Posh does not remember the last occasion on which he spoke to his old “guv’nor,” but he says that whenever he did see him he, FitzGerald, would take him by the blue woollen jersey and pinch him, and say, “Oh dear, oh dear, Posh! To think it should ha’ come to this.” Well, this may possibly have been the case. There is no doubt that FitzGerald resumed friendly relations with the fisherman, for on August 29th, 1875, he wrote from Woodbridge to his former partner:—

“Woodbridge, August 29.

“Dear Posh,

“I have posted you a Lowestoft Paper telling you something of the Regatta there. But as you say you like to hear from me also, I write to supply what the Paper does not tell: though I wonder you can care to hear of such things in the midst of your Fishing.

“I, and every one else, made sure that the little Sapphire would do well when it came on to blow on Thursday: she went to her moorings as none of the others did except the Red Rover. But, directly the Gun fired, the Otter (an awkward thing) drove down upon, and broke up her Chain-plates, or stenctions [sic], to which the wire rigging holds: so she could not sail at all: and the Red Rover got the Prize, after going only two rounds instead of three: which is odd work, I think. Major Leathes’ mast went over in the first round, as it did a year ago. At Evening, the Otter grounded as she lay by the South Pier: and would have knocked her bottom out had not Ablett Pasifull gone off to her and made them hoist their main-sail.

“Ablett and Jack got more and more uncomfortable with their new Owner, who is a Fool as well as a Screw. At last Ablett told him that he himself and Jack had almost been on the point of leaving him, and that, I think, will bring him to his senses, if anything can.

“On Friday we saw Mushell coming in deeply laden, and we heard how he had just missed putting three lasts on board of you. I sent off a Telegram to you that same evening, as Mushell knew you would be anxious to know that he had come in safe through the wind and Sea of Thursday night. He was to have started away again on Sunday: but one of his men who had gone home had not returned by one o’clock, when I came away. This, I always say, is one of the Dangers of coming home, but, as Things were, Mushell could scarce help it, though he had better have gone to Yarmouth to sell his Fish. He seems a good Fellow.

“All these mishaps—I wonder any man can carry on the trade! I think I would rather be in my own little Punt again. But, while you will go on, you know I will stand by you. Your mare is well, and the sore on her Shoulder nearly gone. Mr. and Mrs. Howe send their Regards. Cowell is gone off to Devonshire instead of coming to meet me at Lowestoft: but I dare say I shall run over there again before long.

“Yours always,
“E. FG.”

Boulge church

The “little Sapphire” I cannot identify. One gentleman has been kind enough to try to help me, and thinks that she was the Scandal. But this cannot be so, for the Scandal was built for FitzGerald at Wyvenhoe in 1863, was first called the Shamrock and then the Scandal. Personally, I remember the names of a good many of the yachts of the Norfolk and Suffolk coast of the period, but I can’t identify the Sapphire. The Red Rover was a river craft, a cutter, with the one big jib of our river craft instead of jib and foresail, belonging to the late Mr. Sam Nightingale, of Lacon’s Brewery. She was originally about twelve tons, but by improvements and additions, when Mr. Nightingale died in the eighties, was eighteen tons. For many years she was the fastest yacht in the Norfolk and Suffolk Yacht Club, and though she was occasionally beaten on fluky days she never lost possession of the challenge cup for long. Fred Baldry, who steered her with extraordinary skill, is, I believe, still alive, and lives on Cobholm Island, Yarmouth.

The Red Rover was not only successful on the rivers and Broads, but in the Yarmouth Roads. I was on her when she was beating the famous Thames twenty-tonner Vanessa, when the Red Rover carried away her bowsprit (a new stick) as she was beating on the sands to dodge the tide, and I remember how we were hooted all the way up Gorleston Harbour when Mr. William Hall’s steam launch towed us in.

I believe that when the little ten-ton Buttercup (unbeaten at her best) came down and gave the poor old Red Rover the worst dressing down she had ever experienced it broke Mr. Nightingale’s heart. He died soon after, and he left a direction in his will that the Red Rover should be broken up and burnt. It would, I think, have been a kinder and better direction to have left the yacht to Fred Baldry, who had steered her to victory so often.

Although I have described her as a river yacht, she was purely a racing machine, and used to be accompanied (in the home waters at all events) by a wherry, with all spare spars and sails, on which everything unnecessary for sailing was stowed before the starting gun was fired.

Once a year she carried a picnic party over Breydon Water, on which occasion, I believe, Mrs. Nightingale was invariably seasick going over to Breydon. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Nightingale ever used her for pleasure except on that one annual excursion up to Reedham.

Well, well! There are no Red Rovers now, and no Fred Baldrys coming on. But there are plenty of stinking black tugs and filthy coal barges embellishing the lovely Norfolk waters. I do not wonder that Colonel Leathes, mentioned in the last quoted letter, has taken his yacht off the public waters and confined her to the beautiful wooded reaches of Fritton Mere.

The Otter was a rival of the Red Rover in the early days of the latter yacht, and was a clumsy, rather ugly, ketch-rigged craft belonging to Sir Arthur Preston. Major Leathes’ (now Colonel Leathes) boat was a yawl named the Waveney Queen, and the Colonel tells me that he carried away his mast twice, each time because he would “carry on” too long.

I can’t ascertain who was the “new owner” of Ablett Percival and Jack—and if I could I suppose it wouldn’t do to name him, in view of FitzGerald’s stringent criticism of him. Subsequently Jack Newson went on the Mars, the sea-going craft belonging to the late J. J. Colman, m.p., but this was later than 1875.

“Mushell” was the nickname of Joe Butcher, the former skipper of the Henrietta, under Posh, as owner.

I must admit that this letter is hard to fit in with the year 1875, when the Meum and Tuum and the Henrietta had been sold, and the separation between Posh and his “guv’nor” final, so far as herring fishing was concerned. The last paragraph, in which FitzGerald writes that so long as Posh goes on he will stand by him, seems in flat contradiction to what happened in 1874. But Colonel Leathes puts the date as 1875, and Dr. Aldis Wright has been kind enough to look up old almanacs in his possession and corroborates this view. It speaks with extraordinary eloquence of FitzGerald’s affection for Posh, of his patience with the man, that after the want of recognition of his kindness shown in 1874 he should have written to him in such a manner in 1875.

“Mr. and Mrs. Howe” were, as I have stated before, the caretakers at Little Grange. “Cowell” was, no doubt, Professor Cowell, though it seems strange that FitzGerald should have mentioned him to Posh without any prefix to his name.

That is the last letter in which I can find any reference to Posh, and the last letter in Posh’s possession which was written to him. I dare say there were later letters, but if so they have been destroyed.

FitzGerald had tried a new experiment, and it was ended.

Myself, when young, did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door wherein I went.

He had found a new love, a new interest, and believed that he had found a new trustworthiness. But he returned through the same door by which he entered; and he was an old man for disillusionment.

Posh was, no doubt, rude, harsh, overbearing with the old gentleman, but his eyes grow moist now when he speaks of him. I think he would surrender a good deal of his boasted independence if only he could have FitzGerald for his friend again.

The last time he was with me I read him

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

“Well tha’ss a rum un!” said Posh.

THE END

william brendon and son, ltd.
printers, plymouth