 Chapter 10 of A Water Biography by Robert C. Leslie This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Chapter 10. Determined to sail farther east, leave Dartmouth for Weymouth. Thick fog outside Mewstown. Shape a course for Portland Bill. The nautical instruments of RVW. We make Portland. Anchor inside breakwater near Chessel Beach. Night alarm by Thames Barge. I am boarded by officials owing to our unofficial flag. No papers. Not registered, etc. Conclude after a survey that Weymouth is not a place to remain in and sail for the Solent. St. Albans race. Arrive in Solent. Meet Royal Mail Steamer Parana. Her swell and result. Anchor at Southampton. Run up the itchen. Moor ship off itchen ferry. Take a cottage at Woolstone. Pay off Tubman. Description of itchen ferry, etc. My wife drags her anchor. Advertise the yacht for sail. Advise to sell her by auction and move her into Southampton Docks. Our neighbors in dock. The fox, etc. We are mistaken for a Dutch family and become lions in the dock. Baron talks Dutch. A night alarm in the dock. The dog overboard. Difficulty of getting fresh water. Baron gets some on trial, etc. The day of sail. Yacht agents, marine store dealers, etc. on board. Elegance and brandy. Sail collapses. I become wiser and poorer. An ignominious termination to our crews. How it might or ought to have ended. Expensive adjectives. Leave the yacht. Baron ashore. He roasts a leg of mutton, etc. After drifting thus with my family, for more than two months up and down the habitable parts of the southwest coast of England and finding no resting place to our mind on terra firma, I now decided, as autumn was coming, to sail eastward and wade anchor on a fine clear morning about six for Weymouth or Portland Roads. We had, however, scarcely got as far as Dartmouth Mu Stone before running into a fog as thick as that in which we passed the start two days before. Indeed, we had barely time to shape a course for the Bill of Portland before our last landmark, the Mu Stone, vanished like a ghost in the mist. The nautical instruments on board, the RVW, were limited to a hand-led, a pair of dividers, a parallel ruler, an aneroid, and an old boat compass, purchased before leaving Sidmouth at a low price from a fisherman or rather retired smuggler. He, as he said, having no further use for it. It was a large compass in an oak box and having a heavy needle and card and being slow and sedate in action was very suitable for a small, lively craft like ours in a seaway. It had, I knew, guided its original owner's lugger across Channel on more than one dark night and proved true to us in this short trip across West Bay in a fog. For when, luckily, about three in the afternoon, the fog cleared a little, we made the Bill about a mile off on the Port Bow and with a fair wind rounded it close inshore and brought up inside the breakwater near the Chessel Beach, our light draft allowing us to lie here in about two fathoms where, as Tutman told Mrs. L., she might sleep in comfort. There are not being water enough inside us for any other vessel. I regret to say, however, that any small faith my wife may have had in Tutman was entirely lost. When about twelve that night she was roused suddenly by a great rush of water and banging of heavy sails as a large, dark-winged Thames barge ran close past and, shooting up in the wind, let go her anchor just ahead of us. I looked out and saw that, as usual, our riding-light had gone out. The day after our arrival at Portland was Sunday and, for want of something else to do, Tutman hoisted what he called our house-flag in honor of the day. Now this flag was simply two pieces of white and blue bunting stitched together by the Commodore, as a private signal between the yacht and her crew when the boat was away. Its effect, however, upon the mind of the local Coast Guard officer was such that it had not been at our mast had ten minutes before he came off with a boat-screw and after rowing round us inquired our name which was not painted on our stern and when told it said, Rip Van, what do you say? and appeared to think we were joking. He was a Scotchman and I invited him on board and for the first time since leaving Exmouth was asked for the vessel's papers which I had almost forgotten and told him that if any existed they were still waiting for me at Exmouth. Then he wanted to know where and by whom the penny-winkle was built and where we were bound and finally after a long discussion said he supposed he must report her as an unfinished vessel in the hands of her builder and owner bound for Southampton. It was that flag of strange device which had evidently bothered him because as he remarked he could not find that it belonged to any known yacht-club or yacht. Portland breakwater forms a fine harbor of refuge and a safe anchorage for men of war in larger craft but to us it wanted the quiet repose of the small landlocked harbors of Devon and Cornwall while the tidal harbor of Weymouth did not look tempting as a permanent resting place for a small yacht. I therefore took the first fair wind early one day for the Solent and we rolled merrily before it until off St. Albans where we found the ebbs still so strong against us that even with a nice breeze we barely held our own and tumbled about for over two hours in the short-crossed sea or race off that headland so that it was past three in the afternoon before we ran over the bridge between the needles and shambles shoal into the Solent. We had however a long flood tide now with us through the Solent and ran fast past Hearst Castle and the lovely shores of the island. Just before passing Hearst we met the old royal male steamer Parana. The weather here was of course quite smooth but she came close by us and the swell from her enormous paddles was so heavy and steep that it caused the RVW to pitch her largest anchor off the rail overboard leaving it for a moment swinging in such a way that it threatened to knock a hole through our bow. Tubman and Baron with difficulty contriving to secure it again before it did so. I was rather surprised at this anchor going overboard because shortly before we spent a long time tumbling about in the race off St. Albans without a sign of its moving. Luckily our precious dingy was on deck for had she been towing a stern she must have been smashed against our counter or the outrigger aft. I have sailed since for years in the Solent and Southampton water among the largest steamers but never met so short and steep a swell as that kicked up by this old paddle-wheeler. Tubman was well acquainted with Southampton water and we ran past Cal Shot and anchored off the town quay about six o'clock and remained there till next day when we shifted our berth and moored the RVW in a choir to one among the pretty fishing boats off Itchin Ferry. There was no railway or smoky iron ship-building-yard then on that side the river and on the high ground at Wolston above the mouth of the Itchin were many tempting detached houses surrounded by gardens overlooking the water with a foreground of lovely gorse-covered common tempted by which and a low rent we