A Floating Home Part 12

The decks themselves were less difficult to keep tight; nevertheless, we had some trouble at first. We began by painting or dressing them, but later we covered them with a buff linoleum, which will be cheaper in the long run. The puzzle was how to lay the linoleum on worn decks.

There were edges and knots which would soon have worked through.

However, we solved this problem, too. We spread half a hundredweight of hot pitch, mixed with some tar, on the decks, and laid tarred felt upon it. Above the felt we laid the linoleum, with more pitch and tar to stick it. When in the mournful order of things the _Ark Royal_ comes to her end, and is sawed up, burned, or ground to pieces by the sea, that linoleum will perish as an integral part of the decks, for nothing will ever separate them.

The winter pa.s.sed, and with the swelling of the buds and the gift of song to the birds our corner of the world woke, too, and the yachts in the saltings began to renew their plumage. On all sides were heard the sounds of sc.r.a.ping; masts and spars and blocks sloughed their dull winter skins and glistened with new varnish in the sun.

The _Ark Royal_ also was fitted out. The whole s.h.i.+p smelt of varnish and new rope; the headsails, topsail, and mizzen were bent, and she was ready to move out of winter quarters.

On Maundy Thursday we cast off the warps on sh.o.r.e, took our spare anchors on board, and waited for the tide. I had engaged a sailor-boy as crew, and also had a friend to help me. After five months' silence we heard once more the exciting clank of the windla.s.s as we hove in the muddy chain. The chain came easily at first, and then checked at the strain of breaking out the great bower anchor from the bed which it had made for itself in the sand. A little humouring, and away it came and up went our spreading red topsail. A fresh wind off the land carried us slowly out of the creek through the small fry. Clear of the creek we let the brails go, and the wind crashed out the mainsail. Up went the bellying foresail and then the white jib topsail, and the _Ark Royal_ was snoring through the water alive from truck to keel.

The great sprit scrooping against the mast spoke of freedom after prison; the wind harped in the rigging; the rudder wriggled and kicked in the following seas, sending a thrill of pleasure through the helmsman. Even the dinghy seemed like a high-spirited animal that had been kept too long in the stable. She would drop astern with her head slightly sideways, and then leap and charge forwards at the tug of the painter. It was a translucent morning. The fleet of bawleys was getting under way, a topsail schooner was anchoring off the pier, a cruiser was coming out of Sheerness, a barque in tow was going up Sea Reach, there were red-sailed barges everywhere, and we were embracing 'our golden uncontrolled enfranchis.e.m.e.nt.'

'Where are we going to?' was asked several times before we reached the Nore. The point was that I did not know. So long as might be I did not want to know, for there is a peculiarly satisfying pleasure in playing with the sense of uncontrolled enfranchis.e.m.e.nt.

At length it became necessary to decide. Meynell suggested Harwich; Margaret, West Mersea; and Inky, Fambridge. But as we had no time to go so far as any of these, I asked them to choose a place in Kent.

Kent was a new land to them, and when I mentioned the probability of seeing aeroplanes on Sheppey Island they were all for Kent. So we headed for Warden Point, and the fair wind and tide soon took us there; then hauling our wind we reached along the beautiful sh.e.l.ly sh.o.r.e to Sh.e.l.lness and let go our anchor well inside the Swale about six o'clock. On Good Friday morning, taking the young flood, we beat up to Harty Ferry, anch.o.r.ed, and went to church. Most of Sat.u.r.day morning we lay on a hill watching the aeroplanes tear along the ground, rise, fly round, and settle again; and in the afternoon we sailed in the dinghy up to Sittingbourne and bought provisions. All Sunday the gla.s.s fell, and towards evening the rain set in with the wind south-east, and on Monday it blew such a gale that a return to Newcliff was out of the question.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LANDERMERE]

On Tuesday I was obliged to go to London, and as it was blowing too hard for the dinghy to take me to the Sittingbourne side I had to hire the ferry-boat. The two men who pulled me across were nearly played out before they landed me. Luckily my friend was able to remain on board the _Ark Royal_ and look after things with the paid hand while I was away.

I rejoined the s.h.i.+p on Friday evening, and the next day in a fresh wind we sailed to Queenborough. We anch.o.r.ed near the swing bridge, and my friend went off in the boat to tell the men to swing the bridge for us. The bridgeman flatly refused, because, he said, the _Ark Royal_ was a barge and could lower her mast. I then went to see the man myself, and asked him to look at our cabin-top and explain how the mast could be lowered. He admitted that it could not be done. As a matter of fact, it could have been done by taking off the furniture hatch and removing the upper part of the coamings, and spending the best part of a day over the job. But it was not my business to tell him that. Even then he seemed doubtful, so I suggested telephoning to Sheerness for instructions. He kept on repeating that the _Ark Royal_ was a barge, and that he was not allowed to swing the bridge for barges.

