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.