Sheerness—Governor—Trim—Earthquake—Upset—Wooden legs—On the Goodwin—Cuts
and soars—Crossing the Straits—The ground at Boulogne—Night
music—Sailors’ maps—Ship’s papers—Weather—Toilette—Section.
Sheerness is on the whole a tolerable port to land at, that is, as long
as you refrain from going ashore. The harbour is interesting and more
lively than it appears at first sight, but the streets and shops are just
the reverse.
The Rob Roy ran into this harbour seven or eight times during her cruise,
and there was always “something going on.” The anchorage on the south of
the pier is in mud of deep black colour, but not such good holding ground
as it would seem to be, and then what comes up on the anchor runs like
black paint upon your deck, and needs a good scrubbing to get rid of it
from each palm of the anchor. Even after all seems to be cleared away
thoroughly, there may be a piece only the size of a nut, but perverse
enough to fasten upon the white creamy folds of your jib newly washed
out, and then the inky stain will be an eyesore for days, until, for
peace of mind, the sail must be scrubbed again. Trifles these are to the
yachtsman who can leave all that to his crew, who sees only _results_,
but when the captain alone is the crew, the realities of sea life must be
endured as well as enjoyed, and yet surely he is the one to enjoy most
keenly the luxury of a white spotless sail whose own hands have made it
so.
If any sailor henceforth has me for his captain, and he has to “tidy up”
my yacht, he may be sure of having a very considerate if not indulgent
master—“Governor,” of course, I mean, for there are no “masters” any
longer now, they are all promoted to the rank of “Governor.”
And the reason I should be considerate is that until you do it all
yourself you cannot have any idea of the innumerable _minutiæ_ to be
attended to in the proper care of a yacht. Mine, indeed, was in
miniature; but the number of little things was still great, though each
little thing was more little. On the whole we should say that a yacht’s
crew, even in port, have full employment for all their working hours if
the hull, spars, sails, ropes, and boats, besides the cabin and stores,
are always kept in that condition of order, neatness, cleanliness,
readiness, and repair which ought to be little short of perfection when
regarded with a critical eye.
In like manner as you drive out in a carriage and return, and the
carriage and horses disappear into the stables for hours of careful work
by the men who are there, so may the day’s sail in a yacht involve a
whole series of operations on board afterwards. Inattention to these in
the extreme can be observed in the boats of fishermen, and attention in
the extreme in the perfect vessels of the Royal Squadron; but even a very
reasonable amount of smartness requires a large expenditure of labour
which will not be effectual if it be hurried, and which is, of course,
worse than useless if it is done by inferior hands.
In perfect trim and “ship shape” now, we loosed from Sheerness, to
continue the sail eastwards, and with a leading breeze and a lovely
morning. This part of the Thames is about the best conjunction of river
and sea one could find, with land easily sighted on both sides, yet fine
salt waves, porpoises, and other attributes of the sea, and buoys, and
beacons, and light-ships to be attended to, and a definite line of course
determined on and followed by compass. A gale here is not to be trifled
with, though in fine weather you may pass it safely in a mere
cockle-shell, and the last time I had sailed here alone it was in an open
boat, just ten feet long inside. Still the whole day may be summed up
now, as it was in the log of the Rob Roy, “Fine run to Margate;” the
pleasures of it were just the same as so often afterwards were met,
enjoyed, and thanked for, but which might be tedious to relate even once.
The harbour here dries bare at low tide, and as seventeen years had
elapsed since we had sailed into it, this bad habit of the harbour was
forgotten, but more years than that may pass before it will be forgotten
again, for as evening came, and the water ebbed, and I reclined
unharnessed in the cabin, reading intently, there suddenly came a rude
bumping shove upwards as from below, and then another—the Rob Roy had
grounded. Soon there was a swaying this way and that, as if yet
undecided, and at length a positive heel over to _that_; the whole of my
little world within being canted to half a right angle, and a ridiculous
distortion of every single thing in my bedroom was the result. The
humiliating sensation of being aground on hard unromantic mud is tempered
by the ludicrous crooked appearance of the contents of your cabin and by
the absurd sensation of sleeping in a corner with everything askance
except the lamp flame, which, because it burns upright, looks most awry
of all, and incongruously flares on the spout of the teapot in your
pantry.
