Di Vernon—The Gull light—Naked warriors—Monkey—Medway—Eyes right!—Old
things—Bargees—Street boys—Young skipper—Scene by night—Barge lingo—Holy
Haven—Sailing solicitor—Margate.
Perhaps a sleep in wet clothes, such as we have awakened from, was more
likely to do harm than any of the blasts and breezes at sea; but nothing
followed, and indeed during the whole of my six voyages alone there was
neither a headache nor any other ache, not even a cold, and the floating
medicine-chest yawl was never opened.
Dover had been the port of departure and again of arrival, for my first
canoe voyage, and the memory of that delightful tour was recalled now by
seeing a canoe paddling in the harbour. On closer scrutiny it was
perceived that a young lady was its crew. Now there are several fair
Members {272} of our Royal Canoe Club, and we are quite prepared to
ballot for some more, but the captain had not yet been fortunate enough
to see one of these canoeistes on the water, so at once the dingey gave
chase.
[Picture: Paddle and Parasol]
This was the lady’s very first essay in a canoe, nevertheless she
succeeded admirably in her effort, for it is far easier to learn a little
of paddling than a little of rowing, as every neophyte can tell you.
Henceforth I shall always know that a Rob Roy can well be matched by a
_Di Vernon_, and how much the most gentle movement afloat can be refined
by feminine grace. A few hints from the older paddler in the dingey were
rapidly taken up by the apt scholar in the canoe, while her friends rowed
beside us in a boat, and at length with that English pluck which so many
English girls possess, she boldly steered into a steamer’s swell, and
then to the open sea, where, before a soft zephyr murmuring its undertone
whispers, we hoisted her parasol for a sail, and the visitors on Dover
pier had a novel treat in the duet between dingey and canoe.
Fairly rested next day, the yawl sailed by Ramsgate Cliffs until calm and
tide made us anchor in a hot baking sun.
The ‘Gull Lightship’ was not far off, so we sculled to her in the dingey.
This was the very first time I had myself actually seen the Rob Roy on
the water with all sails set, nor dare I conceal the pride that was felt
in looking at her graceful contour, her smart and sensible rig, and her
snowy sails so beautifully set, as the sunbeams lit them up; viewed from
a little distance, the yawl was only like a toy boat resting on a sheet
of glass.
The men of the ‘Gull’ with its red sides and red lantern masts, received
me with surprise, but with most grateful thanks for books to read, and
then they pressed their visitor to stop for dinner!
But he could not well feast in comfort while the Rob Roy was left alone
and all sails up, and especially as one of the numerous vessels then
drifting past (we had counted more than forty in sight at one time)
seemed to be borne dangerously near to the little craft.
On this lightship there are seven men, and four more on land to relieve
them regularly. {275} In the course of a lively conversation with their
visitor, they said, “How lonely you must be!” Surely when the men exiled
to a lightship pronounce the Rob Roy “lonely” there must be something in
the charge; but my obtuse perception has not yet enabled me to find it
out.
Meantime the tide had turned strongly, and my row back from the lightship
in the hot sun was one of the hardest pulls I ever had, so that the
lesson will not be forgotten “stick by your ship in a tideway.”
In passing along the fine gravel beach near Walmer, a curious sound was
heard through the quiet haze; it was distant and continuous, but like the
gabble of 10,000 ducks, and, though staring hard through the binocular
glass, one could only make out a confused jumble of lightish-coloured
forms all in a row afar off. Soon, however, a bugle sounded the
“Retire,” and then it was plain that a whole regiment of soldiers was in
the water bathing; their merry shouts and play had resounded along the
level sea, and at the bugle order they all marched ashore in naked array,
forming altogether one of the oddest of martial sights.
The vessels now constantly crossing my course were of all sizes, and in
the quiet air we could hear their various sounds that seemed to tell in
each of a self-contained world, where every item of life was summarized
on board. Men chatting, women laughing, dogs barking, cocks crowing, and
pigs squealing, a floating farmyard, such is life on the sea. For the
Rob Roy I had tried to get a monkey as a funny friend, if not as a
tractable midshipman, but an end was put to the idea by the solemn
warning of an experienced comrade, who stated, that after the first two
days, a monkey pursues steadily one line of conduct afloat—he throws
everything into the sea.
