All this was left for another and more leisurely day.
In the end, the once luxurious liner was to be reduced to "skin and bones," to employ a trite but eminently appropriate phrase.

Ultimately she became a black, unlovely skeleton, bereft of every vestige of her former opulence.

Her decks were torn up and the timbers hauled away to make floors in the huts; the doors, mirrors, stairways, windows, rails, carpets, pipes, bathtubs, toilets, lamps, every foot of woodwork from stem to stern, berths, washbasins, kitchen ranges, boilers,--in fact, everything that man could make use of was taken from the ship, leaving nothing of her but a hollow, echoing shell through which the wind howled or moaned a ghostly requiem.
Much of this material was carefully stacked or stored away against the day when it could be utilized in the construction of a small but sturdy ship, in which a chosen company of sailors were to fare out to sea once more in search of the world they had lost.
Tireless and indomitable engineers later on succeeded in transferring portions of the damaged machinery, including dynamos, to the camp, where in course of time their skill and ingenuity bade fair to triumph over seemingly insurmountable difficulties in the matter of restoration.
Fully six weeks elapsed, however, before the women were allowed to leave the ship for their new homes on the land, and even then they came but a few at a time and only as huts were ready and fully equipped to receive them.

Each hut contained a combination kitchen and living-room, with a single bedchamber.

A substantial fireplace, built of stone and mortar, with a tall chimney at the back, was a feature in every house.