And why this _bouleversement_ of all things? Because I had omitted to
bring a pair of “legs” with me, for a boat cannot stand upright on shore
without legs any more than an animal.
Next time the Rob Roy came to Margate we made one powerful leg for her by
lashing the two oars to the iron shroud, and took infinite pains to
incline the boat over to that side so as to be turned away from the wind
and screened from the tide, and I therefore weighted her down by placing
the dingey and heavy anchor on the lee gunwale, and then with misplaced
contentment proceeded to cook my dinner. At a solemn pause in the
repast, the yawl, without other warning than a loud splash, perversely
turned over to the _wrong_ side, with deck to sea and wind, and every
single thing exactly the contrary of what was proper. I had just time to
plunge my hissing spirit-lamp into the sea, and thus to prevent the cry
of “Ship on fire!” but had not time to put out my cabin-lamp, and this
instantly bore its flame provokingly upright against the thick glass of
the aneroid barometer, which duly told its fate by three sonorous
“crinks,” and at once three starred cracks shot through its crystal
front.
The former experience of the night as spent when one is thus arbitrarily
“inclined to sleep” made me wish to get ashore; but this idea was stifled
partly by pride and partly by the fact that there was not water enough to
enable me to go ashore in a boat, and yet there was too much water
besides soft mud to make it at all pleasant to set off and wade to bed.
The recovery from this unwholesome state of things, with all the world
askew, was equally notable, for when the tide rose again, in the late
midnight hours, the sea-dreams of disturbed slumber were arrested by a
gentle nudge, and then by a more decided heaving up of one’s bed in the
dark, until at last it came level again as the boat floated, and all the
things that were right when she was wrong turned over now at wrong
angles, because the boat had righted. {32}
An excellent cure for all such little mishaps is to “imagine it is
to-morrow morning,” for in the morning one is sure to forget all the
night’s troubles; and so with the fiery rising sun on the sails we are
floating out to sea.
In such a sunny day the North Foreland is a very comfortable-looking
cliff, with pleasant country-houses on the top, and corn-fields growing
round the lighthouse. Next there is Ramsgate, and then Dover pier. But
now, and in weather like this, will be a proper occasion to practise
manœuvres which will certainly have to be performed in bad times, so we
stretched away out to the Goodwin Sands, where one is nearly always sure
to find a sea running, and for several hours we worked assiduously at
reefing the sails, and getting the little dingey out of the cabin and
into the water, and _vice versâ_.
At least a short trial of my yacht in the Thames would have been
advisable before starting on a long voyage, but as this was not possible
now, it was of invaluable benefit to spend an afternoon at drill on the
Goodwin; rightly assured that success in this journey could not be
expected haphazard, but might be hoped for after the _practice in
daylight and fine weather of what had to be done afterwards in rough
water and darkness_. By this time, just a week in the Rob Roy, the
little craft seemed quite an old friend. Her many virtues and her few
faults were being found out. The happy life aboard had almost enchained
me, but still I left the yawl at Dover, and ran up to London for the
annual inspection of the London Scottish Volunteers; and having led his
fine company of kilted Riflemen through Hyde Park, the Captain sheathed
his claymore to handle the tiller again, eager for the voyage.
The new rough hairy ropes had chafed my hands abundantly, and they were
red and black, and blistered, and swollen, and variously adorned by cuts,
and bruises, and scars. When shall I ever get gloves on again, or be fit
to appear at a dinner-table? These wounds, however, had taught me this
lesson, “Do every act deliberately. Hasty smartness is slowest. When
each single thing from morning to night has to be done by your own
fingers, save them from bruises and chafes. Nothing is worse spent than
needless muscular action. You will want every atom you have some day or
other this week. Husband vital force.”
The Sappho schooner was at Dover, and her owner, Mr. Lawton, one of the
Canoe Club, took leave of the Rob Roy, and sailed away to Iceland, while
I started for Boulogne in the dawn, when all the scene around looked like
a woodcut, pale and colourless, as I cooked hot breakfast at five
o’clock. Nothing particular happened in this voyage across the Channel.
