CHAPTER VII

BRADWELL CREEK

Chantyman.Leave her, Johnny, and we’ll work no more.Chorus.Leave her, Johnny, leave her!Chantyman.Of pump or drown we’ve had full store.Chorus.It’s time for us to leave her.

Chantyman.Leave her, Johnny, and we’ll work no more.

Chorus.Leave her, Johnny, leave her!

Chantyman.Of pump or drown we’ve had full store.

Chorus.It’s time for us to leave her.

The wind hung mostly west and south, and was southerly enough at the end to make theWill Arding’spassage a fast one, and bring her early on the tide to Bridgend. There by noon next day we were looking seaward with our glasses. Shortly after that time two specks appeared beyond the river’s mouth, and long before they reached the point took shape and became two barges. End on they came, heeling like one to the spanking breeze; another half an hour would bring them to us.

TheWill Ardingwas one of them, and we rowed off to her, and with a thrill watched her shoot up into the wind, while the mate let go her anchor. Three hours later she was berthed on the blocks.

The shipwrights nominally started work the next day, and I actually did so. I came by train in the mornings from Fleetwick and returned home in the evenings. The first job was to raise the limber boardsand clean the barge out as far as we could reach, for hundreds of cargoes had driven their contributions of dust through the cracks in the flooring, and the dust, mixed with the bilge water, had formed a black ooze. It was one of the dirtiest jobs imaginable, and while it lasted my appearance as I went home in the evenings was so disreputable that often I was not recognized by acquaintances. An ardent Salvation Army man whom I met every day began to cast longing eyes on me.

After the cleaning, theWill Ardingwas tarred throughout inside, and then my thoughts turned to the cabin aft, for I sorely wanted a place where I could have my meals and keep my tools. Accordingly I cut a doorway in the bulkhead between the hold and the cabin.

In removing the late crew’s bedding I came across an insect I had never seen before. Yet I knew what it was by the instinct that is said to guide men unerringly in those peculiar crises—like death—in which experience is wanting.Nomen infandum!To think that the creature dared to be in my ship! And then the dread assailed me that it was not likely to be the only one. Should we ever get rid of them? What would the Mate say? Had we spent all this money and trouble only to provide a breeding-ground for this horrible hemipterous tribe? I believe that I trembled. I was sick with disgust.

What I should have done, had I been a strictBuddhist, I know not, but what I did was to burn sulphur candles, gut the cabin of every vestige of wood, and subject each piece removed to the flame of a blow-lamp, while repeating to myself a kind of fierce incantation: ‘Let none of them escape me.’ After that I squirted the whole place with a powerful disinfectant, then put on black varnish, then lime-wash over the black varnish, and as a final precaution I had the cabin sprayed with formaldehyde. As a matter of fact, the gutting must have destroyed everything, but I did not mean to take any risks.

When my peace of mind was restored, I proceeded to match-line the hold throughout.

All this time the shipwright, in spite of promises of the most binding order, was not getting on with his work. At the end of each week he would promise to put a hand on ‘in the forepart of the week’; and at the beginning of each week he would promise again for ‘the latter part of the week.’ I kept chasing him and worrying him, and this distressing occupation seriously interfered with my own work. Moreover, it became increasingly difficult to find him, for he instructed a small boy on the quay to report my appearance on deck. I bought the boy off with sweets, and told the shipwright what I thought about him and his promises, while he scratched his head like an Oriental tranquilly contemplating the decrees of destiny.

The next move on the old man’s part was to lend me an apprentice—this with the twofold object of keeping me quiet by rendering me help, and providing a messenger and intermediary who could be trusted never to find him. The old man’s idea of business was never to refuse work, and to do enough of each job to make it impossible for a vessel to be taken away. For the rest he trusted to his excuses and his customers’ short memories to set things right.

It ought to be said that his excuses were not ordinary excuses. He was always the victim, and never the master, of his own actions. He seemed to think that this inversion of the normal course of things had only to be stated to be perfectly satisfactory to his customers. On one occasion he doubled the decks of a yacht belonging to a neighbour of ours. When the work was done, the owner found a thicket of nails sticking out under the decks in his cabin. He indignantly asked for an explanation. The old man scratched his head and turned to his son.

‘They was ordin’ry deck nails, warn’t they, Tom?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Tom dutifully.

‘But damn it all, look at my cabin!’

‘They was ordin’ry deck nails,’ the old man said again, and added, ‘Well, to tell yaou the truth, sir, them blessed ould decks was too thin.’

At last I presented the shipwright with an ultimatum,to which he replied by putting a wheelwright on to my work, and a worse workman in a ship I never came across. It was already six weeks after the date on which theWill Ardingwas to have been finished, and I now went on strike. The rest of the work, I decided, should be done at home eight miles farther up the river.

