‘Mon coeur, comme un oiseau, voltigeait tout joyeux
Et planait librement à l’entour des cordages;
Le navire roulait sous un ciel sans nuages
Comme un ange enivré du soleil radieux.’
On Saturdays, when I was always at home, there was plenty to be done.
The mainsail, which we had not unbent, had to be aired and the blocks
had to be overhauled; and there were arrears of carpentering which
never seemed to be overtaken. At spring tides we used to sail about
the creek in the dinghy. In their holidays the boys made and sailed
model boats and invented ingenious and daring swinging games on board
with the falls of the halyards. And of course they invited all their
friends to see our floating home.
We spent Christmas on board in great jollity. That time was marked by
one mishap, though it presented itself to the children as an
entertainment appropriate to the season. The _Ark Royal_ during spring
tides and a westerly gale blew partly out of her dock. As I was
walking back from the station one evening something about her struck
me as queer, though I was some way off and looking at her broadside
on. When I came nearer I could see that she was listing over at a very
steep angle.
The children were frankly delighted, and told me incoherently and all
at once how their tea-things had slid off the table until books had
been put under the legs, and how the saloon door would not shut and
the kitchen door would not open.
After unhanging the doors and planing pieces off them, we were able to
make shift all right till midnight, when the barge floated and I hove
her back into her berth.
The wringing of the barge on this occasion led me to try definitely to
solve the problem of keeping her decks, and particularly the joins
between the decks and the coamings, perfectly watertight. It has been
already mentioned that all barges, owing to their length and build,
alter their shapes or ‘wring’ slightly according to the ground on
which they lie. On this account, if I were to convert another barge, I
should hang the doors at once with a certain margin. All our doors
have been unhung and planed two or three times. The wringing throws an
enormous strain on the coamings, tending to pull them apart from the
decks. You may caulk the joins thoroughly with oakum and serve them
with marine glue, but a fresh strain will pull them open again. At
last I invented a successful method. A quarter-round beading was
fastened along the decks about a quarter of an inch from the coaming,
and a hot mixture of marine glue and Stockholm tar was poured in
between the beading and the coaming. The Stockholm tar gives the
marine glue a permanent softness. We then covered the mixture with
another mixture of putty and varnish, which protected it from heat,
cold, and wet. The secret, in fine, is to caulk the joins with
something that will expand and contract like the surrounding material
without becoming detached from it. This something must remain soft and
sticky. But if the mixture be not buried under something else it will
melt and trickle across the decks like heavy treacle.
The decks themselves were less difficult to keep tight; nevertheless,
we had some trouble at first. We began by painting or dressing them,
but later we covered them with a buff linoleum, which will be cheaper
in the long run. The puzzle was how to lay the linoleum on worn decks.
There were edges and knots which would soon have worked through.
However, we solved this problem, too. We spread half a hundredweight
of hot pitch, mixed with some tar, on the decks, and laid tarred felt
upon it. Above the felt we laid the linoleum, with more pitch and tar
to stick it. When in the mournful order of things the _Ark Royal_
comes to her end, and is sawed up, burned, or ground to pieces by the
sea, that linoleum will perish as an integral part of the decks, for
nothing will ever separate them.
The winter passed, and with the swelling of the buds and the gift of
song to the birds our corner of the world woke, too, and the yachts in
the saltings began to renew their plumage. On all sides were heard the
sounds of scraping; masts and spars and blocks sloughed their dull
winter skins and glistened with new varnish in the sun.
The _Ark Royal_ also was fitted out. The whole ship smelt of varnish
and new rope; the headsails, topsail, and mizzen were bent, and she
was ready to move out of winter quarters.
On Maundy Thursday we cast off the warps on shore, took our spare
anchors on board, and waited for the tide. I had engaged a sailor-boy
as crew, and also had a friend to help me. After five months’ silence
we heard once more the exciting clank of the windlass as we hove in
the muddy chain. The chain came easily at first, and then checked at
the strain of breaking out the great bower anchor from the bed which
it had made for itself in the sand. A little humouring, and away it
came and up went our spreading red topsail. A fresh wind off the land
carried us slowly out of the creek through the small fry. Clear of the
creek we let the brails go, and the wind crashed out the mainsail. Up
went the bellying foresail and then the white jib topsail, and the
_Ark Royal_ was snoring through the water alive from truck to keel.
