captain helped him to stand
up. He moved very slowly now. It may have passed through his mind that he had
won one of the most remarkable victories over the sea. His clothes were filthy;
he was, like the rest of the crowd except the messroom boy, unshaven; he had
been soaked through and through with sea water; he was a mass of bruises and
minor cuts. He was in his twenty-fourth year and he had, against fearful odds,
saved his ship. We have no hint of his thoughts. We can believe he was
preoccupied with his forehold, which had eighteen feet of water sloshing around
in it. It was a constant fear in his mind, but they had had to do it in order
to get the stern high enough. The steward had coffee ready and then the Chief
went down to cheer the men in the tunnel. He found them turning the main
engines to bring the holes in the shaft in line so that they could bolt the
flanges. They were working well, and they all knocked off for the night. The
second mate, who was the navigator, had seized a clear horizon just before dark
and taken a stellar observation. The Titania had drifted two hundred miles to
the southeast.

Next morning Mr McLintock went over again, to lock the pin in its place, and
disconnected the tackle from the propeller blades. He made lines fast to the
tackle and, when the men on deck took the weight, he disconnected the hooks
from the eyebolts. Two hours sufficed to cover the work of securing the pin and
removing the slings from the propeller. When he came up for the last time, he
smiled. The bolts were nearly all set up on the main shaft. The donkeyman was
oiling the engines. The third engineer was turning the main engines slowly, and
nothing seemed amiss. Mr McLintock came down the ladder. He had quite a beard
by now, but he smiled. He told the third to take out the turning gear and lock
it. The donkeyman was making a racket in the fireroom getting the steam up. Two
firemen had been laid off to rest, to be ready for the first watch. The
afterpeak and ballast tanks were filled to bring the vessel to her proper trim.

Gradually her stern dropped and she came on to a more even keel, but there was
still the flooded hold to be pumped out. Without a doubt, as her bows rose she
would fall off into the trough of the sea, in spite of the pull of the sea
anchor and the tarpaulins in the main rigging, and they might lose her yet
through the mass of loose water in the half-empty hold. She must be kept head
on to the seas, and the Captain ordered a full head of steam.

The Captain came out of the chartroom where he had made a note of the date and
stepped to the engine room telegraph. STAND BY. There was a moment’s wait, and
he got an answer. Mr McLintock was taking a turn out of his engines, to and
fro, to and fro. In a moment he would venture a complete turn. He set her
astern and watched for any unusual developments. Then he set her ahead, very
slow.

Then he swung the telegraph vigorously and rang SLOW AHEAD. The answer came at
once. He could feel by the vigor of the movement the Captain’s state of mind.
He, too, was elated.

Captain MacMillan got her on course to the west. He now felt the beat of the
propeller and his heart was gay. His ship was no longer a derelict, out of
control.  No longer did the two black balls hang threateningly over them. The
navigation lights were made ready. Next day, maybe, he could get a sight.

Meanwhile the mate took in the sea anchor, tripping it by a line which had been
attached to the crown of the kedge, and hoisting it on board. You might think
they would just cut it adrift, but be wanted those oars and awning spars, the
five fathoms of mooring chain and kedge anchor hanging from it, and the
three-and-ahalf inch wire hawser, Captain MacMillan did not believe in wasting
anything.  They had been six days and nights out of control. He hoped nothing
more would delay them.

The steam was shut off the deck as soon as the sea anchor flopped down and was
made fast. The after hatch was battened down again, and the two tarpaulins were
taken off the rigging.

It was not long before Mr McLintock had a full head of steam. With the engines
the vessel was kept head on to the seas until the flooded hold was pumped dry,
and the next day, the 15th of July, she went of full speed for Buenos Aires.
His only anxiety now was his boilers. He had lost some fresh water by pumping
out tanks, and the density of the boiler water was rising. The First Assistant
was now on watch, relieving the other. He was not communicative and nobody
expressed any curiosity as to his thoughts. The effect on the crew when the
engines began to turn was magical. While the work had been going on, on a dead
ship, they had lost count of the days. They neither washed nor shaved. Now they
came to life.

She had been a log flung about on the insensate sea. Now their hearts leapt
with them. They moved around smartly. They exchanged jokes. They looked over
the side at their enemy and felt triumphant. They spat to leeward. They dumped
their ashes with a lordly clang.

The Titania was one of those tramp ships of which it used to be said they were
built by the mile on the Northeast Coast and cut off to suit the customer. It
was a good joke, but a tramp is very much more than a steel girder closed at
the ends.  She is a complex of cunningly balanced forces. She has to run for
long periods without overhaul. She has to make her charters, and she has to
make money in competition against foreign ships who have no Plimsoll marks. She
has no government subsidy. She is the work horse of the seas and is on her own.
In those days, before radio, she could meet a storm and be lost and no one
would know until, after many days, she was posted missing, at Lloyds.