As ill luck would have it, it was blowing the better part of a gale the next day, the wind being on shore and a trifle down the river. In the yard it was said that the barge could not be moved. However, at that time I knew more about shipwrights’ excuses and less about barges than I do now, and I insisted that she should go, whatever the weather.

‘That ain’t fit for she to goo,’ the old man kept saying. He was right, but I was firm. And he, for his part, having spent his life in measuring human patience, knew when it was impossible to hold out any longer. So he gave orders for his men to get theWill Ardingoff the blocks. I cleared out of the way half a dozen dinghies, which she might foul as she came off.

It certainly was a wild day; the wind shrieked in the rigging, the waves curled and broke against the quay, the little boats close in shore pitched and jarred, throwing the spray from them, and the masts of the smacks and yachts in the anchorage waved jerkily against the racing sky. There was no time to be lost, for the barge had to be got off while thetide was still flowing, or not at all. An ex-bargeman was in charge, and four hands helped on board. At the last moment it was found that a new mainsheet was wanted, and this delayed us, but we still had just enough time. The topsail slatted so fiercely as it was hoisted that it had to be half dropped again until the squall passed. The mainsail, half set, banged noisily and the mainsheet blocks lashed terrifically to and fro. As the foresail filled and the head paid off the anchor was broken out, and happily the barge quickly gathered way, for under her lee was a mass of small boats that I had not been able to move. Had she sagged appreciably to leeward she would have swept them all.

The start was a truly exhilarating affair, more like that of a young horse driven for the first time, and bolting down a crowded street, than of an experienced barge getting under way. The sails were only half set and slatting angrily; the running gear, from long disuse, was all over the place; one gaunt figure like a Viking, with blue eyes and long fair hair streaming in the wind, stood in the bows bawling which way to steer; another man amidships shouted the orders on to the helmsman; and thus, with two men at the wheel, theWill Ardingwith a foaming wake tore headlong through the small craft. She sailed right over one dinghy, but luckily did not hurt it. Several times my heart was in my mouth,for in that packed anchorage we might have done enormous damage.

My tongue became less dry as the risks decreased, and never did the shout, ‘Shove her raound!’ fall with a more welcome sound on my ears than when, clear to windward of the anchored fleet, theWill Ardingswung round on the other tack and stood up the empty river. I would not undertake that dash again to-day. One of the helmsmen remarked, ‘I reckon that skeert some o’ they little bo’ts to see us thriddlin’ among ’em. That wind’s suthen tetchy to-day t’ain’t ’ardly safe, same as goin’ as us did.’

At the end of the reach I dropped all my helpers, except one hand, who remained on board as watchman. As the tide had turned I anchored, was put on shore, and went home by train.

The next day the Mate and the hand and I brought theWill Ardingup the rest of the way to Fleetwick and berthed her. She now lay within a short walk of our cottage. Labour, though not skilled carpenter’s labour, was to be got easily enough. It would, at all events, be prompt and willing work. I had left professional assistance behind, but I felt nearly sure that we should make better progress at Fleetwick; and I even ventured to think that the quality of our carpentering might not shame us after all.

‘Ah! what a wondrous thing it isTo note how many wheels of toilOne thought, one word, can set in motion!There’s not a ship that sails the ocean,But every climate, every soil,Must bring its tribute, great or small,And help to build the wooden wall!’

‘Ah! what a wondrous thing it is

To note how many wheels of toil

One thought, one word, can set in motion!

There’s not a ship that sails the ocean,

But every climate, every soil,

Must bring its tribute, great or small,

And help to build the wooden wall!’

It was a curious thing that the greatest of the advantages of living in a barge disclosed itself unexpectedly. When we made up our minds to buy a barge I was free to live where I pleased, but shortly after we had bought her I received an offer of an appointment which would require me to be in London every day. I could not afford to refuse this appointment, and we reflected what a pretty mess we should have been in if we had taken a house in the town where we had intended to send the boys to school. We should have had to get rid of the lease of the house, and probably have lost a good deal of money in the transaction. As it was, we had only to withdraw the boys’ names from the school, choose another school within striking distance of London, and anchor our barge fairly near a railwaystation from which I could travel daily to London. The change of plan cost us nothing.

My work in London was to begin in September, but when I found it impossible to finish the barge in time, I applied for a month’s postponement, and the partners in the firm, who were yachtsmen, admitted the propriety of my request and granted it like sportsmen.

The barge had now to be completed at breakneck speed. The haste robbed the entertaining labour of part of its joy; still, we experienced a good deal of that satisfaction which is presumably enjoyed in primitive societies where every man builds his own house and goes hunting for his dinner.