It was simply a very pleasant sail, in a very fine day, and in a good
little boat. The sight of both shores at once, when you are in the
widest part of a passage, deprives it immediately of the romance and
interest of being entirely out of sight of land and ships, and all else
but water, and so there is absent that deeper stir of feeling which
powerfully seized me in the wider traverse afterwards from Havre to
Cowes.
Indeed, when you know the under-water geography of the channel near
Dover, it is impossible not to feel that you are sailing over shallow
waves; for though they seem to be deep and grand enough from Dover Castle
or the Boulogne heights, the whole way might almost be spanned by piers
and arches, and if you wished to walk over dry shod at the low
spring-tide, you need only lay from shore to shore a twenty miles’ slice
of undulated ground cut from the environs of London. The cellars of the
houses would be at the bottom of the sea, but the chimney-pots would
still be above it for stepping-stones.
The wind fell as we neared France, and a fog came on, and the tide
carried us off in a wrong direction north to Cape Grisnez, where I
anchored with twenty fathoms, to wait for the reflux six or seven hours.
Often as we had to do the same thing in after days, there was always
constant employment for every hour of a long stoppage like this, with a
well-furnished tool-box, and a busy mind ever making additions,
experiments, improvements, and with books to read. Not one single moment
of the voyage ever hung heavy on the Rob Roy.
Trying to get into Boulogne at low water was an unprepared attempt, and
met its due reward; for the thing had to be done without the benefit of
my “Pilot-book,” which had been put away with such exceeding care, that
now it could not anywhere be found—not after several rigorous searches
all over the boat. Finally, concluding that I must have taken the book
to London by mistake, we had to trust to nature’s light and go ahead.
This does well enough for a canoe, but not for the sailing-boat, which,
if once aground, and with a sea running, it would be utterly out of the
power of one man to save. {36}
In encountering the first roller off the pier at Boulogne, she thumped
the ground heavily. At the second, again, the masts quivered, and all
the bottles rattled in my cellar. Instant decision turned her round from
the third roller, and so after bumping the ground twice again in the
retreat, we put out to sea, anchored, and got out the dingey,
half-ashamed to be discomfited thus at the very first French port. After
an hour or two spent in the dark, carefully sounding to discover the
proper channel, and to get it well into my head, the anchor was weighed,
and we entered in a poor sort of triumph upon midnight, slowly ascending
the long harbour, but looking in vain for a proper berth. All was quiet,
every one seemed to be in bed, until I came to the sluices at the end,
which just then opened, and the rush of foaming water from these bore me
back again in the most helpless plight, until I anchored near the
well-known “Etablissement,” furled sails, rigged up hatch, and soon
dropped fast asleep.
Now there is a peculiarity of the French ports which we may mention here
for once for all, but it applies to every one of them, and has to be
seriously considered in all your calculations as a sailing-master.
They are quiet enough up to a certain time of night, but as the tide
serves, the whole port awakes, all the fishing vessels get ready to
start. The quays become vocal with shouts, yells, calls, whistles, and
the most stupid din and hubbub confounds the night, utterly destructive
of sleep. This chorus was in full cry about two o’clock A.M. Soon great
luggers came splashing along with shrieks from the crews, and sails
flapping, chains rattling, spars knocking about, as if a tempest were in
rage. Several of these lubberly craft smashed against the pier, and the
men screamed more wildly, and at length one larger and more inebriated
than all the rest, dashed in among the small boats where the Rob Roy
slept, and swooping down on the poor little yawl, then wrapt in calm
repose, she heeled us over on our beam-ends, and after fastening her
clumsy, rusty anchor in my mizen shrouds (which were of iron, and
declined to snap), she bore me and my boat away far off, ignominiously,
stern foremost.
Certainly this was by no means a pleasant foretaste of what might be
expected in the numerous other ports we were to enter, and, at any rate,
that night’s sleep was gone. But in a voyage of this sort a night’s
sleep must be resigned readily, and the loss is easily borne by trying to
forget it, which indeed you soon do when the sun rises, and a good cup of
tea has been quaffed, or, if that will not suffice, then another.