Rounding the Foreland in a lovely afternoon, we observed how the
corn-fields had become ripe and yellow, that were only growing and green
when our yawl passed the cape before. Here is the “Long Nose” buoy
again, and all the familiar landmarks, and once more Margate, where the
people very warmly welcomed the little Rob Roy, which they had sped on
its way outward bound with a parting cheer.
The next dawn from its grey curtain rising, saw her sailing from Margate
up the Thames, but so light was the baffling wind, that we could not
reach Sheerness that night, and so had to anchor in five fathoms not far
from Cheney Rock, with dense fog closing round, and the Nore gong
ringing, while my bright little cabin glowed with comfort, and the
newspapers were studied in peace. Thence sailing into Sheerness and up
to Queenborough, we anchored close by the Coastguard hulk, in safe and
quiet waters. Sunday was a delicious rest, and the dingey took me aboard
the hulk, where a number of sailors and their large families with them,
gave a very remarkable appearance to the vessel ’tween decks. The
children were delighted to receive books and pictures, and until late in
the dark the infantile menagerie squalled with all its might.
An expedition of river discovery up the Medway seemed to be worth trying
now, for no bonds of time or engagements fettered that glorious freedom
of action which is one of the prize features of sailing thus. The yawl
went bowling along on this new errand amid huge old hulks, tall-masted
frigates, black warrior-like ironclads, gay yachts, odoriferous
fishing-smacks, and a fleet of steady, brown-sailed, business-like
barges. This is a pleasant and a cheerful river for some days’
excursion, with a mild excitement in sailing over banks and shoals, and
yet not striking once, although we had no chart.
The tide helps much, until the high ground near Chatham adds rock and
sylvan scenes to the flat banks of the winding estuary.
Now we come on a busy industry of peculiar type, thousands of convicts
working on the new seawall, closely guarded by armed keepers. These poor
criminals are paid or privileged according to their good behaviour, and
it has been found that their labour thus stimulated is very productive.
Once fairly up among the war-ships at Chatham, the Rob Roy anchors by the
Powder Magazine, and while a waterman rows away for the usual
supplies—“Two eggs, pat of butter, and the ‘Times’”—we inspect the Royal
Engineers as they are engaged alongside at pontooning, and are frequently
pulled up by the command of a smart sergeant—“Eyes—right,” for they
_will_ take furtive glances at my dingey gyrating so as they had never
seen boat spin round before. This comment on the dingey’s shape was
ventured, too, “It’s for hall the world like ’alf a hegg.”
Pushing on again, still up the river, the Rob Roy had to beat against an
east wind all through the densely packed brigs and barges in the narrow
bend at Rochester, where the difficulty of working her added zest to the
journey, and now and then a resounding crash from some great barge
drifting down against other vessels, told me that not every one of the
craft was as fortunate in navigation as the yawl. Before us is the
Cathedral, but it is far too stiff in its sharp outline to arrest the eye
for a moment. On the other side, the fine old weatherworn and time-eaten
Castle rears its great tower, and challenges a long and satisfying look,
especially as this was the only ancient ruin we had seen in the tour, and
so there had long been a yearning in the mind for such, just as there is
when you travel in Norway or America, until at last the hunger for old
things becomes ravenous and intolerable.
The yawl’s mast will be able to pass under the bridge, for the tide is
low, and beyond it now we are in sunny green fields, and sailing on
smoothly amid quiet villages, rich pastures, and the exuberant
hop-grounds of thoroughly English Kent.
Three boys bathing from a boat came near, and for a treat we took them on
board, while their hair dripped wet and their teeth chattered fast after
too long a swim, but they had read the name on my white flag, and they
had also read two canoe books, and so for miles they devoured all that
was said and shewn on the yawl; then thanking much because they were
“awfully glad,” and they rowed home. How pleasant it is to give pleasure
to boys!
