A YACHT
Marco, who acted as banker and appeared to Horace to be provided with
an unlimited amount of money, was busy all the evening getting
crockery, cooking-utensils, knives and forks, table-cloths, towels,
and other necessaries.
“Why, it is like fitting out a house, Marco.”
“Well, it is a little floating house,” the Greek said; “it is much
better to have your own things, and not to have to borrow from the
house every time. Now we will get some provisions, two or three
bottles of rum for bad weather, or when we have visitors on board, and
then we shall be complete. Mr. Martyn said he would see to the water.
Now, we will go to bed soon, for we are to be down at the wharf at six
o’clock; and if we are not there in time you may be sure that you will
get a rating.”
“There is no fear of my being late, Marco. I don’t think I shall sleep
all night.”
“Ah! we shall see. You have been on your feet since seven this
morning. I shall have to pull you by your ear to wake you in the
morning.”
This, however, was not necessary. The boy was fast asleep in five
minutes after he had laid his head on the pillow; he woke soon after
daylight, dropped off to sleep several times, but turned out at five,
opened the door of the Greek’s room, and shouted:
“Now, then, Marco, time to get up: if you do not, it is I who will do
the ear-pulling.”
They were down at the wharf at a quarter to six. As the clock struck
the hour William Martyn came down.
“Good-morning, youngster! you are before your time, I see. You
wouldn’t be so ready to turn out after you had had a year or two on
board ship. Well, it looks as if we are going to have a grand day.
There is a nice little breeze, and I fancy it will freshen a good bit
later on. Now, then, tumble into the dinghy, I will take the sculls;
the tide is running out strong, and you might run her into the yacht
and damage the paint; that would be a nice beginning.”
As soon as they were on board, the mate said:
“Now, off with those shoes, youngster. You can go barefoot if you
like, or you can put on those slippers you bought; we have got the
deck fairly white, and we must not spoil it. You should make that a
rule: everyone who comes on board takes off his boots at once.”
The Greek made the dinghy fast, and then took off his shoes and
stockings. Horace put on the slippers, and the mate a pair of light
shoes he had brought on board with him.
“Now, then, off with the sail-covers; fold them up and put them down
under the seat of the cockpit. Knot up the tyers loosely together, and
put them there also. Never begin to hoist your sails till you have got
the covers and tyers snugly packed away. Now, Marco, get number two
jib out of the sail-locker. I don’t think we shall want number one
to-day. Now, hook on the halliards. No; don’t hoist yet, run it out
first by the outhaul to the end of the bowsprit. We won’t hoist it
till we have got the mainmast and mizzen up. Now, Marco, you take the
peak halliards, and I will take the main. Now, then, up she goes; ease
off the sheet a bit. Horace, we must top the boom a bit; that is high
enough. Marco, make fast; now up with the mizzen; that is right. Now,
Horace, before you do anything else always look round, see that
everything is right, the halliards properly coiled up and turned over
so as to run freely, in case you want to lower or reef sail, the
sheets ready to slacken out, the foresail and jib sheets brought aft
on their proper sides. There is nothing in our way now; but when there
are craft in the way, you want to have everything in perfect order,
and ready to draw the moment the anchor is off the ground. Otherwise
you might run foul of something before you got fairly off, and
nothing can look more lubberly than that. Now you take the helm, and
Marco and I will get up the anchor. The wind is nearly dead down the
river; don’t touch the tiller till I tell you.”
Horace stood by the helm till the mate said:
“The chain is nearly up and down; now put the tiller gently to
starboard.”
As he spoke he ran up the jib, and as the boat’s head payed off,
fastened the sheet to windward.
“Now, Marco, round with the windlass; that is right, the anchor is
clear now; up with it.”
As he spoke he ran up the foresail. “Slack off the main sheets, lad,
handsomely; that is right, let them go free; slack off the mizzen
sheets.”
The wind had caught the jib now, and, aided by the tide, brought the
boat’s head sharply round. The jib and foresheets were hauled to
leeward, and in less than a minute from the time the anchor had left
the ground the boat was running down the river with her sheets well
off before the wind.
“Helm a-port a little, Horace, so as to give us plenty of room in
passing that brig at anchor. That is enough. Steady! Now keep as you
are. Marco, I will help you get the anchor on board, and then we will
get up the topsail and set it.”
