Dawn music—Cleared for action—Statistics—Blue Peter—Passing bridges—A
gale—A shave—Provisions—Toilette—An upset—Last bridge—A peep
below—Cooking inside—Preserved provisions—Soups.
The Rob Roy was very pleasant lodgings when moved down to the lovely bend
at St. Cloud. Sometimes she was made fast to a tree, and the birds sung
in my rigging, and gossamers spun webs on the masts, and leaves fell on
the deck. At other times we struck the anchor into soft green grass, and
left the boat for the day, until at night, returning from where the merry
rowers dined so well in training, and after a pleasant and cool walk
“home” by the river side, there was the little yawl all safe on a glassy
pool, and her deck shining spangled with dewdrops under the moon, and the
cabin snug within,—airy but no draughts, cool without chill, and brightly
lighted up in a moment, yet all so undisturbed, without dust or din, and
without any bill to pay.
Awake with the earliest sun, there was always the same sound alongside as
we lay at anchor. The sweet murmurings of the water running by, cleft by
my sharp bow, and gliding in wavelets along the smooth sides only a few
inches from my ear, and sounding with articulate distinctness through the
tight mahogany skin; and then there was the muttering chatter of the
amateur fisherman, who was sure to be at his post, however early.
This respectable personage, not young but still hearty, is in his own
boat,—a boat perfectly respectable too, and well found in all
particulars, flat, brown, broad, utterly useless for anything but this
its duty every morning.
Quietly his anchor is dropped, and he then fixes a pole into the bottom
of the river, and lashes the boat to that, and to that it will be fixed
until nine o’clock; at present it is five. He puts on a grey coat, and
brown hat, and blue spectacles, all the colours of man and boat being
philosophically arranged, and as part of a complicated and secret plot
upon the liberties of that unseen, mysterious, and much-considered
_goujon_ which is poetically imagined to be below. It has baffled all
designs for this last week, for it is a wily monster, but _this_ morning
it is most certainly to be snared.
Rod, line, float, hook, bait, are all prepared for the conflict, and the
fisherman now seats himself steadily in a sort of arm-chair, and with
stealth and gravity drops the deceitful line into hidden deeps. At that
float he will stare till he cannot see. He looks contented; at any rate,
no muscle moves in his face, though envy may be corroding his soul.
After an hour he _may_ just yield so much as to mutter some few sounds,
or a suppressed moaning over his hard lot, ‘and that is what I hear in my
cabin.’ Then at last he rises with a determined briskness in his mien,
and the resentment against fate from an ill-used man, and he casts
exactly three handfuls of corn or bread-crumbs into the water, these to
beguile the reluctant obstinate gudgeon, who, perhaps, poor thing, is not
so much to blame for inattention after all, being at the time just one
hundred and fifty yards away, beside those bulrushes.
Indeed that very idea seems to have struck the fisherman too, and he
marks the likely spot, and will go there to-morrow, not to-day—no, he
will always stick one day at one place. How he moves to or from it I do
not know, for the man and boat had always come before I saw them, and I
never stopped long enough to see them depart. Four men fished four
mornings thus, and only two fish were caught by them in my presence.
The regatta is over, and Nadar’s balloon is in the sky, but seeming no
bigger than other balloons, so soon does the mind fail to appreciate
positive size when the object you look at is seen alone. It is the old
story of the moon, which “looks as large as a soup-plate,” and yet
Nadar’s _Géant_ was the largest balloon ever seen, and it carries a house
below it instead of a car—a veritable house, with two storeys, and doors
and windows. The freedom of its motion sailing away reminds me that the
Rob Roy ought to be moving too,—that she was not built to dabble about on
rivers, but to charge the crested wave; and, indeed, there was always a
sensation of being pent up when she was merely floating near the inland
cornfields, and so far from the salt green sea; and this, too, even
though pleasant parties of ladies were on board, and boys got jaunts and
cruises from me, which I am certain pleased them much; still the
reef-points on her sails rattled impatiently for real breezes and the
curl of the surf, while the storm mizen was growing musty, so long stowed
away unused.