soon decided on taking one. Before leaving Sidmouth after packing away certain household goods in the shape of pictures, China and books we had sold most of our furniture so that we still had to remain some weeks on board the yacht until our new home which we christened Salcombe Cottage was ready. Tubman was paid off and returned to his wife at Exmouth barren remaining on board as crew, cook, and general servant. A more picturesque anchorage than this off the old red-brick village of Itchin Ferry 30 years ago would not be easy to find and we lay here for some time with good landing-hards for supplies, et cetera close at hand on either side the river. We were close to the moorings of a small fleet of half-deck trollers and shrimpers which every Saturday as they lay legged up on the hard for a scrub formed a busy, picturesque foreground of men, boats, and nets. And I only recollect one occasion in which even our Commodore had an anxious moment in this berth. And this was when, during a short absence of shore of barren and myself, she, Buzz, and her little girl being in sole charge a lad on board, a small yacht, a stern hailed her with Do you know, Marm, you're a dragon of your anchor. And the dog, Buzz, barking furiously at the boy, she hailed him back like a real Commodore with Well, if I am, I can't help it. We found, however, on our return that it was a false alarm. The RVW having only swung with the tide a trifle nearer the smaller yacht's boughsprit than usual. Having no further present use for the yacht and knowing that she would be too large for single-handed day cruising she was now advertised for sale. And shortly afterwards, in a weak moment I was persuaded by a local auctioneer to try and sell her by public auction to be held on board. And in order to facilitate this we left our moorings in the itchen for the inner dock at Southampton. This inner or floating dock was a far quieter and cleaner place than today. And our only neighbors in the corner we selected were Lady Franklin celebrated Arctic search vessel the Fox, and Lord Dufferin's little 80-ton schooner, Foam. On board the Fox a man was in charge who had served in her under Sir Leopold McClintock and we had many a yarn with him about that memorable expedition. She was a sturdy-looking, small screw steamer with boughs and sides of great thickness above and below her water or rather ice-line. Strangers and visitors going round the docks under the guidance of an old dock loafer always came to stare at this vessel. And with the object, no doubt, of keeping his audience longer in hand this mendacious or inventive man contrived to include the Rip Van Winkle in his program. And Baron heard him one day explaining to his party how this small vessel had recently crossed the Atlantic with a Dutch family on board who were now living in her. Baron adding that he carefully helped the man by answering questions addressed to him and an unintelligible lingo invented for the occasion. Sunday was the great show day for the lions of the docks and on one of these we were amused. While at dinner in our cabin we heard Baron as he handed down a bowl of hot potatoes to us through the skylight answer some sightseers who had been watching him fry some chops on deck in this unknown tongue or as he called it double Dutch which mystifies anyone what wants to know all about us. Next to Baron the dog Buzz was our best cork fender against inquisitive visitors. He was not a dog to entertain strangers and all attempts to board his ship were resisted by him in a most determined way. While unless accompanied by one of her crew nothing would induce him to abandon his post on board. I often wondered he was not lost overboard during our cruise when keeping his anchor watch in a tied way up and down the narrow deck round the cockpit and shall not soon forget an alarm he gave me late one night in the docks when I was awoke out of a sound sleep by a heavy splash in the water between the yacht and the quay. Sound close to an inch plank is greatly magnified especially when one is half awake. Baron was not on board when I turned in and I rushed on deck just as I was expecting to find him in the dock. He was not at any rate on board nor was Buzz in his locker or on deck and everything round the yacht was as still as the grave. So feeling sure that either man or dog or perhaps both must be in the water I shoved the digging overboard to have a look round in her. The jetty we lay at was built on piles and after paddling once or twice round the yacht I at last caught sight in a gleam of lamplight of a small dark thing under the jetty which I made out to be the dog half out of the water hanging on to a cross-stay by his forepaws. I was so frightened that no coaxing would induce him to move and I had great difficulty in getting the boat near enough to lift him into her after which I turned in again almost as damp as the dog and shortly afterwards heard Baron who had been spending the evening with some friends step on board. Buzz was not a true sea-dog being born to be drowned which came to pass some years after this when in chase of a cat he slipped off a wall in the night into a water-butt. Policemen or watchmen were supposed to patrol the docks at night but the only trouble we ever had from them during the three weeks we lay here was an objection on their part to Baron filling our water-cask at a tap near where we lay. He had done this many times and when interfered with came to me to know what to do and I told him I would see the dock people about it. On my return, however, I found him, like mother Hubbard's dog with a four-gallon breaker full which he said he had got on trial or for me to taste from a young man who sold fresh water from a boat in the docks at 18 pence a ton. I don't know how he kept up his supply after that unless it came from the original tap when the policeman as he often is was somewhere else. The appointed day for the sale came at last and with it a solemn inquisitorial-looking band of hard-featured mariners all strangers to me but evidently not to the auctioneer. My wife Youngsters and Baron spent that morning ashore getting things ship-shape in our new home so that I might have nothing to distract me from the business of the day. And I had ample time to note how this party of old marine store and yacht dealers seemed full of important secrets gathering in little groups of two and three about the cabins always speaking in those low mysterious tones adopted by the assembled company and friends of a dear-departed relative at his funeral. Until at last I almost felt as I moved among them like the guilty ghost of myself and went on deck to avoid hearing something painful. I am not over-sensitive, however, and have since observed that this preliminary hum of cautious whispering is not confined to the sale of property afloat. It was at this stage of the proceedings that my auctioneer drew me aside and after inquiring what was the very lowest figure I was disposed to let her go for and on hearing it, confided to me that everything now depended upon him and his eloquence, in combination with the effect