In ten minutes the anchor was stowed, topsail set, and the ropes
coiled down. Then a small triangular blue flag with the word “Surf”
was run up to the masthead.
“Properly speaking, Horace, flags are not shown till eight o’clock in
the morning; but we will make an exception this time. Gently with the
tiller, lad; you are not steering a fishing-boat now; a touch is
sufficient for this craft. Keep your eye on the flag, and see that it
flies out straight ahead. That is the easiest thing to steer by when
you are dead before the wind. There is more care required for that
than for steering close-hauled, for a moment’s carelessness might
bring the sail across with a jerk that would pretty well take the mast
out of her. It is easy enough now in smooth water; but with a
following sea it needs a careful helmsman to keep a craft from yawing
about.”
Marco had disappeared down the forecastle hatch as soon as he had
finished coiling down the topsail halliard, and a wreath of smoke now
came up through the stove-pipe.
“That is good,” the mate said. “We shall have breakfast before long.”
They ran three miles straight out, so as to get well clear of the
land; then the sheets were hauled in, and the _Surf’s_ head pointed
east, and lying down to her gunwale she sped along parallel with the
shore.
“We are going along a good seven knots through the water,” the mate
said. “She has got just as much sail as she wants, though she would
stand a good deal more wind, if there were any occasion to press her;
but as a rule, Horace, always err on the right side; there is never
any good in carrying too much sail. You can always make more sail if
the wind drops, while if it rises it is not always easy to get it in.
Give me the helm. Now go down to Marco and tell him to come up a few
minutes before breakfast is ready. We will get the topsail off her
before we sit down, and eat our breakfast comfortably. There is no fun
in having your plate in your lap.”
By half-past seven the topsail was stowed and breakfast on the table.
Marco took the helm, while the mate and Horace went down to breakfast.
Horace thought that it was the most delightful meal he had ever taken;
and the mate said:
“That Greek of yours is a first-rate cook, Horace. An admiral could
not want to sit down to a better breakfast than this. There is not
much here to remind me of a midshipman’s mess. You would have had very
different food from this, youngster, if you had had your wish and gone
to sea. That father of yours must be a trump; I drink his health in
coffee. If he ever gets a bigger craft, and wants a captain, I am his
man if he will send your Greek on board as cook. Does he care for the
sea himself?”
“I think he used to like it. I have heard him talk about sailing among
the Greek islands; but as long as I have known him he has never been
away from home except for short runs up to London. He is always in his
library.”
“Fancy a man who could afford to keep a big craft and sail about as he
likes wasting his life over musty old books. It is a rum taste,
youngster. I think I would rather row in a galley.”
“There are no such things as galleys now, are there?”
“Oh, yes, there are in Italy; they have them still rowed by convicts,
and I fancy the Spanish gun-boats are rowed by prisoners too. It is
worse than a dog’s life, but for all that I would rather do it than be
shut up all my life in a library. You seem to talk Greek well,
youngster.”
“Yes; Marco has always been with me since I was a child, and we have
another Greek servant, his brother; and father generally talks Greek
to me. His mother was a Greek lady, and that is what made him so fond
of it at first. They say he is the best Greek scholar in England.”
“I suppose it differs a lot from the Greek you learn at school?”
“Yes, a lot. Still, of course, my knowing it helps me tremendously
with my old Greek. I get on first-rate at that, but I am very bad at
everything else.”
“Well, now we will go up and give Marco a spell,” the mate said. Marco
was relieved and went below. Horace took the helm; the mate lit a pipe
and seated himself on the weather bulwark. “We shall be at Seaport
before eleven if we go on like this,” he said.
“Oh, do let us take a run out to sea, Mr. Martyn; it is no use our
going in until four or five o’clock.”
“Just as you like, lad; I am in no hurry, and it is really a glorious
day for a sail. Put up the helm, I will see to the sheets.”
As they got farther from the protection of the land the sea got up a
bit, but the _Surf_ went over it lightly, and except that an
occasional splash of spray flew over her bow, her decks were perfectly
dry.
“Have you heard of a ship yet, Mr. Martyn?”
“Yes, I heard only yesterday of a berth as first-mate in a craft at
Plymouth. The first-mate got hurt coming down channel, and a friend of
my father’s, learning there was a vacancy, spoke to the owners. She
belongs there, and I am to join the day after to-morrow. She is bound
up the Mediterranean. I shall be very glad to be off; I have had a
dull time of it for the last four months except for this little job.”