They arrived in the River Plate on the 21st of July, a week late, but were able
to get their charter. Lloyd’s surveyor was much impressed when he heard the
news of their exploit. He consented to have the tunnel bulkheads replaced at
once, so they could load. He cabled Lloyds in London. He was a Scot himself and
he was not very surprised that two Scots had done the job. It was common
knowledge that if you give a Scot engineer a corkscrew and a ball of twine he
could circumnavigate the world.

When the Titania reached Liverpool she was found to be as seaworthy as could be
expected after a voyage to the far East and Australia. She was drydocked and
the propeller was passed for another voyage. Spares were put on board, but
neither Captain nor Chief Engineer wanted to contemplate another such
experience.

Lloyds presented Mr McLintock with a Citation, and their Gold Medal, for what
the Army calls “devotion beyond the call of duty”. Mr Ferguson was paid off,
and the Board of Trade, which carries out the duties of Her Majesty’s Lords
Commissioners in Council for Trade, cancelled his certificate for life. He went
to sea again, in uncertificated jobs. It would be wonderful to have a
transcription of his account of the voyage. He had been asked for his advice
and the fruits of his experience, and it had been ignored. His unsuccessful
search for justice would continue over all the Seven Seas, but we hear of him
no more.

We must not be too hard on him. He had a point. Many men would have hesitated
in such a crisis. What he did not know was that great achievements involve a
calculated risk.

To Round Out the Story McLintock was 23 years old when he became Chief Engineer
of the Titania and served in her for seven years, until she was sold to foreign
owners. He then served with Ellerman Bucknall Lines as Chief Engineer of their
passenger liners for eleven years, taking out their latest vessels in turn, the
Bulawayo, Fort Salisbury, Johannesburg and Kandahar, serving six years in the
latter vessel. The Kandahar was on the London, South Africa, India run, for the
entire period of World War I from 1914 to 1918. During this time another big
repair job at sea occurred in 1916, and although not comparable to the shaft
and propeller job, it required a certain amount of resourcefulness for its
solution.

The Kandahar was bound from London to Calcutta, New York and out east again. In
the Mediterranean, outward bound, the high-pressure cylinder valve chest
cracked about four or five miles off Algiers. Fortunately, there were no enemy
submarines in the Mediterranean, and they turned around and limped into Algiers
harbour, and set to work compounding the engine. The rods, etc. were
disconnected, piston and cross head blocked and the entire job of compounding
the engine took only 46 hours. The vessel then put out to sea again, compound
on the IP and LP cylinders and proceeded to Calcutta and the New York. The
speed averaged only a knot less, and the fuel consumption was only slightly
higher.

The vessel was equipped with a new type of superheater, Elesco, and carried
over 200 degrees of superheat, over 620 degrees at the throttle, which did away
with a lot of the condensation and was responsible, to a large extent, for the
economy in fuel consumption. The superheater was just coming out in those days
and was not so well taken care of on some ships, though lack of sufficient
experience with it on the part of the engineers. When the ship arrived in New
York via the Far East, a new high-pressure valve chest was waiting on the pier,
and the New York Marine Superintendent remarked, possibly with tongue in cheek,
that “it seemed a waste of time and money to change her into triple expansion
again, since she had done so well compounded.” From New York the vessel
proceeded to the Far East again. In those days merchant ships’ officers got
home only every two or three years. This gave them an opportunity to find out
if they still had families!

When World War I ended, William McLintock retired from the sea and settled in
New York, at the age of forty-one, after having served at sea for twenty-two
years, eighteen of them as a Chief Engineer. He accepted the position of marine
superintendent with J.F. Whitney and Company, and when they gave up shipowning
he entered the employ of the Elesco Superheater Company.

In World War II, after having been retired from the sea for twenty-four years,
and being now sixty-six years of age, he could not remain inactive while the
country was making radio appeals to merchantmen to return to the sea. In May
1942, he returned to sea in the Thos, McKean, and ten days out of New York en
route to Murmansk, the vessel was torpedoed and sunk. The Captain’s lifeboat
was never heard from again, but McLintock’s boat was picked up after six days
and nights.

After a few days of recuperation in the hospital he could not resist going out
to sea again as Chief Engineer of the Abraham Lincoln and seeing the war
through to its conclusion.

William McLintock served at sea through the entire duration of three wars, the
Boer War, World War I, and World War II. He died last year, at the age of
eighty, in Miami, Florida, where he had taken up residence.

• The details of William McLintock’s subsequent career have been provided to
the Naval Institute by his son, Rear Admiral Gordon McLintock, USMS,
Superintendent of the United States Merchant Marine Academy at Kings Point, New
York.

U. S. Naval Institute Proceedings

January 1959