We could bicycle from our cottage to the quay at Fleetwick in five minutes. I engaged to help me two handy men: Tom, a sailor, and Harry, a landsman, both, like myself, rough carpenters. Of course, everyone in the place came to see theWill Arding; never before had there been so many loiterers on the quay. People came on board so freely to watch the floating house daily grow into shape under our hands that I grew expert at mechanically repeating my explanations with nails in my mouth while I kept to my work.

The most keenly interested, as well as the most regular and most welcome of our visitors, was Sam Prawle, the ex-barge skipper already mentioned, who lived in a smack moored in the saltings. He madehis living by looking after a few small yachts. He came most days during the dinner-hour, studied what we were doing, and gave us his views. ‘If more people knaowed what could be done with a little ould barge, less housen would be built,’ he would say, with a shake of his head. He was always ready to discuss the advantages of living in a vessel. As a matter of fact, since the death of his wife, who used to take in lodgers, he had been unable to afford a house, but to hear him talk one would have thought that he had been taxed off the face of the land. And after his prolonged visit to the inn on Saturday, where he learned all his news—for he could not read—and had discussed the political situation and the infamy of the local rates, and had got everything in his head well mixed up, he would be decidedly ‘agin the Government.’ ‘What I says is this,’ he remarked once, in summarizing the appalling situation. ‘We shall ’ave to ’ave suthen different to what we ’ave got, or else we shall ’ave to ’ave suthen else’—as illuminating a judgment as one commonly meets with in political discussions.

We worked up forward to begin with, because the main hold had in it about four thousand square feet of match-lining, two thousand square feet of three-ply wood, one thousand square feet of flooring, and half a mile of headings of different sorts, besides the bath, kitchen range, and a hundred other things which took up room. We gradually got rid of stufffrom the hold as we worked our way aft. Within a few days the appearance of theWill Ardingwonderfully changed. While we were still at Bridgend, the hold, the sides, coamings and bulkheads, had shown nothing but one great expanse of tarred surface, whereas now we had clean match-lining round the sides and on the forward bulkhead.

The total length of the barge is about seventy-four feet, and her beam is seventeen feet at the level of the deck and fifteen on the floor. At each end there is a bulkhead shutting off what used to be the forecastle forward and what used to be the skipper’s cabin aft. The length between the bulkheads is fifty feet. The headroom under the decks varies from four feet three to five feet eight, and under the cabin tops, which measure respectively thirty feet by ten and ten by ten, the headroom is between seven feet three and nine feet. We made the cabin tops out of the hatches by nailing match-lining on them lengthwise and covering them with tarpaulin dressed with red ochre and oil. Thus we had two fine roofs, and these were raised on strong frames supported by stanchions bolted on to the coamings. Between the stanchions we fitted the windows. As the windows are high up and there are plenty of them, the interior of the vessel is very light and airy. The saloon is sixteen feet long by fourteen feet nine inches wide, and is, of course, the most important room.

As has been said, we began our work forward, and the first job was to divide the forecastle into a triangular sleeping cabin and a scullery of the same shape. Then we divided the space under the fore-cabin top and put up a partition, forming on one side a large cabin (the owner’s cabin), and on the other a kitchen, a narrow passage, and a bathroom. The bath had to be put in position first, and the bathroom built round it, as there would have been no room to turn a bath in the narrow passage.

We have often wondered since what we should do if anything happened to the bath, for a considerable part of the ship would have to be pulled to pieces to get it out. Perhaps we could have a rubber lining made for it; but still it is a good solid porcelain enamel bath, and ought to last as long as the ship.

The one space without light and with little headroom was abreast of the mast, and this naturally offered itself as the best place for the water-tanks. We could not afford to buy new water-tanks, so we went to a shipbreaker’s, and were lucky enough to find two four-hundred gallon tanks measuring four feet by four feet each, which just fitted in under the decks. At the same place we bought six mahogany ship’s doors for £4, and these we scraped and varnished, so that they looked very handsome. The tanks had to be put in their places at a very early stage, as they were to be built in like the bath. Empty theyweighed about five hundredweight each, and were bulky things to handle. However, with tackles and guys and Sam Prawle’s help, we got them through our furniture hatch and safely down into the hold, where we levered them into position, and wedged them in safely. The great size of our water-tanks was the only fault Sam ever found with the barge’s internal arrangements, and his eye brightened sympathetically when I pointed out that if we found that they held more water than we wanted, one of them could always be filled with beer.

The Dining Cabin

At the after end of the narrow passage already mentioned we made the dining-room, which opened aft into the saloon. Forward of the saloon on the starboard side came the spare cabin. Aft of the saloon on the same side was our daughter’s cabin. On the port after side was a lobby with steps descending from the deck; and aft of the lobby was the boys’ cabin, which had been the skipper’s cabin in the barge’s trading days.