Next day, therefore, the Blue Peter was flying at the fore, and the Rob
Roy’s cellar had its sea stock laid in from “Spiers and Pond,” of ale,
and brandy, and wine. Before a fine fresh wind, with rain pelting
cheerfully on my back, we scudded down the Seine. To sail thus along a
rapid stream with many barges to meet, and trees overhanging, and shoals
at various depths below, is a very capital exercise, especially if you
feel your honour at stake about getting aground, however harmless that
would be. But the Seine has greater difficulties here, because the
numerous bridges each will present an obstacle which must be dealt with
at once, and yet each particular bridge will have its special features
and difficulties, not perhaps recognized when first you meet them so
suddenly. {142} The bridges on the Seine were often not high enough to
allow the yawl to pass under, except in the centre, or within a few feet
on one side or other of the keystone, and as the wind is deflected by the
bridge, just at the critical moment when you reach such places, and the
current of water below rushes about in eddies from the piers, there is
quite enough of excitement to keep a captain pretty well awake in beating
to windward through these bridges; for the wind _must_ be dead ahead a
great part of the time, because the river bends about and about with more
and sharper turns than almost any other of the kind.
Though sun and wind had varnished my face to the proper regulation hue,
in perfect keeping with a mahogany boat, yet the fortnight of fresh water
had softened that hardiness of system acquired in real sea. My hands had
gradually discarded, one after another, the islands of sticking-plaister,
and a whole geography of bumps and bruises, which once had looked as if
no gloves ever could get on again—or rather as if the hands must always
be encased in gloves to be anywhere admissible in a white-skinned
country.
But now once again outward bound, though still so many miles from the
iodine scent of the open sea, and the gracious odour of real ship’s tar,
one’s nerves are strung tight in a moment. The change was hailed with
joy, though sudden enough, from the glassy pond-like water at St. Cloud,
lulled only by gentle catspaws, half asleep and dreaming, to the rattling
of spars and blocks, and hissing of the water, in the merry whistling
gale by which we now were rapt away.
At Argenteuil there are numerous French pleasure-boats, and the Rob Roy
ran into a good berth. Next day there was a downright gale, so I
actually had to reef before starting, because in a narrow river the work
of beating against the wind is very severe on legs and arms, and
especially on one’s hands, unless they are hardened, and kept hard, too,
by constant handling of the strong ropes.
At length we put into a quiet bay, where the river Oise joined the Seine,
and we moored snugly under the lee of a green meadow, while trees were
above waving and rustling in the breeze. It was far from houses, for I
wished to have a good rest, as the tossing of the former night had almost
banished sleep.
But soon the inquisitive natives found the yawl in her hiding-place, and
they sat on the grass gazing by the hour. The surroundings were so much
like a canoe voyage, that I felt more strongly than ever the confinement
to a river, while the sea would have been so open and grand under such a
breeze. Therefore I gave up all idea of sailing down the Seine any more,
and decided to get towed to Havre, and to launch out fairly on our proper
element once more.
Yet it was fine fun to row about in the dingey, and to discover a quaint
old inn, and to haul ashore my tiny cockleshell and dine. Here they were
certainly an uncouth set, they did not even put a cloth on the table, nor
any substitute for it,—a state of things seen very seldom indeed in the
very outermost corners of my various trips.
Faithful promise was made by a man that he would rouse me from slumber in
my cabin under the haybank at the passing of the next steamer, be it
light or dark at the time. The shriek of the whistle came in the first
hours of morning, and the man ran to tell it, with one side of his face
shaven, and the other frothed over with lather.
Being towed down is so like being towed up the river, that we need merely
allude to a few features in the voyage westward.
At one pretty town we stopped to unload cargo for some hours, and I
climbed the hills, scaled the old castle walls, and dived into curious
tumbledown streets. The keeper of the newspaper-shop confessed to me his
own peculiar grievance, namely, that he often sent money to England in
reply to quack advertisements, but never had any reply. He seemed to be
too “_poli_” to credit my assertion that there are “many rogues in
perfidious Albion,” and on the whole he was scarcely shaken in the
determination to persevere in filling their pockets, though he might
empty his own.