upon the brain of the assembled company of a mixture of cold grog to be placed at once upon the cabin table. I therefore inquired delicately the exact proportions he thought would prove most efficacious. He said at once one or two or, as he explained it, a bottle of brandy to two of water. Looking at the hard-headed group assembled about that cabin table, it seemed to me doubtful whether a mixture of even two to one would have much effect on their brains. The grog was soon prepared and almost as soon vanished. And silence, having been called by the man of business for an eloquent address, a long pause ensued before a mysterious bid or two came from some invisible party after which this convivial meeting broke up. I don't know or care what became of that auctioneer. This was more than thirty years ago and he has had time to drink himself to death. But I know that he left me then a wiser and poorer man by five pounds with the RVW still on my hands in the Southampton docks. Besides the waste of money and brandy, this was a feeble, and ignominious end for a three-month cruise in a remarkable craft like the Rip Van Winkle. Even up to our last day at sea in her, a more artistic or exciting end might have been managed, beginning, for instance, in a calm outside the needles and a sun sinking beyond a long, low belt of jagged cloud forms with a pale, sickly light above across which flipped the spectral shapes of the torn, ragged locks of a typhoon. And after telling Tubman that I don't like the look of yonder sky, I leave him at the tiller and go below to consult the aneroid. Then he turns to my wife with, nor do I, Marm, though I've seen the lights of it in the tropics. And she, who has been admiring the sunset, says, do you really think then, Mr. Tubman, we are likely to have a storm? To which he replies, sailors, Marm, are born for all weathers. Still, with all my heart, I would, for the dear children's and your sake, we were inside the white. But, Providence, having seen fit to leave us out here with the tide against us, we must have faith and never forget the old song which tells us, Mrs. L, there's a sweet little cherub as sits up aloft, etc. And even now, as I come on deck again and we leave Tubman at the helm, a hysterical shudder trembles among our slackened cordage and sails as they hang yet useless and motionless aloft, heavy with the clammy night-dew from our tapering spars. That's a good beginning, and half an hour later the storm blast is upon us and the sea becomes a seething, boiling scum of shapeless spoon-drift. In fact, it loses its head altogether, cut off by the howling tempest around us. Weather permitting, the RVW was a decent kind of sea-boat. But, like my wife and a friend of hers I met at sea, she did not care for this sort of thing. Still, she tried to do her best, and with every sail, rope, spar, and timber madly groaning, now tore through the dark, yeasty-striped surges off Black Gang Chine as though she felt instinctively that each life on board hung upon her power to weather St. Catherine's light. Well, she didn't, and after missing stays as she inevitably would under the circumstances and a feeble attempt to wear off shore a crash follows, while Tubman and I are below consulting the chart over a glass of grog, and in five minutes all that remained of the yacht was her dingy, which steered by Baron safely rides ashore under the scowling cliffs of Black Gang with the Commodore and my three children. The worst of this kind of word-painting is that it uses up so many pots of scarce and expensive adjectives that you almost want a boy in buttons to look them up in the dictionary for you. But putting that aside, I think the above is a better ending, and it would not only have saved a bottle of brandy and other expenses of the auction, but have cut this water byography short, while the mast and large timbers of the RVW would have made good foreground bits for artists on that lonesome shore. Even the ark, after Noah and his family left it, must have looked well against an evening sky on top of Ararat. But when a light furniture van, the day after that auction in the docks, drew up on the jetty alongside the yacht, and all our traps, bedding, books, pots, and pans were loaded on it for conveyance to Woolstone, the ripped van-winkle as we left her hardly showed it all above the quay among the large craft about her. It was perhaps as well, after being so long at sea that we had to remain in dock for a few weeks, because in that time we all quite lost our sea-legs and walked, respectively, up and down Southampton High Street without that strange roll which often marks the real yachtsman just landed after a long voyage. Baron, who was a ready-made man Friday, accompanied us to our new home on shore, and after scrubbing all our floors as only a sailor could, cooked for us the first real roasted leg of mutton we had tasted since leaving Sidmouth. He remained with us here three weeks, and I wished I could have kept him all together, so handy and useful was he in a house. His man Friday kept his house tidy, for it was his duty to do so. Old Song End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 of A Water Biography by Robert C. Leslie This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Chapter 11 The Rip-Fan Winkle Winters in Dock Two tempting offers. I refuse them and haul out of dock. Mr. Blocks I obtain his assistance. Official red tape. Mr. Blocks carried out of dock in RVW alone. Terrible scene with him on board. An interesting family event. Its consequence. A third offer for yacht. I part with her. She is rechristened and sails for Jersey. I keep the dingy. I design a half-decked boat. She is built, etc. Mr. Marks and my brother christen her. Navigation of the itchen. Jersey boat. An unexpected turn. Tugs and their followers. I design a half-decked boat. Tugs and their followers. I nearly suspend my certificate. My boat jumps and oar. A bad look-out. Getting under way too soon, etc. The RVW lay in dock until the following March. At a weekly rent of one and eight pence. During which time I had two offers for her. One from a celebrated yacht skipper and pilot. Who wanted me to swap with him for a small check. And an old ten-tonner. And another from a retired captain in the P&O. Who offered a valuable collection of old masters. Of the Dutch and Flemish schools in part payment. I never saw those pictures. And not being a judge of old masters. There was just a chance. Had I accepted his offer. That they might have proved a gross of green spectacles. I therefore now determined. To haul the yacht out of dock. And moor her in the itchen. Where she would lie rent-free. With no risk of being converted into old masters. And as with my then limited knowledge of the port. This was not a single-handed job. I had to look round for a mate. Among the waterside people of Woolstone. Was a stout round little naval pensioner. Who added considerably to his income. By applying repeated coats of many-colored paint. To a small yacht there. He was quite an artist in this business. And from his love of a bright canary color. For blocks