The rapid progress we seemed to make during the first few days at Fleetwick was in a way deceptive. It does not take long to put up partitions and hang doors. The result looks like cabins. Yet only the fringe of the work has then been touched. The finishing is the true labour. The underneath part of the rough tarred decks, for instance, had to be covered with three-ply wood, well sand-papered, before it could be painted and enamelled. The deckbeams, worn and knocked about, had to be cased in; nail holes had to be stopped with putty, and the joins all covered with headings. Then there was the making of the cupboards and shelves and bunks. There was never a right angle; we were always working to odd shapes. Indeed, there was so much to do that at times I was bewildered where to begin, and only by tackling the first job I saw, whether it strictly should have been the next or not, and putting Tom and Harry on to it too, could I regain a sense of performing effectual labour.

The wood bought in London was not much more than half what we ultimately used. Before we had finished we used over a mile of beading. Oppressed with the continual sense of working against time, my brain became so active that I slept badly. My life seemed to consist of sawing up miles of wood, and driving in millions of nails. I was pursued by dreams, after the manner of illustrated statistics in magazines, in which I saw black columns denoting the various amounts of material used, or tables showing how the material would reach from London to Birmingham, or pictures demonstrating that the nails in one scale would balance a motor omnibus in the other.

When the dining-cabin was nearly finished we gave a tea-party to celebrate the occasion, and while we were sitting round the table we saw through the windows the legs of a party of strangers.The fame of theWill Ardinghad spread so far that people came on board who had not the most indirect of excuses for taking up my time. Being proud of the ship, however, and sympathetic towards all inquiring minds, particularly in nautical matters, I was glad to explain things to everybody. At least, I did so to all whose manners were passable. I developed a high power of curtness to the quite considerable class of people who seemed to think that it was my duty to provide a sort of free exhibition for which it was not even necessary to say ‘Thank you.’ Tom, for some not very good reason, regarded the arrival of strangers during our tea-party as a particular offence, and we heard him begin to parley with them on deck with: ‘The guvnor says this is a ’alf-guinea day, and yaou can get the tickets at the Ship Inn.’

‘I reckon there’s nawthen like sailormen’s witTo straighten a rop’ what ’as got turns in it;Ould Live Ashore Johnny ’ud pucker all day,An’ yit niver light on the sailorman’s way!’

‘I reckon there’s nawthen like sailormen’s wit

To straighten a rop’ what ’as got turns in it;

Ould Live Ashore Johnny ’ud pucker all day,

An’ yit niver light on the sailorman’s way!’

Memories of those laborious days at Fleetwick Quay are not only of carpentering, painting, and plumbing. Sam Prawle provided an intermittent accompaniment of anecdote and observation which it is impossible to separate from the record of work done. During the dinner-hour he would sometimes begin and finish a considerable narrative. On the day when we lowered our tanks into position he illustrated his theme that people may put themselves to a great deal of unnecessary trouble by telling us an episode in the life of ’Ould Gladstone,’ the white mare at Wick House. Here is the yarn:

‘I dare say yaou don’t fare to remember ould Gladstone at the Ferry Boat Inn down at Wick House twenty year ago. Wonnerful little mare, she were and lived to be thirty year ould, she did. When ould Amos Staines sould the inn a young feller from Lunnon bought it—a reg’larcockney, he were, and den’t knaow nawthen about b’ots nor farmin’ nor nawthen, and a course ’e ’ad to keep a man to work the ferry. What ’e come for I can’t rightly say, ’cept he said ’e allus fancied keepin’ a pub.

‘The lies that young feller used to tell us chaps, same as fishermen, bargemen, and drudgermen what used the inn, abaout Lunnon was a fair masterpiece. Mighty clever he thought he were, and wonnerful fond o’ thraowin’ ’is weight abaout, which ’e den’t knaow ’is own weight.

‘Well, twenty year ago come next March, in the forepart o’ the month, me and Jim and Lishe Appleby, the two brothers what ’ad the little ouldViper, ’ad a stroke of luck over a little salvage job with a yacht, and a course we spent a bit extry at the Ferry. Cockney Smith—leastways, that was what we allus called ’im—’eard all abaout our salvage job, and nearly got ’imself put in the river by the things what ’e said abaout it. Jim and Lishe ’ould ’ave done it, for they was wonnerful fond of a glass and a joke, as the sayin’ is, but I ’ouldn’t let ’em, cos I reckoned Cockney Smith might ’ave the law of ’em. A wonnerful disagreeable chap was Cockney Smith; ’e used to read bits aout of newspapers abaout robberies and that, and then ’e’d say ’e supposed they was salvage jobs.

