would have been solved when we "went about," for the first time, after
leaving the jetty. A livelier, stiffer, and drier little vessel of her
size never was built. She jumped over the waves, as if the sea was a
great play-ground, and the game for the morning, Leap-Frog. Though the
wind was so high that we were obliged to lower our foresail, and to
double-reef the mainsail, the only water we got on board was the spray
that was blown over us from the tops of the waves. In the state of the
weather, getting down Channel was out of the question. We were obliged
to be contented, on this first day of our voyage, with running across to
the Welsh coast, and there sheltering ourselves--amid a perfect fleet of
outward-bound merchantmen driven back by the wind--in a snug roadstead,
for the afternoon and the night.
This delay, which might have been disagreeable enough later in our
voyage, gave us just the time we wanted for setting things to rights on
board.
Our little twelve-foot cabin, it must be remembered, was bed-room,
sitting-room, dining-room, storeroom, and kitchen, all in one.
Everything we wanted for sleeping, reading, eating, and drinking, had to
be arranged in its proper place. The butter and candles, the soap and
cheese, the salt and sugar, the bread and onions, the oil-bottle and the
brandy-bottle, for example, had to be put in places where the motion of
the vessel could not roll them together, and where, also, we could any
of us find them at a moment's notice. Other things, not of the eatable
sort, we gave up all idea of separating. Mr. Migott and I mingled our
stock of shirts as we mingled our sympathies, our fortunes, and our
flowing punch-bowl after dinner. We both of us have our faults; but
incapability of adapting ourselves cheerfully to circumstances is not
among them. Mr. Migott, especially, is one of those rare men who could
dine politely off blubber in the company of Esquimaux, and discover the
latent social advantages of his position if he was lost in the darkness
of the North Pole.
After the arrangement of goods and chattels, came dinner (the curry
warmed up with a second course of fried onions)--then the slinging of
our hammocks by the neat hands of the Brothers Dobbs--and then the
practice of how to get into the hammocks, by Messrs. Migott and Jollins.
No landsman who has not tried the experiment can form the faintest
notion of the luxury of the sailor's swinging bed, or of the
extraordinary difficulty of getting into it for the first time. The
preliminary action is to stand with your back against the middle of your
hammock, and to hold by the edge of the canvas on either side. You then
duck your head down, throw your heels up, turn round on your back, and
let go with your hands, all at the same moment. If you succeed in doing
this, you are in the most luxurious bed that the ingenuity of man has
ever invented. If you fail, you measure your length on the floor. So
much for hammocks.
After learning how to get into bed, the writer of the present narrative
tried his hand at the composition of whisky punch, and succeeded in
imparting satisfaction to his intemperate fellow-creatures. When the
punch and the pipes accompanying it had come to an end, a pilot-boat
anchored alongside of us for the night. Once embarked on our own
element, we old sea-dogs are, after all, a polite race of men. We asked
the pilot where he had come from--and he asked us. We asked the pilot
where he was bound to, to-morrow morning--and he asked us. We asked the
pilot whether he would like a drop of rum--and the pilot, to encourage
us, said Yes. After that, there was a little pause; and then the pilot
asked us, whether we would come on board his boat--and we, to encourage
the pilot, said Yes, and did go, and came back, and asked the pilot
whether he would come on board our boat--and he said Yes, and did come
on board, and drank another drop of rum. Thus in the practice of the
social virtues did we while away the hours--six jolly tars in a
twelve-foot cabin--till it was past eleven o'clock, and time, as we say
at sea, to tumble in, or tumble out, as the case may be, when a jolly
tar wants practice in the art of getting into his hammock.
So began and ended our first day afloat.
II.
The wind blew itself out in the night. As the morning got on, it fell
almost to a calm; and the merchantmen about us began weighing anchor, to
drop down Channel with the tide. The Tomtit, it is unnecessary to say,
scorned to be left behind, and hoisted her sails with the best of them.
Favoured by the lightness of the wind, we sailed past every vessel
proceeding in our direction. Barques, brigs, and schooners, French
luggers and Dutch galliots, we showed our stern to all of them; and when
the weather cleared, and the breeze freshened towards the afternoon, the
little Tomtit was heading the whole fleet.