and mast heads. Was sometimes spoken of. As Mr. Yellow Blocks. He was a good specimen of the old sea-man gunner. And one of the select few wounded. By the henamese fire in the Baltic. Having lost the end of a finger. By a splinter from a ruchin's shell. He was a capital fellow. And his only fault was. That whether stroke the right or wrong way. He was always in the opposition. So that when I required his services. I usually began by opposing his plan of operations. And then telling him to do it his own way. This change of front. Enabled us to pull together. Because as he said. You see sir. You very so. The unlocking of the Rip Van Winkle as he called her. Was not a matter to be easily undertaken by him. And as he and I. With his boy and my two. Road over to the docks. The usual arguments as to how it should be done. Took place. I suggested a tug. Well. He never knew such a extortional idea. Why. If you was to go for it. To oddly look at one. They'd want a small forten. And it must be a blowin. A blue pigs if him. And his boy. Couldn't tow her out of dock. It was not blowing pigs of any color. When Mr. Blocks and his boy commenced towing the RVW. Toward the entrance of the inner dock. But she was foul below water. And they were making slow progress across the dock. When a breeze sprang up right ahead. And finding they were losing ground. They made fast to a warping buoy. I then left the tiller. And took the boy's oar. And after half an hour's hard work. We got her to within warping distance of the lock. Into which a light collier had just gone ahead of us. Then Mr. Blocks. Seeing she had a tug ready to take her out. Asked her skipper. If he would be so kind as to oblige with a pluck into the river. The lock gates were already open. And there was just time to make fast a stern of the brig. When an official pounced down upon me on board the RVW. For my pass or receipt for a fortnight's dock-dues. Without which no vessel could leave dock. The money was easily found. But I had to go ashore to get the pass. And only returned in time to see Mr. Blocks. Flying out of dock a stern of the collier. With no one aboard the RVW but the three youngsters. This was very provoking. But I am always being pounced upon by officials of some kind at inconvenient times or when I am busy. There's a man just come to see me if my water taps are leaky. I always leather them myself and yet he says, One leaks a little. Then there's the income tax man who wants to know what I live on. When I tell him, Knock on writing books about boats. Says, Yes, but you must live on something. Then I tell him, I live mostly on boats. And he says, That won't do, etc. Well, after this interruption I had to recross the river by the ferry. And by the time I got on board again, Yellow Blocks, who had let go his tow-line and anchored in the middle of the river, was mopping his face in the cockpit, panting and puffing with indignation and pity for himself. Left on a wears alone in a craft like she, without a hand able to let go of a rope, let alone make him fast and ever he thinks to worry temporary. Yes, he never see nothing so temporary aboard any vessel of four, and never experience a half hour like it since he were born and wouldn't honor take such a job again. No, not if you was to go on your bended knee and offer him a five-pun note to do so. When he paused to take breath, I said, Well, your anchor was all ready to let go. Oh, yes, and he let it go, and pre-night tore his and half the doing so. Mr. Blocks' hand did not look much the worse, and after this explosion things went on more smoothly. The yacht was laid ashore for a scrub, over which I left him and his son to argue for a couple of days, after which we took her up the river with the tide and moored her comfortably for an aft, where she lay upright at low water on a soft cushion of mud. She remained here for over a year, when the question of all cruising in her was definitely settled for us by the rather unexpected arrival at Solcombe Cottage of a fourth child and third son. Sent no doubt to fill the place of our second boy, who being born a good sailor had now left us for the Britannia training ship. It was just after this interesting event that having gone on board the yacht one day to air her and pump out rainwater, two very sad-faced shipwrights, after rowing round her once or twice, hailed me with, No offence meant, sir, but if they understood right, which they'd eared the vessel were for sail, and was just taken the liberty to have a look, if in course there was no offence in doing so. On which I, in course, asked them to come on board, and tried ineffectually to make them feel at ease. They belonged, however, to the now nearly extinct humble-servant type of artificer, and after a careful survey of the RVW left me overwhelmed with profound apologies for making so bold as to intrude, etc. A week later the most melancholy of the two men who were brothers appeared at Salcombe Cottage, and, hoping there was no offence, and if he might say so, as no harm was intended, what might be the value I put on my vessel? Not as they was thinking much of buying, but understood, as she was for sail, thought no harm would come of inquiring at what price. I invited him to sit down, which he could not be induced to do, and telling him I was chiefly anxious to sell on account of a recent domestic affliction, and that I wanted, rather to get the yacht off my hands than the money, which was more or less a lie. He remarked, as the mansion, alluding to Salcombe Cottage, but if they were to make so bold as to make an offer, there would be no harm meant or done. The upshot of which was that having now paid my footing as a shipbuilder, the RVW was sold to those melancholy humblemen of heart for less than half her value, and was removed to their yard or dock, where she lay for several months until, after being altered into a cutter, she was sold by them to a Jersey cow dealer with a view to trade between the islands and Granville. I had another painful interview with the melancholy one when this sail took place, and had to fill up and sign a long form of particulars as to the material and fastenings of the RVW, which he begged, if no offense, and I'd no objections, might be described, not, of course, meaning any harm, but as some might like to alter the name if it was there put down as Rip Van Winkle pro-tim. She was, in fact, rechristened Alexanderina by her new owner and turned up under that name one day at Southampton with a cargo of potatoes. But the last I saw of her was on the evening she started on her first voyage to Jersey, when, in a light wind, I sailed round her in a half-decked boat, and her new owner and skipper said, You wouldn't do that if I was outside. And at the same time offered me a passage on board her to Jersey. This, of course, I had to decline and console myself as I wished him a pleasant voyage with the thought that after all the idle time spent on her someone might now be able to turn an honest penny in the Rip Van Winkle. I did not sell her dinghy, though not long after the sale of the yacht I had an offer via Mr. Blocks, of