‘Well, not long arterwards ’e ’ad a salvage job ’imself. Jim and Lishe hired ould Gladstone andCockney Smith’s tumbril to go to a niece’s weddin’ at Northend. They come back abaout seven o’clock o’ the evening, wonnerful and lively, and just where the road bends afore you come to the Ferry that was bangy and dark they some’ow got ould Gladstone and the tumbril in the crick. Yaou knaow the place I mean, sir—jist where the road runs alongside the crick on the top of the sea-wall. A course the place is as bare as my ’and, as the sayin’ is, for there ain’t no tree, nor hedge, nor fence, nor nawthen; but none the more for that, ould Gladstone ’ad bin that road for twenty year, and there ain’t a mite a doubt but what she’d a brought they chaps back safe enough if they’d left she alone.

‘But there yaou are, yaou knaow what them weddin’s are, don’t yer, sir? Well, there was ould Gladstone nearly up to her belly in mud, and she den’t struggle, for the artful ould thing knaowed that,do, she’d sink deeper. The tumbril was nearly a top o’ she, and Jim and Lishe was mud from head to foot—in their shore-goin’ togs, too. They come along to the Ferry, and afore Cockney Smith opened ’is mouth ould Lishe says, “Look at here, landlord, what your damned ould mare’s done to we. Spoilt our best clothes, she ’as!”

“Where’s my mare and cart?” says Cockney Smith.

“Ould Gladstone’s stuck in the crick and the tumbril’s atop o’ she,” says Jim.

‘“Do yaou mean to say you’ve left that pore animal there?” says Cockney Smith.

‘“Ould Gladstone’s all right,” says Lishe. “Nawthen can’t hurt she where she is; it’s only just after low water.”

‘Cockney Smith he were wonnerful angry. “What I want to know is ow did it ’appen, and whose fault is it?” ’e says.

‘“Well, it was this a-way,” says Lishe. “Yaou see, we laowed we was at the corner, and Jim pulled ’is line, and ould Gladstone was a bit quick on the hellum, and afore we knaowed where we was we an’ all was in the crick.”

‘“I’ve druv’ ould Gladstone many a time this last eighteen year, and she ain’t never answered ’er hellum that way afore,” says Jim.

‘“P’raps you ’adn’t been to a niece’s weddin’,” says Cockney Smith, kind o’ nasty like.

‘“Ould Gladstone den’t never git slewed in them days when she ’ad a proper owner, niece’s weddin’ or no niece’s weddin’,” says Lishe.

‘“I suppose yaou keep pore ould Gladstone so short of wittles and drink that when she do git a chance she goes too far on the other tack,” says Jim.

“I’ve a good mind to ’ave the law of ye for spoiling my best togs,” says Lishe.

‘Cockney Smith seed it warn’t no use a arguin’, so ’e says, “Well, who’s goin’ to get Gladstone and the cart out?”

‘“We are,” says Jim and Lishe—“that is, with some other chaps to ’elp, but this ’ere’s a salvage job, this is,” and with that they winks at Jacob Trent and Bill Morgan, two chaps off another smack, just to let them knaow they was in the job.

‘“Salvage job be damned—robbery yaou mean,” says Cockney Smith, and with that ’e goes off to look at pore ould Gladstone.

‘We an’ all went with ’im, but it was that dark us couldn’t see ould Gladstone, but on’y the tumbril, but us heard she a breathin’, so us knaowed she were alive.

“‘Pore ould Gladstone! that’s a strain on ’er,” sez ould Jacob Trent. ’E were wonnerful fond of ould Gladstone, was ould Jacob.

‘When Cockney Smith got back, he were that angry ’e fared to be a goin’ to bust, but Jim ’e says,

“Naow look at here, ef ould Gladstone ain’t got out o’ that crick by half-past eleven she’ll draown, for that’s high water at midnight.”

‘“Yes, yes,” says Lishe; “and ef she don’t draown she’ll most likely get run daown, as theJuliet Ann’sa comin’ in this tide or next to load straw, and she’s baound to stand in where ould Gladstone be with the wind this way.”

‘“Pore ould Gladstone! that’s a strain on ’er, that is, and she be wonnerful an’ ould,” says Jacob.

‘Well, landlord he seed he’d lose ould Gladstoneef he den’t do suthen, so ’e says: “What do you chaps want for gettin’ of she aout?”

“I reckon ould Gladstone and the tumbril’s worth the best part of ten paounds, and one-third of that is four paounds or thereabaouts,” says Lishe.

“Well, I ain’t a goin’ to pay it,” says Cockney Smith.

“Then yaou can git she aout yerself,” says Jim.

‘“Yaou put she in, yaou ought to get she aout,” says Cockney Smith.

“She put herself in and spoilt our shore-goin togs,” says Jim.