An old man at a lock was delighted by a New Testament given to him. “I
know what this is; it is Protestant prayers. Oh, they are good.” Then
he brought his wife and his grandchildren, and every one of them shook
hands.
It was not very easy to get one’s sea-stores replenished in the
continuous run down the Seine. Sometimes I saw a milkman trundling his
wheelbarrow over a bridge, and, jumping on shore, I waylaid him for the
precious luxury, or sent off a boy for bread, and butter, and eggs; but,
of course, the times of eating had nothing to do with any hours, or
recurring seasons for a meal: you must cook when you can, and snatch a
morsel here or there, in a lock or a long reach of the stream. At night
the full moon sailed on high, and the crew lay down with their faces over
the steamer’s side, chattering with their English comrade till it was far
past bed-time, for we shall be off at three to-morrow morning.
The steam in the boiler first warns of the coming bustle as its great
bubbles burst inside, and rattle the iron plates. Then, being more
frequent and tighter bound, they give out a low moaning, hidden rumble;
and if the boat touches the side of the steamer, there is a strong
vibration through all her sonorous planks, until some tap is turned in
the engine, and the rush of steam leaps into the cylinder as if indignant
at its long restraint. You had better get up now (there is no dressing,
for the simple reason that there has been no undressing), and in two
minutes you are fresh and hearty, though it is only a few hours since you
dropped to rest.
Rouen looks as if it would be all that is pleasant for a sailing-boat to
rest in. Never was a greater deception. It is difficult to find an
anchorage, and impossible to get a quiet berth by the quay. The bustle
all day, and the noise all night, keep you ever on the tenterhooks;
though, as these discomforts are caused by the active commerce of the
port, one ought to bear them patiently.
In one of the numerous _mêlées_ of barges, boats, and steamers whirling
round and round, amid entangled hawsers, and a swift stream, we had at
last to invoke aid from shore, and a number of willing loungers gladly
hauled on my rope. Some of these men, when I thanked them, said they had
more to thank me for,—the books I had given them in my voyage up. Still,
with all this aid, the Rob Roy was inextricably entangled with other
heavier craft, and, in shoving her off I tumbled overboard, and had to
put up with a thorough wetting; so, after a warm bath ashore, more _à la
mode_, I returned to my little cabin for a profound sleep.
Rain, almost ceaseless for a whole day and night, had searched the
smallest chink, and trickled ungraciously into my very bed-room. But I
suspended an iron tea-cup in the dark just over my body, so _that_ one
little stream was intercepted. This was the first really hard pressure
of wet on the Rob Roy, and all the defects it brought to light were
entirely remedied afterwards at Cowes.
On each of the four preceding nights I had been aroused for the next
day’s work at three, or two, or even one o’clock, in the dark, and yet
for one night more there was to be no regular repose.
My mast had been made fast to the quay wall, but in forgetfulness that on
a tidal river this fastening must be such as to allow for several feet of
fall as the water ebbs. Therefore, about the inevitable hour of one
o’clock, in the dark, there was a loud and ominous crack and jerk from
the rope, and I knew too well the cause. In the rainy night it was a
troublesome business to arrange matters, and next day was a drowsy one
with me, spent in the strange old streets of the town.
The policeman had orders to call me at any hour when a steamer went by,
and, being hooked at last to the powerful twin-screw _Du Tremblay_, with
a pleasant captain, I rejoiced to near the very last bridge on the river,
with the feeling at heart, “After this we are done with fresh-water
sailing.”
It was a suspension-bridge, and the worthy captain forgot all about the
Rob Roy and her mast, when he steered for a low part, where his own
funnel could pass because it was lowered, but where I saw in a moment my
mast must strike.
There was no time to call out, nor would it have availed even to chop the
towing-line with my axe, for the boat had too much “way” on her to stop.
Therefore I could only duck down into the well, to avoid the falling
spars and the splinters.