“I am afraid you won’t get any vehicle to take you back to-night,”
Horace said.
“No, I didn’t expect that; the coach in the morning will do very well.
I have nothing to do but just to pack my kit, and shall go on by coach
next morning. I was thinking of sleeping on board here, if you have no
objection.”
“I am sure my father will be very glad to see you up at the house,”
Horace said eagerly.
“Thank you, lad, but I shall be much more comfortable on board. Marco
said he would get dinner at two, and there is sure to be plenty for me
to make a cold supper of, and as there is rum in the locker I shall be
as happy as a king. I can smoke my pipe as I like. If I were to go up
with you I should be uncomfortable, for I have nothing but my
sea-going togs. I should put your father out of his way, and he would
put me out of mine. So I think, on all accounts, I had much better
remain in good quarters now I have got them. How far is it to the
place where I catch the coach?”
“About four miles. We will send the carriage to take you there.”
“Thank you, I would much rather walk. I have nothing to carry but
myself, and a four miles’ walk across the hills will be just the thing
for me.”
At four o’clock the _Surf_ entered the little harbour of Seaport;
Horace was delighted with the surprise of the fishermen at the arrival
of the pretty craft.
“You are sure you won’t change your mind and come up with me to the
house?”
“Quite certain, thank you, lad. Marco has put out everything I can
possibly require. He offered to come down to get breakfast for me, but
I prefer to manage that for myself, then I can have it at any time I
fancy. I will lock up the cabin before I land. He will be there to
take the key.”
“I shall come down with him, of course, Mr. Martyn. I can’t tell you
how much I am obliged to you for what you have done for me, and I hope
that some day we may have another sail together.”
“If I am at home any time when you may happen to put in at Exmouth I
shall be glad to take a cruise with you, Horace.”
As the lad and Marco went up the hill to the house, Horace, to his
surprise, met his father coming down with Zaimes.
“Well, Horace, so you have brought your yacht home. Zaimes routed me
out from my work to come and look at her, and she really looks a very
pretty little vessel.”
“She is not little at all, father.”
“Perhaps not in comparison, Horace; but did you and Marco bring her
back by yourselves?”
“No, father; William Martyn, the officer who has seen to her fitting
up, and who recommended her, you know, said he would come with us. So,
of course, he has been in command, and Marco and I have been the crew.
He has been teaching me lots of things, just the same, he says, as if
I had been a newly joined midshipman.”
“But where is he now, Horace?”
“He is on board. He is going home by the coach to-morrow. I said that
I was sure you would be glad if he would come up to the house; but he
said he should feel more comfortable on board. Were you coming down to
look at her, father?”
“Yes, Horace, I was. It is quite a wonderful event my being outside
the grounds, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed, father. I am so glad you are coming down. I am sure you
will like her, and then, perhaps, you will come sailing sometimes; I
do think, father, that you would enjoy such a sail as we had to-day,
it was splendid.”
“Well, we will see about it, Horace. Now I have once come out I may do
so again; I am not sure that a good blow might not clear my brain
sometimes.”
There was quite an excitement in the village when Mr. Beveridge was
seen coming down. Occasionally during his wife’s lifetime he had come
down with her to look into questions of repairs or erection of new
cottages in lieu of old ones, but since that time he had never entered
the village. Personally his tenants did not suffer from the cessation
of his visits, for his steward had the strictest injunctions to deal
in all respects liberally with them, to execute all necessary repairs,
to accede to any reasonable request; while in case of illness or
misfortune, such as the loss of a boat or nets, the rent was always
remitted. That Mr. Beveridge was to a certain extent mad to shut
himself up as he did the villagers firmly believed, but they admitted
that no better landlord was to be found in all that part of the
country.
Mrs. Beveridge had been greatly liked, and the people were pleased at
Horace being down so much among them; but it was rather a sore subject
that their landlord himself held so entirely aloof from them. Men
touched their hats, the women curtsied as he came down the street,
looking almost with pity at the man who, in their opinion, so terribly
wasted his life and cut himself off from the enjoyments of his
position.
Mr. Beveridge returned their salutes kindly. He was scarce conscious
of the time that had passed since he was last in the village; the
years had gone by altogether unmarked save by the growth of Horace,
and by the completion of so many works.