The great sprit scrooping against the mast spoke of freedom after
prison; the wind harped in the rigging; the rudder wriggled and
kicked in the following seas, sending a thrill of pleasure through the
helmsman. Even the dinghy seemed like a high-spirited animal that had
been kept too long in the stable. She would drop astern with her head
slightly sideways, and then leap and charge forwards at the tug of the
painter. It was a translucent morning. The fleet of bawleys was
getting under way, a topsail schooner was anchoring off the pier, a
cruiser was coming out of Sheerness, a barque in tow was going up Sea
Reach, there were red-sailed barges everywhere, and we were embracing
‘our golden uncontrolled enfranchisement.’
‘Where are we going to?’ was asked several times before we reached the
Nore. The point was that I did not know. So long as might be I did not
want to know, for there is a peculiarly satisfying pleasure in playing
with the sense of uncontrolled enfranchisement.
At length it became necessary to decide. Meynell suggested Harwich;
Margaret, West Mersea; and Inky, Fambridge. But as we had no time to
go so far as any of these, I asked them to choose a place in Kent.
Kent was a new land to them, and when I mentioned the probability of
seeing aeroplanes on Sheppey Island they were all for Kent. So we
headed for Warden Point, and the fair wind and tide soon took us
there; then hauling our wind we reached along the beautiful shelly
shore to Shellness and let go our anchor well inside the Swale about
six o’clock. On Good Friday morning, taking the young flood, we beat
up to Harty Ferry, anchored, and went to church. Most of Saturday
morning we lay on a hill watching the aeroplanes tear along the
ground, rise, fly round, and settle again; and in the afternoon we
sailed in the dinghy up to Sittingbourne and bought provisions. All
Sunday the glass fell, and towards evening the rain set in with the
wind south-east, and on Monday it blew such a gale that a return to
Newcliff was out of the question.
[Illustration: LANDERMERE]
On Tuesday I was obliged to go to London, and as it was blowing too
hard for the dinghy to take me to the Sittingbourne side I had to hire
the ferry-boat. The two men who pulled me across were nearly played
out before they landed me. Luckily my friend was able to remain on
board the _Ark Royal_ and look after things with the paid hand while I
was away.
I rejoined the ship on Friday evening, and the next day in a fresh
wind we sailed to Queenborough. We anchored near the swing bridge, and
my friend went off in the boat to tell the men to swing the bridge for
us. The bridgeman flatly refused, because, he said, the _Ark Royal_
was a barge and could lower her mast. I then went to see the man
myself, and asked him to look at our cabin-top and explain how the
mast could be lowered. He admitted that it could not be done. As a
matter of fact, it could have been done by taking off the furniture
hatch and removing the upper part of the coamings, and spending the
best part of a day over the job. But it was not my business to tell
him that. Even then he seemed doubtful, so I suggested telephoning to
Sheerness for instructions. He kept on repeating that the _Ark Royal_
was a barge, and that he was not allowed to swing the bridge for
barges.
Now I played my best card. I had brought my ship’s papers with me, and
producing my Admiralty warrant to fly the Blue Ensign and one or two
other imposing documents, I hinted that further delay would compel me
to report the matter. I noticed that he wavered. Then, placing a
shilling in his hand and begging him not to ruin a promising career, I
left him standing by the levers ready to open the bridge.
For the passage through we took on one of the hufflers,[5] and we
anchored on the other side, as wind and tide were against us for the
next reach. While we were at anchor many barges shot the bridge, which
had been closed directly we had passed through. It is one of the
prettiest sights in the world to see them do it. As the barges’
topsails became visible over the sea-walls far off the hufflers
recognized their clients and rowed off to meet them. The hufflers, the
most curious brotherhood of all irregular pilots, live here in old
hulks or built-up boats on the foreshore. The wind was straight across
the river and fresh, and a barge would come tearing along towards the
bridge with everything set. When she was quite close to the
bridge--sometimes not a length away--down went everything, all
standing, till the great sprit rested on deck; and then, with her
mainsail trailing in the water and a perfect tangle of ropes and gear
everywhere, the barge would shoot under the bridge. On the other side
she would anchor to hoist her gear again; but if the conditions had
been right she would have hoisted her gear under way and gone straight
on. To witness the consummate skill of this feat is to respect the
race of bargees for ever. Think of it! The gear aloft--mast, topmast,
and sails--weigh about three and a half tons, and there are just three
men--one nearly always at the wheel--to lower and hoist everything.
There have been many accidents and still more narrow escapes, for,
besides skill and nerve, foresight is required to see that everything
on board is clear. At Rochester there are three bridges close
together, and every day dozens of barges shoot them. It is well worth
the return fare from London to watch the performance.
[5] See footnote on page 24.
The next day we returned to Newcliff, moored off the town a little way
outside the creek in which we had spent the winter, and resumed our
familiar life.