upon that great buoy--there was no hauling of it in-board; I took the
little painter of my boat and made it fast to this noble buoy, and
then immediately I fell asleep. In this sleep of mine I heard, as in a
pleasant dream, the exact motion of many oars rowed by strong men, and
very soon afterwards I heard a voice with a Colonial accent swearing in
an abominable manner, and I woke up and looked--and there was a man of
prodigious wealth, all dressed in white, and with an extremely new cap
on his head. His whiskers also were white and his face bright red, and
he was in a great passion. He was evidently the owner or master of the
buoy, and on either side of the fine boat in which he rowed were the
rowers, his slaves. He could not conceive why I had tied the _Silver
Star_ to his magnificent great imperial moorings, to which he had
decided to tie his own expensive ship, on which, no doubt, a dozen as
rich as himself were sailing the seas.
I told him that I was sorry I had picked up his moorings, but that,
in this country, it was the common courtesy of the sea to pick up
any spare moorings one could find. I also asked him the name of his
expensive ship, but he only answered with curses. I told him the name
of my ship was the _Silver Star_.
Then, when I had cast off, I put out the sweeps and I rowed gently, for
it was now slack water at the top of the tide, and I stood by while he
tied his magnificent yacht to the moorings. When he had done that I
rowed under the stern of that ship and read her name. But I will not
print it here, only let me tell you it was the name of a ship belonging
to a fabulously rich man. Riches, I thought then and I think still,
corrupt the heart.
Upon another occasion I came with one companion across the bar of
Orford River, out of a very heavy wind outside and a very heavy sea.
I just touched as I crossed that bar, though I was on the top of the
highest tide of the year, for it was just this time in September, the
highest springs of the hunter's moon.
My companion and I sailed up Orford River, and when we came to Orford
Town we saw a buoy, and I said to my companion, "Let us pick up
moorings."
Upon the bank of the river was a long line of men, all shouting and
howling, and warning us not to touch that buoy. But we called out to
them that we meant no harm. We only meant to pick up those moorings
for a moment, so as to make everything snug on board, and that then
we would take a line ashore and lie close to the wharf. Only the more
did those numerous men (whom many others ran up to join as I called)
forbid us with oaths to touch the buoy. Nevertheless, we picked up the
little buoy (which was quite small and light) and we got it in-board,
and held on, waiting for our boat to swing to it. But an astonishing
thing happened! The boat paid no attention to the moorings, but went
careering up river carrying the buoy with it, and apparently dragging
the moorings along the bottom without the least difficulty. And this
was no wonder, for we found out afterwards that the little buoy had
only been set there to mark a racing point, and that the weights
holding the line of it to the bottom were very light and few. So it was
no wonder the men of Orford had been so angry. Soon it was dark, and we
replaced the buoy stealthily, and when we came in to eat at the Inn we
were not recognised.
It was on this occasion that was written the song:
The men that lived in Orford stood
Upon the shore to meet me;
Their faces were like carven wood,
They did not wish to greet me.
etc.
It has eighteen verses.
I say again, unless you have moorings of your own--an extravagant
habit--picking up moorings is always a perilous and doubtful thing,
fraught with accident and hatred and mischance. Give me the rattle of
the anchor chain!
I love to consider a place which I have never yet seen, but which I
shall reach at last, full of repose and marking the end of those
voyages, and security from the tumble of the sea.
This place will be a cove set round with high hills on which there
shall be no house or sign of men, and it shall be enfolded by quite
deserted land; but the westering sun will shine pleasantly upon it
under a warm air. It will be a proper place for sleep.
The fair-way into that haven shall lie behind a pleasant little beach
of shingle, which shall run out aslant into the sea from the steep
hillside, and shall be a breakwater made by God. The tide shall run up
behind it smoothly, and in a silent way, filling the quiet hollow of
the hills, brimming it all up like a cup--a cup of refreshment and of
quiet, a cup of ending.
Then with what pleasure shall I put my small boat round, just round the
point of that shingle beach, noting the shoal water by the eddies and
the deeps by the blue colour of them where the channel runs from the
main into the fair-way. Up that fair-way shall I go, up into the cove,
and the gates of it shall shut behind me, headland against headland,
so that I shall not see the open sea any more, though I shall still
hear its distant noise. But all around me, save for that distant echo
of the surf from the high hills, will be silence; and the evening will
be gathering already.
Under that falling light, all alone in such a place, I shall let go the
anchor chain, and let it rattle for the last time. My anchor will go
down into the clear salt water with a run, and when it touches I shall
pay out four lengths or more so that she may swing easily and not drag,
and then I shall tie up my canvas and fasten all for the night, and get
me ready for sleep. And that will be the end of my sailing.
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|Transcriber's note: |
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|Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. |
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