In the evening we brought up close to the high coast of Somersetshire,
to wait for the tide. Weighed again, at ten at night, and sailed for
Ilfracombe. Got becalmed towards morning, but managed to reach our port
at ten, with the help of the sweeps, or long oars. Went ashore for more
bread, beer, and fresh water; feeling so nautical by this time, that the
earth was difficult to walk upon; and all the people we had dealings
with presented themselves to us in the guise of unmitigated land-sharks.
O, my dear eyes! what a relief it was to Mr. Migott and myself to find
ourselves in our floating castle, boxing the compass, dancing the
hornpipe, and splicing the mainbrace freely in our ocean-home.
About noon we sailed for Clovelly. Our smooth passage across the
magnificent Bay of Bideford is the recollection of our happy voyage
which I find myself looking back on most admiringly while I now write.
No cloud was in the sky. Far away, on the left, sloped inward the
winding shore; so clear, so fresh, so divinely tender in its blue and
purple hues, that it was the most inexhaustible of luxuries only to look
at it. Over the watery horizon, to the right, the autumn sun hung
grandly, with the fire-path below heaving on a sea of lustrous blue.
Flocks of wild birds at rest, floated chirping on the water all around.
The fragrant steady breeze was just enough to fill our sails. On and on
we went, with the bubbling sea-song at our bows to soothe us; on and on,
till the blue lustre of the ocean grew darker, till the sun sank redly
towards the far water-line, till the sacred evening stillness crept over
the sweet air, and hushed it with a foretaste of the coming night.
What sight of mystery and enchantment rises before us now? Steep, solemn
cliffs, bare in some places--where the dark-red rock has been rent away,
and the winding chasms open grimly to the view--but clothed for the most
part with trees, which soften their summits into the sky, and sweep all
down them, in glorious masses of wood, to the very water's edge.
Climbing from the beach, up the precipitous face of the cliff, a little
fishing village coyly shows itself. The small white cottages rise one
above another; now perching on a bit of rock, now peeping out of a clump
of trees: sometimes two or three together; sometimes one standing alone;
here, placed sideways to the sea, there, fronting it,--but rising always
one over the other, as if, instead of being founded on the earth, they
were hung from the trees on the top of the cliff. Over all this lovely
scene the evening shadows are stealing. The last rays of the sun just
tinge the quiet water, and touch the white walls of the cottages. From
out at sea comes the sound of a horn--blown from the nearest
fishing-vessel, as a signal to the rest to follow her to shore. From the
land, the voices of children at play, and the still fall of the small
waves on the beach, are the only audible sounds. This is Clovelly. If we
had travelled a thousand miles to see it, we should have said that our
journey had not been taken in vain.
On getting to shore, we found the one street of Clovelly nothing but a
succession of irregular steps, from the beginning at the beach, to the
end half way up the cliffs. It was like climbing to the top of an old
castle, instead of walking through a village. When we reached the
summit of the cliff, the hour was too advanced to hope for seeing much
of the country. We strayed away, however, to look for the church, and
found ourselves, at twilight, near some ghastly deserted out-houses,
approached by a half-ruinous gateway, and a damp dark avenue of trees.
The church was near, but shut off from us by ivy-grown walls. No living
creature appeared; not even a dog barked at us. We were surrounded by
silence, solitude, darkness, and desolation; and it struck us both
forcibly, that the best thing we could do was to give up the church, and
get back to humanity with all convenient speed.
The descent of the High Street of Clovelly, at night, turned out to be a
matter of more difficulty than we had anticipated. There was no such
thing as a lamp in the whole village; and we had to grope our way in the
darkness down steps of irregular sizes and heights, paved with slippery
pebbles, and ornamented with nothing in the shape of a bannister, even
at the most dangerous places. Half-way down, my friend and I had an
argument in the dark--standing with our noses against a wall, and with
nothing visible on either side--as to which way we should turn next. I
guessed to the left, and he guessed to the right; and I, being the more
obstinate of the two, we ended in following my route, and at last
stumbled our way down to the pier. Looking at the place the next
morning, we found that the steps to the right led through a bit of
cottage-garden to a snug little precipice, over which inquisitive
tourists might fall quietly, without let or hindrance. Talk of the
perils of the deep! what are they in comparison with the perils of the
shore?
The adventures of the night were not exhausted, so far as I was
concerned, even when we got back to our vessel.
I have already informed the reader that the cabin of the Tomtit was
twelve feet long by eight feet wide--a snug apartment, but scarcely
large enough, as it struck me, for five men to sleep in comfortably.
