‘Vous êtes tous les deux ténébreux et discrets:
Homme, nul n’a sondé le fond de tes abîmes,
O mer, nul ne connaît tes richesses intimes,
Tant vous êtes jaloux de garder vos secrets!’
Seated on the after cabin-top near the wheel, Sam Prawle made known to
us the _arcana_ of barging. The comparison with yachting was to the
disadvantage of yachting, and we felt that he would not have ventured
to take this line had we still owned the _Playmate_. On the other
hand, we were gratified at being treated with frankness as members of
his profession.
‘I don’t reckon,’ said Sam Prawle, ‘there ain’t nawthen as good as
bargin’, same as on the water, my meanin’ is. Ye see, yaou gets home
fairly frequent, yaou ain’t got no long sea-passages to make, yaou can
see a bit o’ life in the taowns, and ef yaou’ve got a good little ould
barge and freights is anyways good ye can make a tidy bit o’ money.
‘Then agin, in respect o’ livin’, most all barges carries a gun, and
there’s some I could name as carries oyster drudges; then there’s a
bit o’ fishin’ to be done, and accordin’ to where yaou’re brought up
there may be winkles, or mussels, or cockles, and, as I says, chance
time a few oysters; so my meanin’ is the livin’ is good.
‘A course that don’t do for it to be knaown ye carries a drudge no
more than that do to be seen pickin’ up oysters nit winkles in some
places, same as on the Corporation’s graounds in the Maldon River. But
outside them graounds that does no detriment. I dessay yaou remember
some time back abaout they chaps what was caught pickin’ up winkles in
the Maldon River. Well, the judge give it agin them, for a course the
Corporation has all the fishin’ rights above them beacons. But the
most amusingest part was, they chaps’ lawyer tried to make aout a
winkle warn’t a fish, but a wild animal. Yes, yes; they lost right
enough.
‘Us allus used to live wonnerful well on the ould _Kate_, for I had a
mate, Bill Summers, who was a masterpiece at shoot’n’. He were suthen
strorng, he were, and had masterous great limbs on ’im, but none the
more for that he were a wonnerful easy-spoken chap. I’ve knaowed he
caught a many times by same as keepers and that, but he allus had some
excuse or spoke ’em fair. Leastways, he den’t never git into trouble.
‘I remember one November day there’d bin a heavy dag in the fore part
o’ the day which cleared off towards the afternoon, and Bill went
ashore after a hare or whatever he could git daown on they ould
mashes away to the eastward there. A wonnerful lonely place that
is--no housen nor nawthen but they great ould mashes. A course Bill
den’t reckon there’d be anyone a lookin’ after the shootin’ daown
there, but there were. But as I was a tellin’ yer, Bill most allus
knaowed what to say to such as they. Well, just afore that come dark,
about flight time, I raowed the boat ashore to the edge o’ the mud on
the lookaout for Bill. I waited some time, and that grew darker and
darker, and them watery birds and curlew kep’ all on a callin’, and
one o’ they ould frank-herons come a flappin’ overhead, and that fared
wonnerful an’ lonesome.
‘Well, I was jist a wonderin’ whether I hadn’t better goo and look for
Bill in case he’d got stuck in one o’ they fleets what run acrost
mashes, or had come to some hurt, for a man might lay aout there days
and weeks afore anyone might hap to find ’im. Then I heard suthen and
sees Bill a comin’ suthen fast along the top o’ the sea-wall with
another chap a comin’ arter ’im. “Ullo,” I thinks, “Bill’s in
trouble,” so I gives a whistle, and Bill answers and comes straight on
daown the mud towards the bo’t with his gun in one hand and an ould
hare or suthen in the other. When he gits half-way daown the mud Bill
turns raound to the chap a follerin’ and says, “Do yaou ever read the
noospapers, mate?”
‘The chap, he den’t say nawthen, so Bill stops and ’as a look at ’is
gun, and then he says agin werry slow, “Funny things you reads of
’appenin’ in the noospapers.”
‘Well, that chap den’t fare to come no further, and Bill finishes ’is
walk daown the mud alone. Wonnerful easy-spoken chap, ’e was. Yes,
yes; us allus had good livin’ on the _Kate_.
‘Then agin, same as summer-time, maybe yaou’ve got a fair freight, or
yaou’re doin’ a bit o’ cotcheling, and yaou’re a layin’ up some snug
creek, and the tides ain’t just right for gittin’ away, and yaou has
to wait three or faour days. Well, that’s wonnerful comfortable, that
is, specially ef there’s a bit of a village handy. Or same as layin’
wind-baound winter-time, maybe twenty barges all together--and I
remember sixty-two layin’ wind-baound at the mouth o’ the Burnham
River once’t--well, that’ll be a rum ’un if there ain’t a bit o’
jollification goin’ on aboard some o’ they. Yes, yes; I allus says
bargin’ is what ye likes to make it.
