He knew his pleas to continue were falling on deaf ears.
Amos Reeves left the island, early the next morning, in a small row boat. When he reached the mainland he hauled his boat up on the scraggy shore. A few yards away was a pier that had been built for the barge that kept the operation supplied with food, water, fuel, machinery, tools, pipe, steel plate and rivets. A short walk up the road from the pier, where the land was drier, a horse stable, holding six, well fed and watered animals was maintained for the venture. A field had been fenced so the horses could graze on the coarse grass or find a bit of shade under the pines and live oaks.
Beside the stable was a three walled, four bay, machine shed that had been built in the first year. One bay was used as a blacksmith shop, the second and third bays were used to store two wagons and a buckboard that were used to draw in supplies from the rail depot. The fourth bay protected Amos Reeves pride and joy from the wind, the rain and the unrelenting sun.
It contained a shiny red, 1930, Model A Ford pick-up truck, with steel spoke wheels shining beneath the gracefully flared fenders and running boards. A huge sunscreen over the flat, vertical front window provided protection from the sun and kept some of the rain off the windshield. In bad weather, a single, center mounted windshield wiper pushed away a bit of water but Amos preferred to rubdown the windshield with a sliced, raw potato, finding that it helped the rain bead on the window and run off clean. It worked better than the wiper.
The twin, chrome headlights, the chrome radiator grill and the two chrome flat steel bumper bars, gave the shiny red vehicle a stately appearance that was set off by two chrome rails which protected the top edge of the side panels of the box.
Amos climbed in, turned on the ignition and depressing a knob mounted on the floorboards, started the vehicle with its electric starter. What a gift that was, compared to the hand cranks he was so used to. He let the twenty-four horsepower, four cylinder, L head engine warm up and checked the fuel and oil pressure gauges. Confident that all was in order he accelerated out of the machine shed, running through the gears with its modern gearbox, another significant improvement over the vehicle’s predecessor, the Model T.
Five miles away, over the rough roads was a farm supply dealer who would have the merchandise he was looking for. As he meandered through the countless turns he tested his brakes that worked on all four wheels instead of just two. On the straight stretches he opened up the engine and managed to get the vehicle up to fifty miles an hour, still ten miles an hour less than its maximum speed. He marveled at the smoothness of the ride, grinning to himself, convinced that the five hundred and forty dollars he had spent on the brand new machine was the best money he had ever spent in his life.
When he reached his destination he wasted no time purchasing seventy-eight empty flour sacks. It was all the merchant had in stock.
Then he restarted his truck, depressing the heavy, floor mounted starter switch. He glanced back at the merchant whose jaw dropped when he realized Amos had not hand cranked the vehicle. Feeling proud, he sped off in a cloud of dust.
When he returned to the pier, he loaded the flour sacks and the rowboat on the barge and waited patiently as the barge crew stoked the firebox and built up a head of steam. When he reached camp on Topsail Island it was six o’clock in the evening. This was his last chance to save the treasure hunting expedition. He wolfed down a bowl of stew and sent two men back to the barge to retrieve the flour sacks. Then he tromped through the mounds of sand that surrounded the camp and selected a pile that was old and dry. When the flour sacks arrived, he instructed the men to start filling the bags with sand and tie them off, insisting that the job be finished with the sandbags piled beside the excavation before morning.
“When you finish with the sand bags, get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a full day.”
Then, he retreated to the cabin where the three other executives were playing a card game, drinking whiskey and smoking huge cigars.
“Where the hell did you go?” demanded one of the partners.
“Back to the mainland. Had to pick up some supplies for tomorrow.”
“What’s the point? We are pulling out of here in two days. I don’t know why we are waiting that long.”
The other two grumbled in agreement.
“I have a plan,” stated Amos.
“So do I. Mine’s get back to New York.”
Amos poured himself a healthy shot of whiskey and retired to his bunk without saying another word.
X X X X X
In the morning, he instructed his iron workers to install another, three foot high course of steel around the top edge of the dam. They told him that another section would make the wall too high but Amos insisted.
“We have to push it down another foot, before we are ready to put on the next section. No point doing it yet,” replied the head iron worker.
“Do it now. And do it as fast as you can.”
“What are all them sandbags for?” asked one of the workers.
“You’ll see soon enough. Just get it ready.”
Every man on the crew respected Amos for his good sense and hard work. They weren’t going to argue with him now.
“You’re the boss. Okay men, you heard what we have to do. Get to work,” ordered the foreman.
It took the entire day to fit the steel, drill the holes and rivet the assembly together.
“Good work, men,” said Amos. The men liked him because he was not afraid to pitch in when an extra hand was needed. They worked hard for him because he always congratulated them on their achievements and every man on the crew was a hard worker. Amos had made sure of that. He never hesitated to fire a slacker.
The night crew was due to come on. The water had risen because the pump couldn’t run while the row of steel was being fitted. Amos waited until the new crew was assembled, then, except for the men needed on the pump, he instructed the rest of them to tear up a section of six inch by six inch square logs that formed a bit of unused road.
“I want those timbers placed across the top of the dam. Leave a six inch space between timbers. Keep them far enough apart so that we can fit the nozzle of the hose down between them.”
The men set to work, their only light coming from a row of round tar pots that resembled cannon balls, their wicks burning with a flickering orange flame. The timbers from the abandoned section of road came up easily and were man-handled onto wooden poles about six feet long. Then six men, working as a team, each grabbed hold of a pole end and lifted the heavy timber off the ground. Like pallbearers at a funeral, they carried the timbers to the dam and placed them across the top of it. At midnight, Amos confirmed the platform was complete.
Then, he ordered the men to pile the sand bags on top of it. The hose that had been threaded between the timbers was withdrawn and the men set up a bucket brigade from the sandbag pile to the platform. They began hand-bombing the bags to three men who stood on the deck. The deck workers placed the bags across the timbers in neat, even rows. The men had by now figured out what Amos had in mind and were excited to see if the plan would work. Certainly, a few tons of extra weight on top of the dam would help drive it down. Finally, when all the bags were loaded Amos instructed the crew to man the sledge hammers and drive it down. Twenty men on hammers instead of the usual twelve. The foreman began a rhythmic chant.
“On four, men. One.” The men raised their hammers in unison. “Two.” The hammers reached the apex of their swing. “Three.” The crew tensed their