Nevertheless, the experiment was to be tried in Clovelly harbour. I
bargained, at the outset, for one thing--that the cabin hatch should be
kept raised at least a foot all night. This ventilatory condition being
complied with, I tumbled into my hammock; Mr. Migott rolled into his;
and Sam Dobbs, Dick Dobbs, and Bob Dobbs cast themselves down
promiscuously on the floor and the lockers under us. Out went the
lights; and off went my friend and the Brothers Dobbs into the most
intolerable concert of snoring that it is possible to imagine.
No alternative was left for my unfortunate self but to lie awake
listening, and studying the character of the snore in each of the four
sleeping individuals. The snore of Mr. Migott I found to be superior to
the rest in point of amiability, softness, and regularity--it was a kind
of oily, long-sustained purr, amusing and not unmusical for the first
five minutes. Next in point of merit to Mr. Migott, came Bob Dobbs. His
note was several octaves lower than my friend's, and his tone was a
grunt--but I will do him justice; I will not scruple to admit that the
sounds he produced were regular as clockwork. Very inferior was the
performance of Sam Dobbs, who, as owner of the boat, ought, I think, to
have set a good example. If an idle carpenter planed a board very
quickly at one time, and very slowly at another, and if he groaned at
intervals over his work, he would produce the best imitation of Sam
Dobbs's style of snoring that I can think of. Last, and worst of all,
came Dick Dobbs, who was afflicted with a cold, and whose snore
consisted of a succession of loud chokes, gasps, and puffs, all
contending together, as it appeared to me, which should suffocate him
soonest. There I lay, wide awake, suffering under the awful nose-chorus
which I have attempted to describe, for nearly an hour. It was a dark
night: there was no wind, and very little air. Horrible doubts about the
sufficiency of our ventilation began to beset me. Reminiscences of early
reading on the subject of the Black Hole at Calcutta came back vividly
to my memory. I thought of the twelve feet by eight, in which we were
all huddled together--terror and indignation overpowered me--and I
roared for a light, before the cabin of the Tomtit became too mephitic
for flame of any kind to exist in it. Uprose they then my Merry Merry
Men, bewildered and grumbling, to grope for the match-box. It was found,
the lantern was lit, the face of Mr. Migott appeared serenely over the
side of his hammock, and the voice of Mr. Migott sweetly and sleepily
inquired what was the matter?
"Matter! The Black Hole at Calcutta is the matter. Poisonous, gaseous
exhalation is the matter! Outrageous, ungentlemanly snoring is the
matter! give me my bedding, and my drop of brandy, and my pipe, and let
me go on deck. Let me be a Chaldean shepherd, and contemplate the stars.
Let me be the careful watch who patrols the deck, and guards the ship
from foes and wreck. Let me be anything but the companion of men who
snore like the famous Furies in the old Greek play." While I am venting
my indignation, and collecting my bedding, the smiling and sleepy face
of Mr. Migott disappears slowly from the side of the hammock--and before
I am on deck, I hear the oily purr once more, just as amiable, soft, and
regular as ever.
What a relief it was to have the sky to look up at, the fresh night air
to breathe, the quiet murmur of the sea to listen to! I rolled myself up
in my blankets; and, for aught I know to the contrary, was soon snoring
on deck as industriously as my companions were snoring below.
The first sounds that woke me in the morning were produced by the
tongues of the natives of Clovelly, assembled on the pier, staring down
on me in my nest of blankets, and shouting to each other incessantly. I
assumed that they were making fun of the interesting stranger stretched
in repose on the deck of the Tomtit; but I could not understand one word
of the Devonshire language in which they spoke. Whatever they said of
me, I forgive them, however, in consideration of their cream and fresh
herrings. Our breakfast on the cabin-hatch in Clovelly harbour, after a
dip in the sea, is a remembrance of gustatory bliss which I gratefully
cherish. When we had reduced the herrings to skeletons, and the
cream-pot to a whited sepulchre of emptiness, we slipped from our
moorings, and sailed away from the lovely little village with sincere
regret. By noon we were off Hartland Point.