four pounds for her, from a barge owner, which, as Mr. Blocks said, He should be ashamed to mention to a gent like me what he knowed wouldn't on no account whatsoever sell that boat for twice the money. In fact, Mr. Blocks now rapidly developed a quite paternal interest, not only in the dinghy, but all the family. And when he met any of us, a float or a shore seemed to think we had been dropped from heaven for his special joy or benefit. So that soon after I became the owner of a new half-decked boat, his interest in her became so oppressive that to escape it I shifted my moorings from the coast of Woolstone to one among the fishermen off Itchin Ferry, who, having boats of their own to look after, had less time than Mr. Blocks to devote to me and mine. Fish and shrimp trawling in the Solent and Southampton water was, I fancy, a better business then than now. And most of these men began life afloat as soon as they could hold a tiller or tender fire in the dark little forepeak of their father's boat. There was great esprit décor among them, combined with constant rivalry between each boat when beating to wind or running home to market. And this kept up a constant supply of most efficient fore-and-aft sailors and yachting pilots, though I do not think they were much improved by this employment. I never took much interest in yacht racing and take less every year, as the type of racer, since I first knew the sport, recedes further from that of the older racing craft, which, after their cup-winning days were over, not only made comfortable cruisers, but good, wholesome fishing and pilot boats. And since the introduction of outside lead, the process of evolution or change has been so rapid that a boat built in the winter of one year is often out of date by the close of the yachting season. So that unless an owner of even a small craft is ready to spend two or three hundred upon a new boat annually, he is quite out of the game, while in the larger classes the expense is so enormous that no one under a millionaire will soon be able to compete in them. In my time I have built or owned six boats and can honestly say that from the first time to the last they have all been boats for which a man could find some use and in which he might earn a living. The first boat I had, after giving away my yacht, was designed to be simply as large as I could build her for the money and length, eighteen feet. And on leaving Southampton she was sold to a fisherman who on my return there four years later refused more than the price I got for her, though her sails and gear were then almost worthless. I had many pleasant cruises during the five years I had this boat with my little daughter Kate as crew, until she became such a good hand at the tiller that I was able to trust to her steering even in a crowded tideway. We never gave the new boat a name until one day my brother George and his friend H. Stacy Marks being on board in a two reefed breeze and choppy sea after many attempts to light their pipes and keep them going, christened her my water spaniel. She was built by a working shipwright at Woolstone from molds drawn on my painting room floor and cost forty-five pounds. This was thirty years ago and I still meet her cruising about the Solent and Southampton water. The navigation of the itchen past the docks and steam ferry to our moorings was a first-rate school of river work, especially against wind and tide, among vessels and tugs coming in and out of dock. In crowded riverboat sailing I have always found that most accidents are owing either to a bad lookout or to some previous false move. Close shaves must often be the rule in this sort of work, for without them such navigation would almost be impossible. Still, as long as there is plenty of wind or motive power a small sailing craft is as easily handled in a crowded tideway as a steamer. But in light winds this is not always the case and I remember one day seeing the funnels of a Jersey boat moving out fast above the dockhead and knowing she could not see my boat kept inshore out of her way under the upper dockhead. The wind was light and I was not a little surprised when instead of going down the river as I had expected the steamer turned short round this upper dockhead almost on top of me. She was in the hands of an old friend Captain Goodrich and I had just time to down helm and come up in the wind as he sung out All right Leslie and passed me with his paddle-box a few inches clear of my bowsprit end. He was not outward bound but up the river for repairs and was coming out of dock at almost full speed in order to make a sharp turn round that dockhead. Tugs especially with two or three vessels in tow are often awkward to deal with when beating up or down a river because though the tug may be able to slow or stop dare not do so on account of the vessels astern of her and I once narrowly escaped being dismasted by a light collier cast off with full way upon her from a tug when the collier turned short round on me toward a ballast wharf. It was calm and I only saved my mast by two or three strong backstrokes with an oar or sweep which luckily I had handy. I always hold an impartial inquiry on board after such occurrences but I cannot say that had either of these shaves ended badly I should have suspended my certificate. This was not the case however one day when sailing out of the itchen before a nice breeze I found myself for want of a little foresight running close past a long ballast lighter which was pulling slowly up the river in such a position that if I bore away I should be under the boughs of a large catch beating up with the tide across the river while if I left there was not room to pass between her and the lighter stern owing to a long steering oar. I and the catch were both going fast and there was not an instant to spare and to escape a decided smash I left sharp round and charged the bow steering oar with the chance of going over it or breaking it or my boat's forefoot I asked the man at the oar as I did so to raise the inner end of it I had not time to see whether he did or not but my boat came short round between the catch and the barge's stern with a foot or two to spare the men on board the catch evidently expected a smash and looked as much surprised as I was myself at the way the boat slipped in between them and the lighter now this was a clear case of a false move for half a minute earlier nothing would have been easier than for me to have gone the other side the lighter and a stern of the catch as it was I escaped one horn of the dilemma thanks to the handiness of my boat better than I deserved another occasion in which I nearly came to grief for want of a good lookout was after having been an anchor all day fishing below netly with the wind across the river I had hoisted my mainsail preparatory to getting under way but had not observed a large outward bound P&O boat coming down and steering with the evident intention of passing just clear of my stern and ahead of some other boats also at anchor she had not sounded her whistle and seeing we were all at anchor no doubt did not