Now I played my best card. I had brought my s.h.i.+p's papers with me, and producing my Admiralty warrant to fly the Blue Ensign and one or two other imposing doc.u.ments, I hinted that further delay would compel me to report the matter. I noticed that he wavered. Then, placing a s.h.i.+lling in his hand and begging him not to ruin a promising career, I left him standing by the levers ready to open the bridge.

For the pa.s.sage through we took on one of the hufflers,[5] and we anch.o.r.ed on the other side, as wind and tide were against us for the next reach. While we were at anchor many barges shot the bridge, which had been closed directly we had pa.s.sed through. It is one of the prettiest sights in the world to see them do it. As the barges'

topsails became visible over the sea-walls far off the hufflers recognized their clients and rowed off to meet them. The hufflers, the most curious brotherhood of all irregular pilots, live here in old hulks or built-up boats on the foresh.o.r.e. The wind was straight across the river and fresh, and a barge would come tearing along towards the bridge with everything set. When she was quite close to the bridge--sometimes not a length away--down went everything, all standing, till the great sprit rested on deck; and then, with her mainsail trailing in the water and a perfect tangle of ropes and gear everywhere, the barge would shoot under the bridge. On the other side she would anchor to hoist her gear again; but if the conditions had been right she would have hoisted her gear under way and gone straight on. To witness the consummate skill of this feat is to respect the race of bargees for ever. Think of it! The gear aloft--mast, topmast, and sails--weigh about three and a half tons, and there are just three men--one nearly always at the wheel--to lower and hoist everything.

There have been many accidents and still more narrow escapes, for, besides skill and nerve, foresight is required to see that everything on board is clear. At Rochester there are three bridges close together, and every day dozens of barges shoot them. It is well worth the return fare from London to watch the performance.

[5] See footnote on page 24.

The next day we returned to Newcliff, moored off the town a little way outside the creek in which we had spent the winter, and resumed our familiar life.

CHAPTER XVII

'Get up, get up; for shame! the blooming morn Upon her wings presents the G.o.d unshorn.

See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colours through the air; Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree.'

The coming of warm weather and long days proved to us that public interest in our floating home had not dwindled. We were a good deal disturbed by parties rowing round us the whole time we were afloat; and even when the tide had left us, sightseers in pathetically unsuitable boots would walk across the film of slime from the sh.o.r.e to look at us. In Newcliff we had evidently become a legend. Boatmen in charge of pleasure-boats would generally head for us; and as we sat on deck we often formed part of the audience as the boatmen delivered their peculiar versions of the details of our lives. But night would come and sweep away every annoyance; then boats were in the occupation only of professionals and yachtsmen, who would glide past us without stopping; landward noises were hushed, and the land itself was seen but dimly against the faint northern light thrown up from the hidden midsummer sun.

Sometimes we came on deck to see the dawn; then we always felt ashamed that we had not more often watched that pageant. Men, indeed, know little of the dawn; there must be many persons of eighty who have not looked upon it more than a dozen times. And dawn at the mouth of a great river, or, indeed, anywhere on salt water, differs from dawn on the land, for the sailor, having to work the tides, will be off with the first streak of light, if the tide serves then.

One morning one of our anchors had to be s.h.i.+fted at daylight lest the s.h.i.+p should sit on it, and the Mate and I were present at the birth of a wonderful day. There was silence, save for the slight crepitation of the water being drawn between the leeboards and the hull of the _Ark Royal_. The east was the grey of doves; the land was sunk in mist; then the mist began sliding away, and hills and houses grew by an imperceptible process out of the opaqueness like a photograph developing on a film. Seawards, the ruby lantern on the pierhead and the flaring Nore paled, pink wisps of cloud flooded across the sky, and the riding lights and buoy lights shrank to pin-points.

The Nore ceased to revolve, the sh.o.r.e lights guttered out, and indubitable daylight--how it had come one even then did not understand--fell upon a fleet of long-gaffed bawleys mustering in the Ray, and on a string of barges from the Medway, spreading like a skein of geese along the Blyth sand. Half-way between the retreating mists of the two sh.o.r.es there lay a long black plume of smoke from a steamer, and the drumming of her propeller seemed to rise out of the water at our feet.

The day that followed was worthy of that dawn. The sky was without a cloud, and the mirage s.h.i.+vered on the water from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e. Faint breezes off the land yielded before noon to a clock calm; then flaws of air from the eastward smeared the gla.s.sy surface; the cat's-paws became dimples, and the dimples tiny waves, and at last the crests of the waves began to break prettily and playfully without malice. This sea breeze blew true and warm all the afternoon, and when it met the ebb the tideway was all sparkling till the evening. Later the land breeze came again, and blew fainter and fainter until it ceased, and

'The sun, Closing his benediction, Sinks, and the darkening air Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night-- Night with her train of stars And her great gift of sleep.'