The Rob Roy got aground only once in this trip above the bridge, and that
only for five minutes, which, except the bump on a rock at Bembridge, was
her sole mishap of this sort, an immunity quite extraordinary from the
seaman’s dreaded foe, the shore. The barges that were now floating up
the crowded Medway interested me exceedingly, and acquaintance was
readily made with their inhabitants almost every day for the next three
weeks, until it became evident that “Barge Life” is a stratum of society
quite as full of character and incident as any other, and wide open for
examination by those who would study a _genus_ of mankind very little
known. Large and important duties are entrusted to these men; rich
cargoes are committed to their honesty and skill; families live on barges
by thousands, {280} and the coasting journey of a barge is by no means an
easy thing or a dull one.
We must not judge of them by those great black boxes full of coals, that
float on the water above London Bridge, with one man and a long oar, and
yet even a coal barge is worth watching. In the dank mist of a dull
November evening it will drift unseen past the Temple Gardens. Wonderful
sounds launch into the fog from an invisible shouter on board, whose
“Tom” or “Bill” on a wharf ashore instantly knows the call, and answers.
Then there is a colloquy loud, and public in the extreme, yet utterly
private in its meaning to any one besides the two who are talking. It is
only paralleled by the shrill interjections of London street boys calling
to each other across the Strand, of which the grown-up public cannot make
out one syllable, but which the stratum below them, of three feet high,
is perfectly contented with, discerning every word.
The barges that trade to the Medway are fine, strong sea-boats; their
sailing qualities are excellent, and they are improved every year by a
regatta specially for them, where forty gay-dressed, bluff and burly
craft compete for prizes. In this match the utmost of skill, sharpened
by years of river sailing, is shewn in the wind and tide, and knowledge
of intricate channels, and among such competitors “fouling is fair.”
As the yawl glides on the water among hayricks and whetting scythes, one
of these gallant barges floated beside us with the name on its
stern—S.E.C.P.T.E.R.—dubious in import, we allow, whether it means that
the stout matter-of-fact lighter has been christened as a shadowy ghost,
or a royal symbol. The veriest urchin steers her, with a little fat hand
on the heavy tiller twelve feet long, and a hunch of good rye-bread in
his other fist. Now and then he sings out in a thin soprano, “Fayther,
boat’s a’ead,” and his father, (hidden below), answers deep-toned, from
the cabin, “Keep ’er away, lad.” From him I asked, “How old is your
boy?” and the parent’s head popped up to see, but it was the child that
smartly answered, “Eight years old.” He looked five. Round the next
reach the barge bears down, and shakes her sails in the wind to arrest
progress a little. They have come near home, but not to stop. It is
only their country house, and up steps the bargee mother from out her
small _boudoir_ in the cabin below, and jumping heavily into a boat, she
pulls ashore to where a little girl is meekly waiting ready for
orders—“Get the fish directly, Hagnes,” and the daughter runs off fleetly
and back soon, and the mother is speedily aboard again—all this marketing
being done while the barge has been drifting slowly past, and then her
sails are filled to continue the voyage.
Night fell, and the yawl anchored by a soft green field, with the
bowsprit among the rushes. Bright furnaces for lime and plaster works
show here and there around, and they roared and blazed up fitfully with
waving jets of flame, like the iron works in Shropshire, while the
reflections glittered on the river, and reddened long reaches in a glow.
The barges kept streaming by in the dark laden with rich commerce, and
merry, singing crews—a very curious scene. To them the Rob Roy, of
course, looked quite as strange, and one hailed us gruffly—“Who’re you?”
answer, “I’m the Rob Roy!”—“What in the world did you come here for?”
“To look at the beautiful lights on your river.” In a murmuring grumble,
he said to that, “Too many on ’em there is—we can’t see where we’re goin’
with them;” and this is indeed perfectly true, for the light of these
furnaces dazzles by its brightness, which is not diffused, whereas if no
lights were there at all, the men could see well enough, for it is
marvellous how the eye will perceive at least the bounds between land and
water, when practice sharpens keen vision and no false light is shining.