think it necessary to do so but the first I saw of her was after I had started my anchor out of the ground and while hauling it up found I was driving a stern right across her course it was too late to let go my anchor again and I had barely time to ease my mainsheet hoist the foresail and pay off under it down the river before the great steamer was close upon me with her three masts in line happily big steamers are not wide but as I bore away from her and watched her masts I was not sorry to see them open out clear of each other I don't suppose the pilot on board her blessed me because it was a clear case of bad lookout while to make matters worse had anything gone wrong I had my last small boy in the boat with me that day End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 of A Water Biography by Robert C. Leslie This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Chapter 12 I take part in a naval review A night in a railway station The pride of the morning Sao Wester's oil skins and summer toilets A crowded landing-place HMS Achilles' boat stops the way I get on board an iron clad dry Captain Van Cetart and his ship A sail and a man-of-war's cutter To spithead and back A long row I leave woolstone Reason for doing so Go to deal The dinghy makes her first appearance on that beach I add to her freeboard and cruise in her in the downs, etc. Deal boatmen and their gear The lugger tiger A lugger split in two Ship on fire in the downs A heavy gale Wind force Deal boatmen's cutty Our neighbors at deal J. W. M. Turner at Margate The van-cook lifeboat Sand-down castle, etc. We leave deal Take a villa at Erith Why? Economy and advantages of moving The dinghy sails for Erith With our cat on board Boating at Erith Great increase of steam traffic John Brett on the river Lower Thames compared with Upper The last of the flood-round crayfordness Peterboats, etc. Pick up a capsized canoeist An old Waterman's prophecy verified I return to Southampton Sell my old dinghy A short history of her Her untimely end at Chelsea My second son had not long joined His first ship, the Achilles When, as the papa of a real live midshipman I got an invitation to see the review Of the fleet in honour of the Sultan On July 17, 1867 And to be in time for the boat From the Achilles in the morning I had to take the last train From Southampton the night before Which arrived at Portsmouth soon after midnight Where, in company with many others I spent an hour or two before daybreak In the railway station After which, refreshed by a cup of coffee I strolled down to Southsea Beach It was a dirty, fresh, blowing morning And soon after 6 a.m. seeing a boat Leave the Achilles, I walked back Through Point Gate to a Sally Port Where I found, even at that early hour A crowd of elaborately dressed ladies And gentlemen, all waiting for boats From the respective ships named In their cards of invitation There was a small something The pride of the morning we called it Falling with a wide stretch Of gray and white broken water Between this place of embarkation And the two extended lines Of men of war at spithead And as one after another The ships' boats dashed in The wet, shiny oil skins of their crews Contrasted curiously with the summer toilets Of the assembled sisters, cousins, and aunts The water in front of the quay Now a mere jumble of heavy, rolling Steam launches, ships cutters, and smart gigs Reminding one of a crowded street Blocked with gentlemen's carriages Near one of the great London theatres Of the opera. Only in place of the names Or titles of the owners of carriages It was the name of the man of war To which each boat belonged That was called out by the party Waiting for her. It was almost A dead noser out to the fleet And as the steam launches started With two or three boatloads of guests In tow, it was something like a Case of, come under my plady As officers gave up their oil skins To the more unprotected among the ladies It was a work of time before a party For any particular ship got fairly off There being almost as much of a scramble Among the boats as that attending The embarkation of passengers In an Italian steamer by the boatmen Inside the mole at Naples Boats whose party had not arrived Stopping the gangway and those Wanted being the outside ones Which led to much chaff Among the different officers in charge Especially if one of them was at all Slow in shipping his party Now, sir, when you are ready We are. Or perhaps you'd kindly Drop a stern if you're not in a hurry And make room for those who are There's plenty of time for you, et cetera The launch from the Achilles Was one of the last to arrive And had to wait some time Before she could get alongside the quay I was lucky enough to find A corner in her forward Under a tarpaulin tilt And got on board the ship dry But from the way the spray flew over her After-part and the two boats in tow Many new bonnets and hats In spite of a cloud of umbrellas Must have been ruined in the short Trip out to Spithead Once on board the great iron clad And inside the shelter of your high bulwarks One hardly knew, except for the hum of it Among the lofty spars and rigging That it was blowing a double reef topsoil breeze Admiral Vansetart, then in command Of the Achilles, was a most kindly host To all on board his ship that day And I spent a pleasant quarter of an hour In his pretty cabin hung with flowers And bird cages, while a pair of white cockatoos Roamed at large about it Lunch for the friends of sublutenants and middies Was served in their large airy gun room And though no daylight ever penetrated The apartment below where my boy Slung his hammock and kept his chest I came to the conclusion that in such a ship Commanded by a man who took as much interest In the youngsters as Captain Vansetart did There might be harder times at sea Than those of a middy on board HMS Achilles The fleet was anchored in two long lines The northern one formed of iron clads Which in those days were mostly Full rigged sea-going ships And the southern of the old wooden Auxiliary screw line of battleships By the Queen's desire none of the ships Move that day, so that the review Was merely a procession of the royal yacht The Admiralty yacht and others Up and down between the men of war The wind blew hard all day And in order to make sure of an early train For Southampton I took advantage Of one of the ship's cutters starting for shore And with two other visitors dropped into her And made my first and last trip under sail In a man of war's boat It was while this fleet, with that valuable middy in it Lay here that I boarded the Achilles In my own boat one Saturday To get leave for him until Monday I had a long beat against a southeast wind To Spithead, which after leaving The Achilles in the afternoon died away And with a foul tide we barely held our own For two hours, so that I had to row the boat Nearly twenty miles in a calm Before reaching the itchen About eight-thirty that evening I have been spoken of by friends As unstable as water It was the then doubtful character Of the water supply and other Insanitary matters which led to my