A particular pleasure of ours was to see the fishermen return. First the fleet of bawleys would anchor in the Ray a mile away, and as soon as the sails were stowed the men would put their catch in the boats to sail home to the creek. Two or three boats, perhaps, would detach themselves before the others like early ice-floes breaking away from the pack. Then groups would shove away from the fleet and tail out into a long procession as they raced for home. In the distance one could see the tide creeping over the flats, but long before it reached us there was water in the creek, so that only the sails of the boats showed moving between the banks of sand. The next fleet to look out for after the bawleys was the fleet of c.o.c.kle-boats, and they would work the creek or come over the flats according to the tide. Lastly, close on high water, came the loaded barges.

From the time the young flood came up the creek to the time the tide ebbed off the flats there was always something happening. One never woke at night and peered out but one saw the unceasing life of the sea, from the mustering of the humble bawleys in the dark to go shrimping to the pa.s.sing of the liner, s.h.i.+ning from stem to stern, perhaps carrying a Viceroy to the East. Often I said to myself: 'Here I am on deck in the night, and I ought to be asleep. But it is worth it. Just think; I might be sleepless in a house in a town, and have to look out upon a gas-lamp in a street.'

And then the entrancing variations of the tides! What is the secret of this curiosity that compels me to come frequently on deck even in the night to see whether the tide is higher or lower than it ought to be?

It is the uncertainty of what will happen, and one's partial ignorance of the causes of whatever does happen. Nautical almanacs give you their explanations of abnormalities, but they add instances of peculiar tides which are in contradiction of all their explanations.

Any encyclopaedia tells you that the sun and moon govern the tides; that the moon's influence is two and a quarter times that of the sun; that spring tides occur just after full moon and the change of the moon, and rise higher and fall lower than neap tides, which occur at the moon's quarters. But when you know that, how little you know! The very next step takes you into one of the least accurate of sciences.

In his famous 'Wrinkle' Captain Lecky says that we must wait for a genius to elucidate some of the mysteries. In the accounts of tides and tidal streams in nautical almanacs or the Admiralty Tide Tables one comes across phenomena about which the best authorities can say only: 'These peculiarities are probably due to....' Of the double low water at Weymouth Captain Lecky writes that it is not to be explained, but adds characteristically that someone has 'had a shot at it' in the Admiralty Tide Tables. The double high water at Southampton, the twelve-foot rise to the westward of the Bristol Channel, which increases to twenty-seven feet at Lundy Island and forty feet at Bristol, and the Severn bore, are easy to understand from the shape of the land. But that there should be only a six to seven foot rise on the English coast by the Isle of Wight, while there is a sixteen to seventeen foot rise on the French coast opposite, is not so simple.

Apart from peculiarities of their own in normal weather, tides are affected by strong winds and a low barometer, and then the tide tables, with their rise and fall to an inch and their time of high water to a minute, become hopelessly inaccurate. A strong north-north-west gale in the North Sea will raise the surface two or three feet and make the tides run longer on the flood; a strong south-east or south-west wind has the opposite effect. A low gla.s.s and a strong south-west wind will make big tides at the entrance of the Channel by Plymouth. On October 14, 1881, a large mail-steamer was unable to dock at the East India Docks, London, because a severe westerly gale had kept the tide back, so that at high water it was five or six feet below its proper level, and the next flood came up three hours before its time. In January of the same year a tide was registered at London four feet ten inches above high-water mark. At Liverpool there is a record of a tide six feet above 'H.W.O.S.,' which is the abbreviation for 'high water ordinary springs.' At Milford Haven in January, 1884, during a heavy westerly gale, the tide stopped falling two hours before the proper time for low water, and at low-water time had risen fifteen feet. So great is the contrariness of the tides that even strong winds cannot be relied upon for their effects.

For those whose reclaimed marshes lie behind low sea-walls in Ess.e.x the irregularities of the tides are too exciting at times. After the fierce gale in November, 1897, had veered from south-west to north-west, innumerable breaches were made in the sea-walls of the East Coast estuaries and many marshes 'went to sea.' Watchers on Latchingdon Hill, which overlooks the archipelago between the Crouch and the Thames, saw a memorable sight that day. With the s.h.i.+ft of wind the atmosphere had cleared, and the sh.o.r.es of Kent were visible. At the time of high water there was a big tide, and the flood was still running strong, and continued for nearly two hours beyond its proper time. Suddenly great streaks of white appeared along the east side of Foulness Island. It was the tide pouring over the sea-walls. Havengore Island, New England Island, Rushley, and Potton Islands disappeared save for the solitary farmhouses standing in the water, and an occasional knoll crowded with frightened beasts. Then the tide flowed over the sea-walls of the Roach River and across Wallasea Island to the River Crouch. Finally, little Bridgemarsh Island and the North Fambridge marshes for two miles to the west of it disappeared, the tide rolled up to the edge of the high ground, and the sea seemed to stretch from Kent to the foot of Latchingdon Hill.

