By midnight, the heavy derrick crane had swung its thirty-foot timber boom out over the swirling waters of the intake water gate. A puff of white steam hissed from the donkey engine on the wharf, with the steady, clockwork chug-chug of the two-metal tube piston driving the winch drum.
Eren Tal and Kel Dorr waded waist-deep into the freezing river current, hooking Jo Saye’s two purple man-made roundslings through the forged lifting eyes on the gate’s top rail. The modern nylon straps, impervious to river lime and grease, gripped the iron-faced oak without slipping.
‘Take the strain, Tommas!’ Eren roared, signaling with his hand. ‘Take up the slack and hold on the pawl!’
The steam winch groaned, the steel wire rope tightened with a shower of rust flakes. The purple slings stretched two inches, singing with sound tension. In the control cab, young Tommas Vane opened the throttle with practiced skill. That kept the boiler pressure steady at seventy-eight pounds.
With a deep, sucking thud that shook the water in the water chute, the six-ton gate broke free from thirty years of river silt. It rose slowly, smoothly, guided between two timber fender poles held by six wagon drivers on the levee. It cleared the granite coping stones by four inches without touching the stonework guides.