‘“Look at here, landlord,” says Lishe. “Me and Jim ’on’t say nawthen abaout our togs, and we an’ all will spend half the four paounds here in drinks. We can’t say fairer’n that, can we?”

‘That was getting late, so Cockney Smith agreed. So Jim an’ all ’ad drinks, and then they pulled off and got warps and tackles and come and borried my ridin’ light. As yaou knaow, sir, there ain’t nawthen yaou can bend a warp to on that blessed ould wall, so a course they ’ad to pull off agin for a couple of anchors, and while the anchors was bein’ got the others ’ad more drinks and waited for the chaps what was fetching the anchors to have theirs, too. Arter that they laid out them anchors on the weather side of the wall, and shoved some planks daown under the tumbril and ’auled that out pretty smart with a tackle on each side.

‘When they come to start on ould Gladstone they was fair took aback to knaow rightly how to shift she, so they put the lanterns daown and ’ad a bit of an argyment. Bill reckoned she’d come off best the way she went on, but Jacob wanted to slew her ’ead raound so as she’d force her way off, cos she drawed most water aft. Jim said he den’t want to think nawthen abaout that; he knaowed they’d have to lift she with sheerlegs same as unsteppin’ a mast. Lishe said they mustn’t do nawthen in a hurry and must ’ave more drinks to talk it over, so back they went to the inn.

‘Cockney Smith kep’ all on a tellin’ of ’em to hurry, and the more ’e worrited ’em the more drinks they ’ad, and the slaower they was. First they tried Bill’s way, and they wropped some sacks raound ould Gladstone’s starn quarters to take the chafe. They only hove once, for poor ould Gladstone give a master great squeal, and when they slacked up she looked raound like as to say, “You fare to be enjoyin’ yaourselves together, but I ain’t.”

‘Arter that they bent a warp raound ’er ould neck and hove on that till they reckoned they’d most break suthen. Ould Gladstone struggled a bit, but that warn’t no use, and then she seemed to kinder go faint and we an’ all reckoned she was a dyin’.

‘Bill said ould Gladstone ought to have some brandy, but Lishe said brandy were paltry stuff alongside o’ rum, an’ he reckoned rum ’ud pull sheraound best. So it were rum, and of course they den’t never think to bring no bucket for ould Gladstone to drink aout of, so they had to use Lishe’s sou’wester. Poor ould Gladstone den’t seem to relish rum—leastways, she den’t drink much of it. P’raps it was because Lishe had jist given his sou’wester a coat o’ linseed oil. Anyway, what little she ’ad seemed to bring she raound a bit, and she opened her eyes, which showed she warn’t dead yet. Jacob give she the rum because he served on a farm once, and knaowed abaout horses and that, and he was jist a goin’ to pour the rum away when Bill stops him in the nick o’ time. “Here, mates, we ain’t a goin’ to waste good rum what landlord has to pay for for poor ould Gladstone,” he says, and with that he finishes it.

‘Then Bill and Jim started to rig the sheerlegs, and Jacob and Lishe laid the planks to keep the legs from sinking in the mud, and while they were a doin’ that Lishe fell off his plank stern first in the mud, and Jacob laughed till he nigh fell off his, too.

‘Then Lishe went off to the Ferry to ’ave a clent up, and a course t’others followed, all a lingerin’ for more drinks.

‘I never seed a merrier crew than they an’ all was when they mustered raound ould Gladstone again. Well, they got them sheerlegs rigged at last, but ’adn’t got enough sacks to put under ould Gladstone’s belly to keep the ropes off ’er, so theywent back to the Ferry ’an ’ad more drinks while two on ’em got an ould jib, cos they couldn’t find no more sacks. That was gettin’ late then—abaout ten o’clock, I reckon—and the tide was a comin’ well up in the crick and landlord fared to be a goin’ off ’is ’ead.

‘Soon as they got back, they rigged the slings and hove ould Gladstone up, and put some boards under she for she to stand on, and then they laowered away. I reckon them boards was greasy or ould Gladstone was too weak to stand. Leastways, she fell off ’em, and Lishe and Bill laughed till they most cried.

‘But the drink fared to take ould Jacob different, for he were wonnerful unhappy, he were, and kep’ all on a sayin’: “Pore ould Gladstone! that’s a strain on ’er, that is. She ’on’t go there no more.” And when they come to try again ould Jacob made ’em wait while ’e mucked ’imself from ’ead to foot tryin’ to put the sackin’ more better so as to keep the chafe off ould Gladstone’s sides.

‘Then they hove ould Gladstone up agin, and thraowed a few ’andfuls o’ sand on the greasy planks; but it warn’t no use, and when they laowered she daown agin she just slipped off and fell on t’er side in the mud. Them chaps laughed till they shook like dawgs, all ’cept ould Jacob, and ’e jist kep’ all on a sayin’, “Pore ould Gladstone, pore ould Gladstone!”