leaving Woolstone And after a week or two spent in looking round We pitched upon a large, low-rented house Upon the north end of Deal Beach To which we moved our furniture And the dinghy by rail There was nothing but a roadway And a narrow strip of shingle Between this house and the downs Indeed, so sea-beaten Was this bit of beach That it was only in finest weather That I dare leave my little boat upon it at night While every spring tide The sea passed through the shingle Of the house and welled up in a lane Upon lower ground behind it In spite of this the house itself Was perfectly dry The basement being filled in with concrete Two feet thick My little boat was then the only one On the beach not owned by a professional Boatman, and her first appearance There soon brought a group of the north end Boatman round her I had rigged her up with a lug mainsail And a forsel She was two feet six inches shorter Than the smallest class of punts on the beach And the first time I sailed in her The men were surprised to find She was able to rather more than hold Among them to winward. I found beach work at deal Even in this small boat Comparatively easy after the heavier seas Of Sidmouth. But when out in the strong tide rips Of the downs I should have been glad Of a larger boat. And in order to better face this kind Of sea I added to the dinghy's free Board a four and a half inch wash streak This was done by a local boat builder Who was curious to know where she was built And when told said Well, I allowed she was built by a shipwright Because everything is so strong about her Some months afterwards I found the same boat builder on the beach Going carefully over my boat With his two foot rule And he told me he was measuring her In order to give a price for one like her To be built for an old sea captain Who had met her off the south sand head light ship Turning to wind like a little horse I soon established pleasant relations With the boatmen And found plenty of handy bare-legged deal Urchins to help at a launch or haul up From our windows we could see the good winds And in gales of wind through a glass All that went on upon them And among the shipping in the downs While in fine weather after she was deepened I was able to be off and out among the shipping In a few minutes Or to enjoy in her longer cruises To the south sand head one way And Ramsgate harbor the other Owing to the more permanent character Of the beach and sheltered position of the downs The deal men were able to establish upon it Far better capstans and launching gear Than was possible at Sidmouth While their boats were all larger And more heavily ballasted than the little Sidmouth Or the beerhead luggards The crews of all these larger luggers Or cat boats and galley punts Had nothing to do with the work of hauling them up Which was left to gangs of old boatmen Employed by the boat owners At a fixed rate of six pence for each trip On the other hand the deal boatmen Often kept the sea for a week or more at a time Tending ships and pilots up the Thames To Gravesend or Down Channel beyond Dungeoness I remember missing one of the largest luggers The Tiger for more than a fortnight And was told she had remained nearly the whole time Under Dungeoness fearing to run home Through the heavy sea off the Admiralty pier Dover While had it been a headwind She would have been back at once I saw one of these largest new luggers Halled up in halves Having split from end to end After a bump upon the sand In launching with an anchor and chain On board for a vessel in the Downs A few days of strong southerly wind Filled the Downs And the ships then seen from our windows at night Looked like the street lamps of a great city And one of the strangest sights I ever saw Was when a large Italian bark In making a flare up signal for assistance Took fire from a bucket of paraffin Capsizing on her quarter deck And breaking away from her anchors off Walmer Drove in flames through the whole fleet Of ships to leeward of her And burnt out upon the good winds Near the gull light vessel Her crew were all saved by deal boats It was blowing almost a hurricane from southwest And it was wonderful to watch the little Black storm sails of the luggers and galley punts By the light of the fire and the moon As they flitted in and out Among the crowded fleet of tossing shipping There was a heavy sea rolling in all the time And the wind being offshore The crests of the waves were torn off In whirling clouds of spoon drift As the long lines of swell ran in on the beach The force of the wind that night Must have been great For a window was blown in at the back of our house And the glass carried eighteen feet across the room While the strength of two people was required To force open the door of the room Yet these weatherly open boats were at work Through it all under canvas The larger luggers, though without any true deck Are provided with a kind of movable cutty Or a large box fitted in them Between the main and four thwarts Into which there is room for four men To creep in and sleep The whole thing is perfectly watertight With a small sliding door aft And two little sliding windows forward This gives the men a chance To keep some dry clothes and food on board When out cruising for more than a day Though number five sand-down terrace Was a substantial well-built house We soon discovered that all the rooms facing the downs With a nor'easter in winter were almost untenable But we had for next-door neighbors Two old ladies who had lived in the terrace for years And when we complained of this to them they said Why, you've not pasted up your windows And explained that from November to the end of March Every chink of theirs facing the sea Was hermetically closed by strips of cartridge paper Carefully pasted over them These old ladies wore short waists and turbans And when the most able-bodied of them Got underway for a morning cruise on the breezy Esplanade There was something about her as she rolled along Under a big parasol which always reminded one Of an 80-gun ship of the line Of the Georgian error in full sail They belonged also to that extinct, Nervous race of women who liked and encouraged Barrel organ grinders So that for an hour or so of every day Of our stay at deal The rugged roar of the surf was mingled Or softened by popular heirs of the period I was also much interested to find that As natives of Margate they knew J. W. M. Turner As a young man When he used to visit friends of theirs there To see a young lady to whom he was then Engaged to be married The old ladies took no interest in Turner the artist And spoke of him only as a poor, delicate youth Who was not expected to live long And said that the young ladies' relations Wished the engagement broken off on that account In a motherly way these two elderly sea nymphs Took an interest in my little boat and her crew As indeed they did in all the boats and men Who hailed from the north end of the beach A tarred sea-walk extended from our house Northward to the ruins of Sandown Castle Much of which then lay in huge masses of masonry Against which, in a gale, the sea broke