With all practical observers the turn of the tide is the critical and significant moment; it is then that the auspices are good or bad.

Smacksmen tell you that if it begins to rain at high water it will continue for the whole of the ebb. They will say to one another, 'I doubt that'll rain the ebb daown,' or 'We're a goin' to have an ebb's rain.' If it begins to rain at low water they say that they will have a 'coa.r.s.e flood.' Again, on a calm summer morning, if it is high water at seven or eight, and the wind then springs up easterly, there will be an easterly wind all day. But if the tide is a midday one there will be no wind till high water. Sometimes it will blow freshly at high water when there has been no wind before, and though there may be none afterwards.

Fishermen who have got ash.o.r.e on a sandbank in a bit of a sea declare that they can tell at once whether the tide is ebbing or flowing by the way the vessel b.u.mps. On the flood-tide the sand is alive, but on the ebb it is dead and as hard as flint. Ask them for an explanation, and they will retort with further facts, such as that in a calm on the flood-tide the sand can be seen boiling up in the water, but never on the ebb. Again, they believe that frost checks the tides. They say it 'nips' them--a play upon the word 'neap,' which they use as a verb, and p.r.o.nounce 'nip.' Dredgermen on the River Crouch will tell you that in winter, after a flood-tide with the wind easterly, the bottom of the river is 'shet daown hard as a road,' and the dredges slide over the bottom and will not lift the oysters. They cannot explain it.

Undoubtedly an onsh.o.r.e wind and a flood-tide bring sand into the lower reaches, for the men find it in the dredges. On the other hand, some declare that the bed of the river is often hardened, where no sand is, as much as twelve miles from the sea.

No wonder that the tides are for the fishermen the standard of reference in all their conversation. They will say that such-and-such a thing happened about an hour before high water, or that the skipper of the _Ladybird_ went ash.o.r.e just as the vessels were swinging to the flood. If a skipper is asked when he is going to get under way, he will say, 'As soon as the tide serves'; or if asked why he did not arrive before, he will answer, 'I could not save my tide.'

CHAPTER XVIII

'From Bermuda's reefs; from edges Of sunken ledges, In some far-off, bright Azore; From Bahama and the das.h.i.+ng, Silver flas.h.i.+ng Surges of San Salvador.'

In August of our first summer afloat, we went for a month's cruise on the Ess.e.x coast. We had various mishaps of the kind which arrive out of the blue and remind the yachtsman that, however long his experience, he is still a learner.

One day, beating down the Colne in a fresh wind and a buffeting short sea, I made an error of judgment by sailing between two anch.o.r.ed barges where there was not enough room to handle the _Ark Royal_.

Finding myself in difficulties, I let go the anchor, but we dragged on to one of the barges and b.u.mped against her as gently as our best fendoffs would let us. Our anchor had fouled the other barge's cable, and it took some time to clear it, even with the help of the friendly skipper of the barge we had b.u.mped.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE RIVER ORWELL]

'Aren't that the little ould _Will Arding_, sir?' he said, when we were ready to drop astern and let go.

'Yes.'

'I reckoned that was she as soon as I seed 'er, and ain't she smart with her enamel and all? But I'd a knaowed she anywhere. Scores and scores o' times she's laid alongside o' we, that she hev!'

No damage was done except to my feelings. But the barge skipper had the delicacy to say that the _Ark Royal_ had meant to rub noses with an old friend, and had dragged alongside on purpose.

At Pin Mill Louisa had the panic of her life. We were all on sh.o.r.e except Louisa, and a s.h.i.+ft of wind blew the stern of the anch.o.r.ed _Ark Royal_ on to the mud. As the tide fell the barge's bows sank lower and lower until, to Louisa's horror, water began to rise over the kitchen floor. Seeing the water rise continually, she naturally thought the vessel had sprung a leak and was going to sink. Her first idea was to lift the plug to let the water out--a thing she had seen me do when the s.h.i.+p was high and dry. But luckily she could not get at it. With some presence of mind she then went on deck and hailed a neighbouring barge, whose skipper and mate came off and helped her to bail out her kitchen, and explained to her that as a barge is flat-bottomed the pumps can never empty her completely, and a very thin layer of water spread over such a large surface will seem considerable when it runs to one end.