‘What other craft can a man take his missus in--leastways, ef he has a
mind to? They what ain’t got little ’uns often takes their wives with
’em, and summer-time they can often manage without a mate in same as
ninety-ton barges. A course, that’s a bit awk’ard ef ye gits into
trouble, for a woman can’t do what a man can, and a man can’t allus
say what he wants to ef he has the missus with him.
‘But that’s true, women’s wonnerful artful, and I’ve knaowed a woman
say suthen more better than what a man could. When ould Ted
Wetherby--a wonnerful hard-swearin’ man--took his missus with him,
they was nearly run daown by a torpedo bo’t in the Medway. That young
lootenant in charge pitched into Ted suthen cruel, but Ted he den’t
say nawthen till that young chap was abaout in the middle of what ’e
’ad to say, and then ’e jist up and says, “Ush! Ladies at the hellum!”
And then the lootenant turns on Ted’s missus, and tells she jist what
he thought about Ted and the barge. Ted’s missus den’t say nawthen
neither till they was jist sheerin’ off, and then she says, “I don’t
take no more notus o’ what yaou say than ef ye ain’t never spoke.”
Bill tould me he reckoned that lootenant were more wild than ef Bill
’ad spoke hisself.
‘Then agin, a skipper of a barge is most all the time his own master
in a manner o’ speakin’. A course, some says yachtin’ is easier, and
maybe it is, but I don’t hould with it. I’ve met scores o’ yacht
skippers and had many a yarn along o’ they, but I’d rather be skipper
of a little ould barge than any yacht afloat. My cousin, Seth Smith,
is skipper of a yacht, and he’s tould me some o’ the wrinkles o’
yachtin’.
‘From what I can ’ear of it, there’s owners and owners. Accordin’ to
some, they what don’t knaow nawthen fare to be the best kind to be
with. Leastways, that’s a wonnerful thing haow long a yacht will lay
off a place the skipper and crew likes. I remember one beautiful
little wessel a layin’ off the same blessed ould place week after
week, so I ast a chap I knaowed if she den’t never git under way.
“Well,” ’e says, “yaou see, the owner, he don’t knaow nawthen, and the
skipper and crew belongs ’ere. Chance time they do get under way, but
we most allus says o’ she ’ef there ain’t enough wind to blaow a match
aout there ain’t enough wind for she to muster, and ef there’s enough
wind to blaow a match aout that’s too much for she, as the sayin’ is.”
‘But there’s owners what sails their own wessels, and Seth says as
haow they is good enough to be along with, for ef they gits into
trouble they gits into trouble, and that ain’t nawthen to do with the
crew.
‘But they owners what knaows a little is the worst, because they
thinks they knaows everything, in a manner o’ speakin’, and the
skipper has to be wonnerful careful. Yaou see, the trouble lays along
o’ the steerin’. A course, most anyone can steer, though they don’t
git the best aout of a wessel, but same as owners an’ they allus fare
to reckon that steerin’ is everything, which a course it ain’t. Seth
has tould me a score o’ times, he has, “Sam,” he says, “that’s a
strain on a man, that is, for he’s got to keep all on a watchin’ his
owner to see he keeps the wessel full or don’t gybe she, or one thing
an’ another. Naow same as tackin’ up this ’ere little ould river,” he
says, “or standin’ into shaoal water, ye just says to me comfortable
like, ‘Shove the ould gal round,’ whereas my meanin’ is that ’on’t do
for a yacht skipper to say that to his owner. No, no; that ’on’t do;
he’s got to goo careful like. Maybe he’ll say, ‘What do you think
abaout comin’ abaout sir?’ Then maybe--if there ain’t no visitors
aboard--the owner’ll say, ‘Let ’er come.’ Then agin, maybe there’s
visitors aboard, and the owner ’e takes a look raound and says, ‘In
another length,’ or suthen o’ that.”
‘But ef the skipper’s bearin’ a hand with suthen, or for one thing or
another he leaves that a bit late, so as he ain’t got time to ask the
owner what e’ thinks and let him have his look raound so that fare as
haow he’s in charge, but jist says, “Shove her round,” quick like,
then the owner ain’t over and above pleased--especially if there’s
visitors aboard, as I was a sayin’. That’s ill convenient, that is,
for ef she don’t come raound quick enough she’ll take the graound, and
then the skipper’s got to say a hill has graowed up or a landmark’s
bin cut daown or suthen, and kaidge she off too; and a course, same as
on the ebb, that’s a hundred to one she ’on’t shift till she fleet
next tide. Yes, yes; a skipper’s got to be wonnerful forehanded as
well as careful what ’e says.