We had now arrived at the important part of our voyage--the part at
which it was necessary to decide, once for all, on our future
destination. Mr. Migott and I took counsel together solemnly, unrolled
the charts, and then astonished our trusty crew by announcing that the
end of the voyage was to be the Scilly Islands. Up to this time the
Brothers Dobbs had been inclined to laugh at the notion of getting so
far in so small a boat. But they began to look grave now, and to hint at
cautious objections. The weather was certainly beautiful; but then the
wind was dead against us. Our little vessel was stiff and sturdy enough
for any service, but nobody on board knew the strange waters into which
we were going--and, as for the charts, could any one of us study them
with a proper knowledge of the science of navigation? Would it not be
better to take a little cruise to Lundy Island, away there on the
starboard bow? And another little cruise about the Welsh coast, where
the Dobbses had been before? To these cautious questions, we replied by
rash and peremptory negatives; and the Brothers, thereupon, abandoned
their view of the case, and accepted ours with great resignation.
For the Scilly Islands, therefore, we now shaped our course, alternately
standing out to sea, and running in for the land, so as to get down
ultimately to the Land's End, against the wind, in a series of long
zig-zags, now in a westerly and now in an easterly direction. Our first
tack from Hartland Point was a sail of six hours out to sea. At sunset,
the little Tomtit had lost sight of land for the first time since she
was launched, and was rising and falling gently on the long swells of
the Atlantic. It was a deliciously calm, clear evening, with every
promise of the fine weather lasting. The spirits of the Brothers Dobbs,
when they found themselves at last in the blue water, rose amazingly.
"Only give us decent weather, sir," said Bob Dobbs, cheerfully smacking
the tiller of the Tomtit; "and we'll find our way to Scilly somehow, in
spite of the wind."
_How_ we found our way, remains to be seen.
III.
We were now fairly at sea, keeping a regular watch on deck at night, and
never running nearer the Cornish coast than was necessary to enable us
to compare the great headlands with the marks on our chart. Under
present circumstances, no more than three of us could sleep in the cabin
at one time--the combined powers of the snoring party were thus
weakened, and the ventilation below could be preserved in a satisfactory
state. Instead of chronicling our slow zig-zag progress to the Land's
End--which is unlikely to interest anybody not familiar with Cornish
names and nautical phrases--I will try to describe the manner in which
we passed the day on board the Tomtit, now that we were away from land
events and amusements. If there was to be any such thing as an alloy of
dulness in our cruise, this was assuredly the part of it in which Time
and the Hour were likely to run slowest through the day.
* * * * *
In the first place, let me record with just pride, that we have solved
the difficult problem of a pure republic in our modest little craft. No
man in particular among us is master--no man in particular is servant.
The man who can do at the right time, and in the best way, the thing
that is most wanted, is always the hero of the situation among us. When
Dick Dobbs is frying the onions for dinner, he is the person most
respected in the ship, and Mr. Migott and myself are his faithful and
expectant subjects. When grog is to be made, or sauces are to be
prepared, Mr. Jollins becomes in his turn the monarch of all he surveys.
When musical entertainments are in progress, Mr. Migott is vocal king,
and sole conductor of band and chorus. When nautical talk and
sea-stories rule the hour, Bob Dobbs, who has voyaged in various
merchantmen all over the world, and is every inch of him a thorough
sailor, becomes the best man of the company. When any affairs connected
with the internal management of the vessel are under consideration, Sam
Dobbs is Chairman of the Committee in the cockpit. So we sail along; and
such is the perfect constitution of society at which we mariners of
England have been able to arrive.
Our freedom extends to the smallest details. We have no stated hours,
and we are well a-head of all rules and regulations. We have no
breakfast hour, no dinner hour, no time for rising or for going to bed.
We have no particular eatables at particular meals. We don't know the
day of the month, or the day of the week; and never look at our watches,
except when we wind them up. Our voice is frequently the voice of the
sluggard; but we never complain, because nobody ever wakes us too soon,
or thinks of interfering with our slumbering again. We wear each other's
coats, smoke each other's pipes, poach on each other's victuals. We are
a happy, dawdling, undisciplined, slovenly lot. We have no principles,
no respectability, no business, no stake in the country, no knowledge of
Mrs. Grundy. We are a parcel of Lotos-Eaters; and we know nothing,
except that we are poking our way along anyhow to the Scilly Islands in
the Tomtit.