“I suppose you know most of their names, Horace?”
“All of them, I think, father.”
“That is right, boy. A landlord ought to know all his tenants. I wish
I could find time to go about among them a little more, but I think
they have everything they want as far as I can do for them; still, I
ought to come. In your mother’s time I did come sometimes. I must try
to do it in future. Zaimes, you must see that I do this once a
fortnight. I authorize you to bring me my hat and coat after lunch and
say to me firmly, ‘This is your afternoon for going out.’”
“Very well, sir,” the Greek said. “I will tell you; and I hope you
will not say, as you always do to me when I beg you to go out: ‘I must
put it off for another day, Zaimes, I have some work that must be
done.’”
“I will try not to, Zaimes, I will indeed. I think this is a duty. You
remind me of that, will you?”
By this time they had reached the little port, where a number of the
fishermen were still lounging discussing the _Surf_, which was lying
the picture of neatness and good order among the fishing-boats, with
every rope in its place, the sails in their snow-white covers, and
presenting the strongest contrast to the craft around her.
“She is really a very pretty little yacht,” Mr. Beveridge said with
more animation than Horace ever remembered to have heard him speak
with. “She does great credit to your choice, Marco, and I should think
she is a good sea-boat. Why, Zaimes, this almost seems to take one
back to the old time. She is about the size of the felucca we used to
cruise about in; it is a long time back, nearly eighteen years, and
yet it seems but yesterday.”
“There is no reason why you should not sail again, master; even I long
to have my foot on the planks. One never loses one’s love of the sea.”
“I am getting to be an old man now, Zaimes.”
“No one would say so but yourself, master; you are but forty-three.
Sometimes, after being shut up for days, you look old--who would not
when the sun never shines on them--but now you look young, much
younger than you are.”
A stranger indeed would have had difficulty in guessing Mr.
Beveridge’s age. His forehead was broad, his skin delicate and almost
colourless, his light-brown hair was already of a silvery shade, his
face clean shaven, his hands white and thin. His eyes were generally
soft and dreamy, but at the present moment they were bright and
alert. His figure was scarcely that of a student, for the frame was
large, and there was at present none of the stoop habitual to those
who spend their lives over books; and now that he was roused, he
carried himself exceptionally upright, and a close observer might have
taken him for a vigorous man who had but lately recovered from an
attack of severe illness.
“We shall see, Zaimes, we shall see,” he said; “let us go on board.
You had better hail her, Horace.”
“_Surf_ ahoy!” Horace shouted, imitating as well as he could William
Martyn’s usual hail. A minute later the mate’s head appeared above the
companion. “My father is coming on board, Mr. Martyn. Will you please
bring the dinghy ashore.” The mate hauled up the dinghy, got into it,
and in a few strokes was alongside the quay.
Mr. Beveridge descended the steps first. “I am glad to meet you, Mr.
Martyn, and to thank you for the kindness you have shown my son in
finding this craft for him and seeing to its being fitted out.”
“It has been an amusement, sir,” the mate said. “I was knocking about
Exmouth with nothing to do, and it was pleasant to be at work on
something.”
“Get in, Horace,” Mr. Beveridge said, “the dinghy won’t carry us all.
You can bring it back again for the others.”
The party stayed for half an hour on board. Mr. Beveridge was warm in
his approval of the arrangements.
“This is a snug cabin indeed,” he said. “I had no idea that such a
small craft could have had such good accommodation. One could wish for
nothing better except for a little more head-room, but after all that
is of no great consequence, one does not want to walk about below. It
is a place to eat and to sleep in, or, if it is wet, to read in. I
really wonder I never thought of having a sailing-boat before. I shall
certainly take a sail with you sometimes, Horace.”
“I am very glad of that, father, it would be very jolly having you
out. I don’t see much of you, you know, and I do think it would do you
good.”
William Martyn was not allowed to carry out his intention of staying
on board, nor did he resist very earnestly Mr. Beveridge’s pressing
invitation. His host differed widely from his preconceived notions of
him, and he saw that he need not be afraid of ceremony.
“You can smoke your pipe, you know, in the library after dinner, Mr.
Martyn. I have no objection whatever to smoke; indeed, I used to smoke
myself when I was in Greece as a young man--everyone did so there, and
I got to like it, though I gave it up afterwards. Why did I give it
up, Zaimes?”