The bridge struck the mast about two feet from the top, and, instead of
its breaking off with a short snap, the mast bent back and back at least
four feet just as if it were a fishing rod, to my great amazement. The
strong vibration of its truck (_pomme_ the French call it), throbbed
every nerve of boat and man, as it scraped over each plank above, and
then the mast sprang up free from the bridge with such a switch, that it
burst the lashings of both the iron shrouds merely by this rebound.
Now was felt the congratulation that we had carefully secured a
first-rate mast for the Rob Roy, one of the pieces of Vancouver wood,
proved, by the competitions lately held, to be the strongest of all
timber.
The moments of expected disaster and of happy relief were vivid as they
passed, but I made the steamer stop, and on climbing the mast, I found
not even the slightest crack or injury there. Henceforth we shall trust
the goodly spar in any gale, with the confidence only to be had by a
crucial test like this.
As we shall soon be at sea again, but the river is calm enough here,
perhaps this will be a fit opportunity for the reader to peep into Rob
Roy’s cave as it was usually made up for the night.
The floor of the cabin is made of thin mahogany boards, resting on
cross-beams. The boards are loose, so that even in bed I can pull one
up, and thus get at my cellar or at the iron pigs of ballast. The bed is
of cork, about seven feet long and three feet wide. On this (for it
_was_ rather hardish) I put a plaid, {150} and then a railway rug, which
being coloured, had been substituted for a blanket, as the white wool of
the latter insisted on coming off, and gave an untidy look to my thick
blue boating-jacket.
One fold of the rug was enough for an ample covering, and I never once
was cold in the cabin.
A large pillow was encased by day in blue (the uniform colour of all my
decorations), and it was stripped at night to be soft and smooth for the
cheek of the sleeper.
Putting under this my coats and a regulation woven Jersey, with the
yacht’s name worked in red across its breast in regular sailor’s fashion,
the pillow became a most comfortable cushion, and the woodcut shows me
reclining in the best position for reading or writing, as if on a good
sofa. On my right hand behind is a candle-lamp, with a very heavy stand.
It rests upon a shelf, which can be put in any convenient place by a
simple arrangement.
[Picture: The Cabin]
In the sketch already given at p. 41, there is a tarpaulin spread over
the well, and this was used on one occasion when we had to cook in rain
while at anchor. {151}
On the same side, and below the boxes, “Tools” and “Eating,” already
mentioned, are two large iron cases, labelled “Prog,”—a brief
announcement which vastly troubled the brains of several French visitors,
whose English etymology did not extend to such curt terms.
In these heavy boxes are cases of preserved meats, soups, and vegetables,
and these I found perfectly satisfactory in every respect, when procured
at a proper place (Morel’s in Piccadilly). Here you can get little tin
cases, holding half a pint each and sealed up hermetically. {152}
To cook one of these tins full—which, with bread and wine is an ample
dinner—you cut the top circle with the lever-knife, but allowing it to be
still attached by a small part to the tin, and fold this lid part back
for a handle.
Then put the tin into a can of such a shape and size that it has about
half an inch of water all round the tin, but not reaching too high up,
else it may bubble over when boiling, and as you can use salt water or
muddy water for this water-jacket, it will not do to sprinkle any of that
inside the tin.
The can is then hung over the Rob Roy lamp, and in six minutes the
contents of the tin are quite hot. Soup takes less time, and steak
perhaps a little more, depending on the facility of circulation of the
materials in the tin and the amount of wind moderating the heat. The
preserved meat or soup has been thoroughly cooked before it is sold, and
it has sauce, gravy, and vegetables, and the oxtail has joints, all
properly mixed. Therefore, in this speedy manner your dinner is
prepared, and indeed it will be smoking hot and ready before you can get
the table laid, and the “things” set out from the pantry.
Concentrated soup I took also, but it has a tame flavour, so it was put
by for a famine time, which never came. As for “Liebig’s Extract of
Meat,” you need not starve while there is any left, but that is the most
we can say in its favour.