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.

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.