“I think you gave it up, master, because you always let your cigar out
after smoking two or three whiffs, and never thought of it again for
the rest of the day.”
“Perhaps that was it; at any rate your smoking will in no way
incommode me, so I will take no denial.”
Accordingly the cabins were locked up, and William Martyn went up with
the others to the house and there spent a very pleasant evening. He
had in the course of his service sailed for some time in Greek waters,
and there was consequently much to talk about which interested both
himself and his host.
“I love Greece,” Mr. Beveridge said. “Had it not been that she lies
dead under the tyranny of the Turks I doubt if I should not have
settled there altogether.”
“I think you would have got tired of it, sir,” the mate said. “There
is nothing to be said against the country or the islands, except that
there are precious few good harbours among them; but I can’t say I
took to the people.”
“They have their faults,” Mr. Beveridge admitted, “but I think they
are the faults of their position more than of their natural character.
Slaves are seldom trustworthy, and I own that they are not as a rule
to be relied upon. Having no honourable career open to them, the upper
classes think of nothing but money; they are selfish, greedy, and
corrupt; but I believe in the bulk of the people.”
As William Martyn had no belief whatever in any section of the Greeks
he held his tongue.
“Greece will rise one of these days,” Mr. Beveridge went on, “and when
she does she will astonish Europe. The old spirit still lives among
the descendants of Leonidas and Miltiades.”
“I should be sorry to be one of the Turks who fell into their hands,”
William Martyn said gravely as he thought of the many instances in his
own experiences of the murders of sailors on leave ashore.
“It is probable that there will be sad scenes of bloodshed,” Mr.
Beveridge agreed; “that is only to be expected when you have a race of
men of a naturally impetuous and passionate character enslaved by a
people alien in race and in religion. Yes, I fear it will be so at the
commencement, but that will be all altered when they become
disciplined soldiers. Do you not think so?” he asked, as the sailor
remained silent.
“I have great doubts whether they will ever submit to discipline,” he
said bluntly. “Their idea of fighting for centuries has been simply to
shoot down an enemy from behind the shelter of rocks. I would as lief
undertake to discipline an army of Malays, who, in a good many
respects, especially in the handiness with which they use their
knives, are a good deal like the Greeks.”
“There is one broad distinction,” Mr. Beveridge said: “the Malays have
no past, the Greeks have never lost the remembrance of their ancient
glory. They have a high standard to act up to; they reverence the
names of the great men of old as if they had died but yesterday. With
them it would be a resurrection, accomplished, no doubt, after vast
pains and many troubles, the more so since the Greeks are a composite
people among whom the descendants of the veritable Greek of old are in
a great minority. The majority are of Albanian and Suliot blood, races
which even the Romans found untamable. When the struggle begins I fear
that this section of the race will display the savagery of their
nature; but the fighting over, the intellectual portion will, I doubt
not, regain their proper ascendency, and Greece will become the Greece
of old.”
William Martyn was wise enough not to pursue the subject. He had a
deep scar from the shoulder to the elbow of his right arm, and another
on the left shoulder, both reminiscences of an attack that had been
made upon him by half a dozen ruffians one night in the streets of
Athens, and in his private opinion the entire extirpation of the Greek
race would be no loss to the world in general.
“I am very sorry you have to leave to-morrow morning,” Mr. Beveridge
said presently. “I should have been very glad if you could have stayed
with us for a few days. It is some years since I had a visitor here,
and I can assure you that I am surprised at the pleasure it gives me.
However, I hope that whenever you happen to be at Exmouth you will run
over and see us, and if at any time I can be of the slightest service
to you I shall be really pleased.”
The next morning William Martyn, still refusing the offer of a
conveyance, walked across the hills to meet the coach, and as soon as
he had started Horace went down to the yacht. Marco had gone down into
the village early, had seen Tom Burdett, and in his master’s name
arranged for him to take charge of the _Surf_, and to engage a lad to
sail with him. When Horace reached the wharf Tom was already on board
with his nephew, Dick, a lad of seventeen or eighteen, who at once
brought the dinghy ashore at Horace’s hail.
“Well, Dick, so you are going with us?”
“Ay, Master Horace, I am shipped as crew. She be a beauty. That cabin
is a wonderful lot better than the fo’castle of a fishing-lugger. She
is something like a craft to go a sailing in.”
“Good morning, Tom Burdett,” Horace said as the boat came alongside
the yacht; “or I ought to say Captain Burdett.”