furiously It had lately been partially destroyed by gunpowder Between this ruin and our terrace The van-cook lifeboat was housed The gift of E. W. Cook, the marine painter But I heard a year or two after we left deal That owing to the rapid encroachment of the sea This boat and house had to be removed further inland Before living here I had often read of people Being blown down or carried off their legs by wind But scarcely realized such stories until one evening I had to drop on all fours on this esplanade In order to keep myself from being blown off it Into the surf on the beach At such times all the smaller boats Including my own were lashed to a lamp or other post To keep them from being blown away Which reminds me that at Sidmouth I once saw a sixteen-foot boat Which had been lashed alongside a post Actually impaled upon it With the post sticking through her bottom The wind having turned her over on top of it We remain two years at deal Arriving there in August 1867 And leaving in August 1869 for Erith Where we took a commodious but Jerry-built villa On high ground near Bexley Heath My first plan for this move was to charter a Thames barge And load our things into her at deal But the uncertainty of the date of arrival And expense of transshipment at Erith Decided me to trust them to Pickford In Company and the rail We undertook this move, I think, With a vague notion that Erith was near London And the art world, but had not been there long before We found that practically this was not the case Some persons may say here That we were wasting our substance On railways and riotous moving I have come to the conclusion that this was not true In our case, and that an ordinary family trip For change of air cost more money And is not half so amusing or instructive As a household removal of even a hundred miles By road or rail While to those not too indolent to enjoy it The packing and unpacking of furniture, pictures in China And their rearrangement in a fresh house Is a form of recreation, both mental and bodily Far exceeding those afforded By an ordinary seaside watering place Our new villa, though on high ground Was not too far from the Thames for a boating And I had a mooring laid near the pier at Erith For my dinghy, which made the voyage from deal Of eighty miles in charge of an old boatman Who asked eighteen shillings for the job Or about seven shillings less Than she would have cost by rail He left deal in her about seven the same evening That I did, and turned up at our new house The day after my arrival there With the domestic cat who had been his companion In his arms This little cat started carefully packed in a hamper But the old man said, He soon let her out of that after getting out to sea And that puss at once made herself at home on board I had not sailed on the Thames for nearly twenty years And found it greatly changed Especially above Erith, Tripcot, and Galleon's reaches Where both the air and water Were far from sweet smelling While just before and after high water A long close procession of screw steamers Up and down the river Made tacking across it under sail Almost as risky as crossing the traffic Of a crowded London street would be on a tricycle This state of things did not, however, last long And after tide time The river became comparatively clear of steamers When, in company with my old red sailed friends The Thames and Rochester barges There was plenty of room to tack across the river From Erith brands and Perfleet Up and down long reach to Greenhithe Gravesend or through the lower hope Into sea reach I had the pleasure on one such trip Of John Brett's company The day proved almost calm It was indeed a day of reflections And I was amused as we drifted With the tide past Perfleet At a mental note he made aloud Upon the effect of light and shade On the low ripples of edge softening Edge gradation That's the main thing about them Owing to the enormous amount Of varied human interests concentrated on its banks And afloat on its crowded stream I have always felt that aristocratically The tidal waters of the Thames Rank far above those of the Upper River Which indeed would be a mere pearling stream Flowing past smooth shaven lawns With no more human interest attached to it Than a Hampshire trout stream But for the locks and weirs By which it is canalized And connected by barge and fly boat With the world's great tidal highway And I have been much interested of late years In the rediscovery, so to say, Of this vast mine of artistic wealth By artists like Whistler and Wiley While among writers nothing can be finer to my mind Than Richard Jeffery's article Venice in the East End I have seen much of modern Venice myself But never saw anything there To surpass the picturesque variety Of color and stately riverbustle Of the last of a flood As one after another Homeward bound steamers And great clippers in tow of tugs Come sweeping into erythmeran's round crayfordness Snuggly sheltered under which Like a gypsy encampment by a roadside Unconcerned and heedless of all this flow Of passing commerce Lies a fleet of little Thames Peter boats and shrimpers All covered in Ford With dark blanket tilts With blue smoke curling From a black stovepipe poke through them Then by hugging the low green kentish foreshore With a leading wind There were five miles of straight sailing down Long reach to green hide And fiddler's reach Clear of steam traffic Beyond the ever-changing variety And bustle of passing craft It was tame sailing Even in a small boat After the downs or the solent And except picking up a man Who had capsized his canoe In a race one windy day I met with no personal mishaps Or adventures worth mentioning During the two years I remained at Erith Before leaving Southampton An old waterman there Strongly advised me not to part With my new half-deck boat Because said he You be sure to be back here again soon I asked why he thought so But like a true prophet He would or could give no reason For his opinion except That people always did come back The old fellow was right And after two years When we left our commodious new villa at Erith For a substantial old red brick house In Wyre Place, Southampton I soon felt the want of a larger And faster boat than my dinghy She made the voyage from Erith On the deck of a steamer From which she was safely lowered Into her old quarters at Southampton Docks She, however, four years later Again returned to the Thames After being sold to a Southampton boat-builder Who resold her to a boating man at Chelsea Where I was told by my friend Lanseer McKenzie Who took an interest in this little boat She ended a long boat life Of over thirty years in 1889 By getting crushed under a floating landing-stage When I built her in 1853 Her material cost me four pounds And I sold her for the same money Sixteen years afterwards If she could only speak Every boat has a water biography Of her own And I have gone rather fully Into the life history of this little one As some encouragement to any amateur Carpenter who may be inclined to take up That most fascinating of handicrafts Boat-building End of Chapter 12