Vigorous health is at the bottom of the enthusiastic enjoyment of
yachting; but in a common sailor’s life sleep is not a regular thing as
we have it on shore, and perhaps that staid glazy and sedate-looking eye,
which a hard-worked seaman usually has, is really caused by broken
slumber. He is never completely awake, but he is never entirely asleep.
Boulogne is a much more agreeable place to reside at than one might
suppose from merely passing through it. Once I spent a month there, and
found plenty to see and to do. Good walks, hotels, churches, and
swimming-baths; the river to row in, the reading-room to sit in, the
cliffs to climb, and the sands to see.
At Dover the dock-people had generously charged me “nil” for dues. I had
letters for France from the highest authorities to pass the Rob Roy as an
article entered for the Paris “Exhibition;” and when the _douane_ and
police functionaries came in proper state at Boulogne to appraise her
value, and to fill up the numerous forms, certificates, schedules, and
other columned documents, I had hours of walking to perform, and most
courteous and tedious attention to endure, and then paid for sanitary
dues, “two sous per ton,” that was threepence. Finally, there was this
insurmountable difficulty, that though all my ship’s papers were _en
règle_, they must be signed “by two persons on board,” so I offered to
sign first as captain and then as cook. They never troubled me again in
any other port, probably thinking the boat too small to have come from a
foreign harbour. In France the law of their paternal Government prevents
any Frenchman from sailing thus alone.
The sun warmed a fine fresh breeze from the N.E. as we coasted from
Boulogne, and to sail with it was a luxury all day. The first pleasure
was the morning ablution, either by a wholesale dip under the waves, or a
more particular toilette if the Rob Roy was then in full sail.
To effect this we push the hatch forward, and open the interior of the
boat. If the water we float on is clean (whether it be salt or fresh) we
dip the tin basin at once, but if we are in a muddy river or doubtful
harbour we must draw from our zinc water tank, which holds water for one
week. This tank is concealed by the figure of the cook kneeling in the
opposite sketch, but it is next to my large portmanteau in the lower
shelf.
A large hole in the top of the tank allows it to be filled at intervals
through a tun-dish, while a long vulcanized tube through the cork to the
bottom has an end hanging over. When I wish to draw water it is done by
applying the mouth for a moment with suction, and the clear stream then
flows by syphon action into a strong tin can of about eight inches cube,
which holds fresh water for one day. By means of this tube, the end of
which hangs within an inch or two of my face when in bed, I can drink a
cool draught at night without trouble or chance of spilling a drop. On
the tank top is soap, and also a clean towel, which to-morrow will be
degraded into a duster, and “relegated,” the newspapers would say, to the
kitchen, and from whence it will again be promoted backwards over the
bulkhead to the washing-bag. This, you see, is the red-tape order of
dealing with towels on board the Rob Roy.
[Picture: Cooking in Rain]
On the left shelf of the cabin we find two boxes of japanned tin each
about eighteen inches by six inches wide, as shown in the woodcut. Below
the shelf is a portmanteau full of clothes. One of the boxes holds
“Dressing,” another “Reading and writing.” The aneroid barometer, and my
watch are seen suspended alongside. The boxes on the other side, shown
in section at a future page, are marked “Tools” and “Eating,” while the
pantry is beside them, with teapot, cup (saucer discarded), and tumbler,
and a tray holding knife and fork, spoons, salt in a snuff-box (far the
best cellar after trials of many), pepper (coarse, or it is blown away),
mustard, corkscrew, and lever-knife for preserved meat tins, etc., etc.
{42}
The north coast of France from Boulogne to Havre is well lighted at
night, but the navigation is dangerous on account of the numerous shoals
and the tortuous currents and tides. For about the first half of the
distance the shores are low, and the water, even far out, is shallow.
Afterwards the land rises to huge red cliffs, rugged and steep sometimes
for miles, without any opening.
The real matter of importance, however, in coasting here is the direction
of the wind. Had it been unfavourable, that is S.W., and with the fogs
and sea which that wind brings, it would have been a serious delay to
me—perhaps, indeed, a stopper on my voyage—seeing that I must sometimes
enter a port at night so as to sleep in peace, for that could scarcely be
pleasantly done if anchored ten miles from land, and with no one awake to
keep a look-out. Fortunately, we had good weather on the worst parts of
the French coast, and my stormy days were yet to come.