MALDON

‘Then Cockney Smith come along a spufflin’ and a swearing abaout the time they chaps was takin’; and then they seed the tide come a sizzling ’igher up the crick, and that sobered ’em a bit, and Jim says, “We’re on the wrong tack, mates; we must have them barrels what we used for floatingHornett’other day and lash they daown taut under ould Gladstone’s bilges.”

‘“She’s a layin’ on her side naow, so we can’t get at she to do it,” says Lishe.

‘“Look at here, naow,” says Bill; “if we lash them barrels together, we can heave ould Gladstone up and laower she daown on ’em.”

‘“I reckon that’s the way,” says Jim, “but them barrels must be made fast atop as well as underneath, else they might shift aft and float ould Gladstone’s stern quarters up, and ’er ould head ’ud be under water.”

‘So they got them barrels and lashed them together, and laowered ould Gladstone on top of them and made all fast, so as they couldn’t shift. They was jist a goin’ back to the Ferry when Lishe says: “I reckon ould Gladstone ought to have a ridin’ light up, so as if she got run daown the law ’ud be on our side, and we’d git paid all right.”

‘Bill said it warn’t wanted, as they’d get the money as long as they got ould Gladstone out alive or dead. Cockney Smith said what ’e meant was ’e’d have to pay on’y if Gladstone come out alive, but’e seed ’e might be alongside ould Gladstone if ’e said it agin, an’ it warn’t no use his arguin’, as there was four agin him, and all three sheets in the wind, as the sayin’ is. Anyhow, Lishe would ’ave the ridin’ light up, so he took and made that fast raound ould Gladstone’s neck, and he an’ all went back to the Ferry.

‘They all reckoned the money was as good as in their pockets, and jist carried on anyhow. Bill told some wonnerful yarns abaout poor ould Gladstone when she were young, till they most fared to be goin’ to cry. And pore ould Jacob ’e did cry, and sat there drinkin’ ’is rum and wipin’ ’is eyes and sayin’, “Pore ould Gladstone! that’s a strain on ’er, that is. She ’on’t go there no more.”

‘Cockney Smith he kep all on a dancing raound, tellin’ ’em to go and look arter Gladstone, but Lishe, ’e jist says: “Look at here, young feller, ould Gladstone’s all right; she’s got ’er light up, and if any craft run into she yaou can ’ave the law of ’er.”

‘We an’ all was that merry—for a course they chaps stood we a tidy few drinks—that us den’t take no notice o’ nawthen. That must ’ave bin just abaout high water, and ould Lishe was a singin’ a song which ’e stopped arter every verse to tell ould Jacob to kep quiet, when I ’eard a kind of a clatterin’. That bro’t me up with a raound turn, for a course I knaowed at once ould Gladstone ’ad flet, and ’ad got aout o’ the crick by ’erself, and afore Icould say a word there was ’er ould head a peakin’ over the fence. We an’ all run aout an’ seed she a standin’ there all lit up. That were the head masterpiece that ever I did see. There she was, wrop up raound her neck and belly with sackin’, Lishe’s ridin’ light ’angin’ under ’er ould neck, and them casks under ’er ould belly, and the sheerlegs acrost ’er back, and fathoms and fathoms of tackle and warps towin’ astern, and the ould thing mud from ’ead to foot.

’Ould Jacob and they an’ all was makin’ a wonnerful fuss over ould Gladstone when I come away aboard and turned in. Next mornin’ I seed ould Gladstone lookin’ a bit pingly, but not much the worse, standin’ on the hard in the river and Cockney Smith a moppin’ the mud off ’er.

‘Not long arter that Cockney Smith sould the Ferry to Shad Offord, what’s bin a sailorman and knaows haow to run a pub.’

‘And around the bows and along the sideThe heavy hammers and mallets plied,Till after many a week, at length,Wonderful for form and strength,Sublime in its enormous bulk,Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk!’

‘And around the bows and along the side

The heavy hammers and mallets plied,

Till after many a week, at length,

Wonderful for form and strength,

Sublime in its enormous bulk,

Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk!’

When the match-lining was finished we covered most of it with three-ply wood in panels. We panelled the owner’s cabin and the spare cabin with birch. We made the spare cabin to serve also as a drying-room, letting the back of the saloon fireplace into this cabin through the bulkhead. The fireplace, a handsome brass yacht stove, was bought second-hand from a yacht-breaker. Round the walls of the dining-cabin we placed a dado of varnished wood, and enamelled the cabin white everywhere else except on the ceiling (our furniture hatch), which we panelled. We panelled the saloon walls and ceiling with oak, and enamelled the window-frames and the uprights between them white. Throughout the ship where there was no panelling we put white enamel, making the whole interiorvery light. In every available place we built cupboards and shelves; not an inch of space was wasted.