“No, no,” the sailor laughed; “I have been too long aboard big craft
to go a captaining. I don’t so much mind being called a skipper, cos a
master of any sort of craft may be called skipper; but I ain’t going
to be called captain. Now, Dick, run that flag up to the mast-head.
That is yachting fashion, you know, Master Horace, to run the burgee
up when the owner comes on board. We ain’t got a burgee, seeing as we
don’t belong to a yacht-club; but the flag with the name does service
for it at present.”
“But I am not the owner, Tom, that is nonsense. My father got it to
please me, and very good of him it was; but it is nonsense to call the
boat mine.”
“Them’s the orders I got from your Greek chap down below, Mr. Horace.
Says he, ‘Master says as how Mr. Horace is to be regarded as owner of
this ’ere craft whenever he is aboard;’ so there you are, you see.
There ain’t nothing to be said against that.”
“Well, it is very jolly, isn’t it, Tom?”
“It suits me first-rate, sir. I feel for all the world as if we had
just captured a little prize, and they had put a young midshipmite in
command and sent me along with him just to keep him straight; that is
how I feel about it.”
“What sort of weather do you think we are going to have to-day, Tom?”
“I think the wind is going to shift, sir, and perhaps there will be
more of it. It has gone round four points to the east since I turned
out before sunrise.”
“And where do you think we had better go to-day, Tom?”
“Well, as the wind is now it would be first-rate for a run to
Dartmouth.”
“Yes, but we should have a dead-beat back, Tom; we should never get
back before dark.”
“No sir, but that Greek chap tells me as your father said as how there
were no occasion to be back to-night, if so be as you liked to make a
cruise of it.”
“Did he say that? That is capital. Then let us go to Dartmouth;
to-morrow we can start as early as we like so as to get back here.”
“I don’t reckon we shall have to beat back. According to my notion the
wind will be somewhere round to the south by to-morrow morning; that
will suit us nicely. Now then, sir, we will see about getting sail on
her.”
As soon as they began to throw the sail-covers off, Marco came on deck
and lent a hand, and in the course of three minutes the sails were up,
the mooring slipped, and the _Surf_ was gliding past the end of the
jetty.
“That was done in pretty good style, sir,” Tom Burdett said as he took
up his station by the side of Horace, who was at the tiller. “I reckon
when we have had a week’s practice together we shall get up sail as
smartly as a man-of-war captain would want to see. I do like to see
things done smart if it is only on a little craft like this, and with
three of us we ought to get all her lower sail on her in no time. That
Greek chap knows what he is about. Of course he has often been out
with you in the fishing-boats, but there has never been any call for
him to lend a hand there, and I was quite surprised just now when he
turned to at it. I only reckoned on Dick and myself, and put the Greek
down as steward and cook.”
“He used to work in a fishing-boat when he was a boy, Tom.”
“Ah, that accounts for it! They are smart sailors, some of them
Greeks, in their own craft, though I never reckoned they were any good
in a square-rigged ship; but in those feluccas of theirs they ain’t
easy to be beaten in anything like fine weather. But they ain’t
dependable, none of those Mediterranean chaps are, whether they are
Greeks or Italians or Spaniards, when it comes on to blow really hard,
and there is land under your lee, and no port to run to. When it comes
to a squeak like that they lose their nerve and begin to pray to the
saints, and wring their hands, and jabber like a lot of children. They
don’t seem to have no sort of backbone about them. But in fine weather
I allow they handle their craft as well as they could be handled. Mind
your helm, sir; you must always keep your attention to that, no matter
what is being said.”
“Are you going to get up the topsail, Tom?”
“Not at present, sir; with this wind there will be more sea on as we
get further out, and I don’t know the craft yet; I want to see what
her ways are afore we try her. She looks to me as if she would be
stiff under canvas; but running as we are we can’t judge much about
that, and you have always got to be careful with these light-draft
craft. When we get to know her we shall be able to calculate what she
will carry in all weathers; but there is no hurry about that. I have
seen spars carried away afore now, from young commanders cracking on
sail on craft they knew nothing about. This boat can run, there is no
mistake about that. Look at that fishing-boat ahead of us; that is
Jasper Hill’s _Kitty_; she went out ten minutes afore you came down.