We rise when we have had sleep enough--any time you like between seven
and ten. If I happen to be on deck first, I begin by hearing the news of
the weather and the wind, from Sam, Dick, or Bob at the helm. Soon the
face of Mr. Migott, rosy with recent snoring, rises from the cabin, and
his body follows it slowly, clad in the blue Jersey frock which he
persists in wearing night and day--in the heat of noon as in the cool of
evening. He cannot be prevailed upon to give any reason for his violent
attachment to this garment--only wagging his head and smiling
mysteriously when we ask why, sleeping or waking, he never parts with
it. Well, being up, the next thing is to make the toilette. We keep our
fresh water, for minor ablutions, in an old wine cask from Bristol. The
colour of the liquid is a tawny yellow: it is, in fact, weak sherry and
water. For the major ablutions, we have the ship's bucket and the sea,
and a good stock of rough towels to finish with. The next thing is
breakfast on deck. When we can catch fish (which is very seldom, though
we are well provided with lines and bait) we fall upon the spoil
immediately. At other times we range through our sea stores, eating
anything we like, cooked anyhow we like. After breakfast we have two
words to say to our box of peaches, nectarines, and grapes, from the
hospitable country-house. Then the bedding is brought up to air; the
deck is cleaned; the breakfast things are taken away; the pipes, cigars,
and French novels are produced from the cabin; Mr. Migott coils himself
up in a corner of the cockpit, and I perch upon the taffrail; and the
studies of the morning begin. They end invariably in small-talk, beer,
and sleep. So the time slips away cosily till it is necessary to think
about dinner.
Now, all is activity on board the Tomtit. Except the man at the helm,
every one is occupied with preparations for the banquet of the day. The
potatoes, onions, and celery, form one department; the fire and solid
cookery another; the washing of plates and dishes, knives and forks, a
third; the laying of the cloth on deck a fourth; the concoction of
sauces and production of bottles from the cellar a fifth. No man has any
particular department assigned to him: the most active republican of the
community, for the time being, plunges into the most active work, and
the others follow as they please.
The exercise we get is principally at this period of the day, and
consists in incessant dropping down from the deck to the cabin, and
incessant scrambling up from the cabin to the deck. The dinner is a long
business; but what do we care for that? We have no appointments to keep,
no visitors to interrupt us, and nothing in the world to do but to
tickle our palates, wet our whistles, and amuse ourselves in any way we
please. Dinner at last over, it is superfluous to say, that the pipes
become visible again, and that the taking of forty winks is only a
prohibited operation on the part of the man at the helm.
As for tea-time, it is entirely regulated by the wants and wakefulness
of Mr. Migott, who, since the death of Dr. Johnson, is the most
desperate drinker of tea in all England. When the cups and saucers are
cleared away, a conversazione is held in the cockpit. Sam Dobbs is the
best listener of the company; Dick Dobbs, who has been a yachtsman, is
the jester; Bob Dobbs, the merchant sailor, is the teller of adventures;
and my friend and I keep the ball going smartly in all sorts of ways,
till it gets dark, and a great drought falls upon the members of the
conversazione. Then, if the mermaids are anywhere near us, they may
smell the fragrant fumes which tell of sacrifice to Bacchus, and may
hear, shortly afterwards, the muse of song invoked by cheerful topers.
Thus the dark hours roll on jovial till the soft influences of sleep
descend upon the tuneful choir, and the cabin receives its lodgers for
the night.
This is the general rule of life on board the Tomtit. Exceptional
incidents of all kinds--saving sea-sickness, to which nobody on board is
liable--are never wanting to vary existence pleasantly from day to day.
Sometimes Mr. Migott gets on from taking a nap to having a dream, and
records the fact by a screech of terror, which rings through the vessel
and wakes the sleeper himself, who always asks, "What's that,
eh?"--never believes that the screech has not come from somebody
else--never knows what he has been dreaming of--and never fails to go to
sleep again before the rest of the ship's company have half done
expostulating with him.
Sometimes a little interesting indigestion appears among us, by way of
change. Dick Dobbs, for example (who is as bilious as an Indian nabob),
is seen to turn yellow at the helm, and to steer with a glazed eye; is
asked what is the matter; replies that he has "the boil terrible bad on
his stomach;" is instantly treated by Jollins (M.D.) as follows:--Two
teaspoonfuls of essence of ginger, two dessert-spoonfuls of brown
brandy, two table spoonfuls of strong tea. Pour down patient's throat
very hot, and smack his back smartly to promote the operation of the
draught. What follows? The cure of Dick. How simple is medicine, when
reduced to its first principles!