I thought I could get the old one cylinder Lister to light when the time came, with a little help from some ether I found in the tool kit. We had been lucky yesterday. We were able to make our way down the lake under sail. Fifty miles long that lake is. We made it down here in about ten hours. Sailing on the open water is one thing. Negotiating the narrow river would be impossible under sail. Time to see about that Lister. The tarp Sam had rigged made a nice place out of the rain to work in the engine compartment. The floor of the cockpit opened up to reveal the 40 year old engine. These engines will run many thousands of hours if they are given even the slightest bit of care. They start and run without any electricity. That makes them perfect for backwoods reliability. The crankshaft connects directly to the propellor shaft through a clutch. No transmission, no reverse gear. The clutch seemed to be in good shape, I could feel it engage when I operated the lever. There is a device to hold the exhaust valve open to release compression. This allows a person to spin the engine by hand, getting the big flywheel going as fast as possible. Then releasing the exhaust valve and squirting a bit of ether in the intake to light the fire. The ether shouldnt be necessary, it just makes it easier. The crank handle was set in a bracket on the bulkhead just where you would expect it to be. The flywheel wouldnt budge. The old engine was seized. The hope would be that the piston rings were just stuck to the cylinder walls a little bit. There is a plunger on the intake side that allows oil to be injected into the cylinder. I dug around in the engine compartment and found some transmission fluid and paint thinner. I mixed them up 50:50 and shot about a half cup into the cylinder. The fuel system was gravity feed. Perfectly fine until there is a fire, but Im not complaining. I am a boat thief, not an insurance inspector. The day tank was half full of diesel. A fuel polishing system was installed between the main tank and the day tank. A hand pump moved fuel between the tanks. Open some valves, and close some others, and I could move the fuel in the day tank into the main tank. Then close some valves, and open some others, and pump new fuel through the filters of the polishing system and into the day tank. This removes water and debris from the fuel. I cracked the fittings on the lines to the injector pump and let a bit of diesel run out. That clears the lines of the old stale fuel, and assured that there is no air in the lines. Getting the fuel system in shape took about two hours. While I was doing this, Sam was busy also. She had caught a couple of fish and fixed us some lunch. I tell you, It is nice having a pleasant woman around. While we were eating, I finally asked her why she killed Herbert. It really was a bit of my business, seeing that my neck was in the same noose as hers. While we had been enjoying a pleasant breakfast on their beautiful verandah, she had inquired if the rifle I had was the same one I had carried on safari with them last year. Yes, indeed Maam it is I responded. The rifle was leaning against a porch column. It was a short barrel Marlin 1895 in .45-70, loaded with Garret hammerhead cartridges. These hard lead bullets would pass through a cape buffalo end to end. Extraordinary performance from a rifle cartridge adopted by the U.S. Army over 100 years ago. Sam had casually taken the rifle as if to admire it. She was well familiar with the little rifle, having taken a lion and a cape buffalo with it on their safari. She handled it safely, opening the lever slightly to inspect the chamber. She saw that the chamber was empty. The Marlin 1895 rifle has no safety. The smart hunter carries it empty chamber, then jacks in a round when the need is imminent. The hammer can be lowered to half cock to carry safely with a round chambered. She smiled at me and operated the lever through the full cycle. She stopped handling the rifle safely, and pointed it directly at her husbands chest. Herbert paused with a piece of toast and marmalade halfway to his mouth. He might have protested, had she given him time. The muzzle blast from that short barrel blew the napkins off the table, blew the petals off the pretty flowers in the vase, blew the champagne goblet over, blew the lapels on his coat open, and blew Herberts breakfast plate off the table and onto his dead lap, That 520 grain bullet that could pass through 9 feet of a cape buffalo, neatly transited 12 inches of Englishman, and the chair he was sitting in, and the door frame behind him, and the floor behind the door frame. Sam called out, Hortense, there has been an accident. Mr. Bracken is dead. Would you call his brother please? I began to see that she did not invite me to breakfast to plan another safari.
Posted on: Sat, 07 Jun 2014 03:50:12 +0000
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