It is, however, quite true also, that the language of the barge-world is
not to be found complete in Johnson’s dictionary. It is far more
powerful than elegant. Words that are unused ashore except in anger or
the coarsest abuse seem to be the gentle appellations of endearment
between father and son afloat. But we must not forget that it is the
meaning attached to a word by speaker and hearer, and not that given to
it by a world outside of both, which the word will represent. {284}
From the highest point we could reach towards Maidstone, we soon ran down
again to Rochester, and various were the conflicting verdicts of bargees
as to whether or not my mast would now go under the bridge, for the tide
was very high, and I sailed back and forward, getting opinions, and
surveying the bridge on all sides. At length I determined it could be
done, and my heart beat nervously as the yawl neared the centre arch—not
as to danger, but the dishonour of breaking a goodly spar at the end of a
cruise, and in so trumpery a feat. It passed clear, however, by inches.
The evening was too fine at Sheerness to think of anchoring, so with a
sudden resolve we set off again to Southend. Here the advice of a yacht
lying near was followed foolishly (get _facts_ from experts and decide on
deeds yourself), for I anchored without sounding, and too late found it
was in shallow water, only eight feet by the lead, and the tide running
out. To bed but not to sleep, for the water sunk to five feet, and,
angry with myself, I roused at one o’clock, gave out all the rope,
sheered off shore by the rudder, and then, again at rest, gained only six
inches of depth; but once more sounding, there was only six inches to
spare under the keel and with a strong breeze on shore. Therefore, now
again on the move, we fastened the inner end of the cable to the larger
anchor and heaved this out, and then payed out all the chain, and sheered
with the rudder, but still she was in shoal water. Finally, as the wind
increased, I had to haul in both anchors and shove out into the deep, and
thus, by omitting to do right at once what was easy at the time, the
whole night had been consumed by intervals of wet and needless trouble.
Life in the yawl had now become such a pleasant life, that to leave it
was a duty deferred as long as possible. We ranged several times up and
down the Thames, visiting many an old nook, well known in former days;
Holy Haven for instance; it is now thirty-three years since we first
harboured there in a little sailing-boat and spent a night with a collier
captain, and learned more of coals and colliers than one could read in a
week. This was done by keeping him resolutely on the point the man knew
all about until he was quite pumped dry. This nice little refuge-harbour
is the one I like best in all the river, with only one house—no bother
from shore folks, deep channel, and clean sand to anchor in. If it were
not for this narrow and safe retreat, there would often be hard times in
stormy days between Gravesend and Sheerness.
The first time the Rob Roy went into Holy Haven, we found a yacht there
with a lady and gentleman on board, who of course (invariable and
excellent custom) were hospitable when they read my flag. Tiny ripples
were the only sounds of the evening, and on looking out on a new day, the
round smooth sand was bare beside me, with a lonely gull preening its
soft white wing, and its calm eye unfrightened, for no one could have the
heart to harm the pretty creature there. The next time of a visit to
this peaceful haven, there was another little craft at anchor, and in
five minutes after we stopped the owner of it sent his card, with the
customary invitation, to come on board. He was a sailor solicitor who
lives on the water in summer (being wise), but does not venture out of
the Thames (being prudent), and he has a boy “Jim” who hands out cooked
things from an inscrutable forecastle, where he sleeps at night in a sort
of coal-scuttle. Nevertheless the two together seemed perfectly happy.
By way of variety, the Rob Roy on leaving Margate the next time set off
in the dark night, to sail away under the stars, and by some curious good
luck we managed to pass as close to the buoy at Reculver as ever one
could do in the light. Next time we came to Margate the place was gay
with its Regatta, on a fine breezy day. It was one of the best managed
regattas one could see, with always something going on, and always the
requisite confusion that prevents anybody from knowing exactly what _is_
going on. However, the Rob Roy had a charming sail among the yachts as
she towed at her stern the dingey and a canoe, for the members of our
Club are ubiquitous, {287} so two of them are at Margate.