‘I remember a friend o’ mine, Jem Selby, goin’ along of a gent who was
wonnerful praoud o’ his cruises, what ’e did without a skipper. He
on’y took Jem, he said, cos Jem were a deep-water man and hadn’t
never been in a yacht afore, but on’y in same as barques and ships and
wessels similar-same to that, and ’e wanted a man just to cook and put
him ashore. Well, this gent and Jem brought the little yacht--I can’t
remember her name--from Lowestoft daown to Falmouth, and the gent was
wonnerful praoud o’ hisself, as they’d been aout in some tidy breezes.
He was a tellin’ of his friends at Falmouth all abaout his adventures,
and the gales o’ wind they had come through, when he turns to Jem, who
was standin’ by, and says, “What do yaou say to goin’ raound Land’s
End to-morrer, Jem?” “Well, I don’t knaow, sir,” says Jem; “yaou see,
we’re a gettin’ near the sea now.” Maybe it were that, maybe it
warn’t, but ’e den’t ast Jem to sail along o’ he next season.
‘Well, there yaou are now. Ye can’t do nawthen and ye can’t say
nawthen. No, no; from what I can ’ear of it and from what I can see of
it, yachtin’ ain’t in the same street as bargin’, as the sayin’ is.
Let alone, some o’ they chaps never does a hand’s turn o’ work from
one week to another ’cept maybe polish a bit o’ brass work.
‘Seth says as haow that ain’t a bad job to be in charge of a little
yacht with a party o’ young chaps, same as on their holiday. Young
chaps, same as they, never drinks without the skipper, and a course
they most allus lives well, so the skipper do too. Then agin, yaou see
they likes to do all the work, and the skipper just puggles abaout
like and tells they what to do, though a course they wants lookin’
arter none the more for that. Maybe on dewy nights the skipper ’as to
goo raound quiet like and ease up the halyards, for young chaps is all
for havin’ everything smart and taut; but that ain’t nawthen, and he
can most allus do that while they has their supper.
‘From what I see of it myself, I reckon young chaps same as they is a
bit troublesome goin’ into harbour. I remember seein’ a party o’ faour
come into Lowestoft in a little yacht--a doddy little thing, she
were--with an ould fellow in charge. The _Lord Nelson_ was just
startin’ for Yarmouth, so they couldn’t berth until she’d gone, and as
I happed to be standin’ by I made fast the lines the ould chap
thraowed on the pier. Well, the band was a playin’ and the pier
crowded with gals a watchin’ the yachts in the harbour, and they young
chaps den’t fare to be able to keep quiet like with them gals a
lookin’ on, and kep’ all on worritin’ the ould chap to knaow ef they
hadn’t better give a pull on this or a pull on t’other. Then I seed
the artful ould chap give one on ’em the headrope to hould and another
the starn rope--though they might just as well a bin made fast--and
another he give a fender to, and t’other one, what was the most
worritsome o’ the lot, ’e took and made fast the jib sheets raound the
bitts and tould he to pull on that. And he did. Lor’, that did make
me laugh suthen.
‘Then agin, some o’ they young ’uns hears things what they den’t ought
to. I remember young Abe Putwain, who used to sail along of a
wonnerful larned ould gent what was always a lookin’ at things he got
out o’ the water with one o’ they microscopes--a master great thing
that were, accord’ to Abe. Well, this ould party and his friends was
most allus argyin’ abaout suthen, and a course Abe could hear they
through the fo’c’sle door. Abe was the most reg’lar chapel man I ever
knaowed, and used allus to hould the plate by the door every Sunday
till he took up along this larned gent what I’m a talkin’ abaout. Just
abaout Christmas my mate left to take a skipper’s job, so bein’ at
home I says to Abe, who I ain’t seen for some bit, “Will you come,
mate, along o’ me, as yaour bo’t’s laid up?” So he come as mate, and
one day, when we was sailing daown past the Naze and had just opened
up Harwich Church, I says, “Well, mate, there’s the ould church!” I
says, meanin’ the landmark. “Oh,” ’e says, scornful like. “You don’t
’ould with them idle superstitions, do yer?” he says. Well, that
warn’t no use argyin’ with he, for he ain’t never bin to chapel since,
and that’s what come o’ yachtin’, I reckon.’