We are overhauling her hand over hand, and she is reckoned one of the
fastest craft in Seaport. But then, this craft is bound to run fast
with her fine lines and shallow draft; we must wait to see how she
will do when there is lots of wind.”
In a couple of hours Horace was glad to hand over the tiller to the
skipper as the sea had got up a good deal, and the _Surf_ yawed so
much before the following waves that it needed more skill than he
possessed to keep her straight.
“Fetch the compass up, Dick,” the skipper said; “we are dropping the
land fast. Now get the mizzen off her, she will steer easier without
it, and it isn’t doing her much good. Do you begin to feel queer at
all, Mr. Horace?”
“Not a bit,” the boy laughed. “Why, you don’t suppose, after rolling
about in those fishing-boats when they are hanging to their nets, that
one would feel this easy motion.”
“No; you would think not, but it don’t always follow. I have seen a
man, who had been accustomed to knock about all his life in small
craft, as sick as a dog on board a frigate, and I have seen the first
lieutenant of a man-of-war knocked right over while lying off a bar on
boat service. One gets accustomed to one sort of motion, and when you
get another quite different it seems to take your innards all aback.”
The run to Dartmouth was quickly made, and to Horace’s delight they
passed several large ships on their way.
“Yes, she is going well,” Tom Burdett said when he expressed his
satisfaction; “but if the wind was to get up a bit more it would be
just the other way. We have got quite as much as we want, while they
could stand a good bit more. A small craft will generally hold her own
in a light wind, because why, she carries more sail in proportion to
her tonnage. When the big ship has got as much as she can do with, the
little one has to reef down and half her sails are taken off her.
Another thing is, the waves knock the way out of a small craft, while
the weight of a big one takes her through them without feeling it.
Still I don’t say the boat ain’t doing well, for she is first-rate,
and we shall make a very quick passage to port.”
Running up the pretty river, they rounded to, head to wind, dropped
the anchor a short distance from a ship of war, and lowered and stowed
their sails smartly. Then Horace went below to dinner. It had been
ready for some little time, but he had not liked leaving the deck, for
rolling, as she sometimes did, it would have been impossible to eat
comfortably. As soon as he dined, the others took their meal in the
fo’castle, Marco having insisted on waiting on him while at his
dinner. When they had finished, Marco and Dick rowed Horace ashore.
The lad took the boat back to the yacht, while the other two strolled
about the town for a couple of hours, and then went off again.
The next day the _Surf_ fully satisfied her skipper as to her
weatherly qualities. The wind was, as he had predicted, nearly
south-east, and there was a good deal of sea on. Before getting up
anchor, the topmast was lowered, two reefs put in the main-sail and
one in the mizzen, and a small jib substituted for that carried on the
previous day. Showers of spray fell on the deck as they put out from
the mouth of the river; but once fairly away she took the waves
easily, and though sometimes a few buckets of water tumbled over her
bows and swashed along the lee channels, nothing like a green sea came
on board. Tom Burdett was delighted with her.
“She is a beauty and no mistake,” he said enthusiastically. “There is
many a big ship will be making bad weather of it to-day; she goes over
it like a duck. After this, Mr. Horace, I sha’n’t mind what weather I
am out in her. I would not have believed a craft her size would have
behaved so well in a tumble like this. You see this is more trying for
her than a big sea would be. She would take it easier if the waves
were longer, and she had more time to take them one after the other.
That is why you hear of boats living in a sea that has beaten the life
out of a ship. A long craft does not feel a short choppy sea that a
small one would be putting her head into every wave: but in a long sea
the little one has the advantage. What do you think of her, sir?”
“She seems to me to heel over a long way, Tom.”
“Yes, she is well over; but you see, even in the puffs she doesn’t go
any further. Every vessel has got what you may call her bearing. It
mayn’t take much to get her over to that; but when she is there it
takes a wonderful lot to bring her any further. You see there is a lot
of sail we could take off her yet, if the wind were to freshen. We
could get in another reef in the main-sail, and stow her mizzen and
foresail altogether. She would stand pretty nigh a hurricane with that
canvas.”
It was four o’clock in the afternoon before the _Surf_ entered the
harbour. Horace was drenched with spray, and felt almost worn out
after the struggle with the wind and waves; when he landed his knees
were strangely weak, but he felt an immense satisfaction with the
trip, and believed implicitly Tom Burdett’s assertion that the yacht
could stand any weather.