We arranged the bath like the baths in a liner. It is supplied with hot salt water, and the fresh water is used in a huge basin. The sea water is heated in a closed-in copper by a six-headed Primus oilstove, and a hot bath can be had in half an hour. From the copper, which is opposite the bathroom across the passage, the water is siphoned into the bath, and if the siphon be ‘broken’ it can be started again by the pump which empties the bath. Cold sea water from a tank on deck (when we are high and dry we must have this) is supplied to the bathroom by a hose which can be diverted to the copper when that has to be filled.

It may seem complicated, but it is not really, for the children understand the system perfectly, and thoroughly enjoy playing with the waterworks. Sam Prawle never grasped it, and bestowed on it his customary formula about any device he could not understand: ‘That fare to me to be a kind of a patent.’ It may be added here, in anticipation of events, that an appeal for help has sometimes reached us from a guest in the bathroom. On the first appeal the Skipper or the Mate goes to the rescue; but if a second appeal comes from the same person one of the children is sent as a protest on behalf of the simplicity of the waterworks.

The keelson is the backbone of the ship. Ours is about sixty-five feet long, roughly a foot square, and studded with boltheads. Right aft in the boys’ cabin it is under the floor, but it is above the floor everywhere else. In the lobby it forms the bottom of the shelves; in the saloon it is covered with narrow polished maple planks; in the dining-cabin it becomes a seat; farther forward it is a platform for the copper; in the doorway into the owner’s cabin it is a nuisance; in the kitchen it forms the bottom shelf for crockery; right forward it is useful as a seat under the forehatch or as a first step up to the hatch. In the saloon it is most useful to stand on for looking out of the windows.

We lost almost a day’s work over a wedding. Harry’s brother married the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. E. Pegrom. Mr. Pegrom, a platelayer on the line, asked me to give him a cheque in exchange for twenty-five shillings. And in the list of presents published in the local paper the twenty-five shillings duly appeared in the form of ‘Mr. and Mrs. E. Pegrom: cheque.’ In our part of the world a banking account is regarded as a sign of wealth and also as something mysterious requiring a high degree of financial intelligence for its management.

I tried hard one day to persuade Sam Prawle to open an account. I met him on his way to the post-office to buy a money order for six pounds to pay for varnish and paint. I pointed out that acheque would cost a penny instead of sixpence, and was also a safer medium. I explained that keeping a banking account was perfectly simple, as all he had to do was to keep paying in cheques as he received them and paying out cheques to the people from whom he bought his goods, always keeping something in the bank. After describing the process several times, I asked him if he understood.

‘Well, sir, that fare to me as haow that’s like a water-breaker. Yaou keep a paourin’ of the water in and a drawin’ of it off agin.’

I thought I had gained my point, as he understood so well, and referred to the subject again a few days later.

‘Well, yaou see, sir, I ’ave to work ’ard for my money, and I reckon a drawin’ of cheques makes that too easy to git riddy of it agin.’

When the decks had been cleared and the lines rigged on the stanchions round the bulwarks and the outside of the window-frames painted, there was some outward and visible sign of the transformation that had taken place below. The Mate was satisfied that the lines would prevent all but exceptionally unnautical children from falling overboard; and as she was quick to assent to the proposition that our children were not unnautical, there were no further doubts about the matter.

During the discussion of this subject a friend told us of the engaging argument about lifelines whichhad been addressed to him by a smack builder at Leigh. He was having a small bawley yacht built there, and when the finishing touches were being put on her the builder asked whether the owner would have lifelines on the bulwarks right forward.

‘Yaou’d better ’ave ’em, sir.’

‘No, I don’t want them.’

‘Now look at here, sir. Yaou ’ave ’em. All the bawleys ’as ’em.’

‘I know. It’s all right for knocking about trawling, but this is a yacht.’

‘Yes, yes, sir. I knaow she’s a yacht. But what I says is this: them lines ’as saved ’undreds of lives. And if they was only a goin’ to saveoneI’d ’ave em.’

We had now reached the stage of bringing the furniture on board. I hired a tumbril, and with Harry’s help began the ‘move.’ The Mate and the children went away for a few days to stay with friends. I had to drive down seventeen tumbril loads from the cottage, although we did not want all our furniture for the barge. As there was generally no room for me even to perch on the tumbril when it was loaded, I walked a good many miles in the course of moving.

A tumbril is a poor cart for such a job. The jolting was excessive, and trotting meant ruin to the cargo. When the back was up the cart held little, and when it was down things were shed alongthe road. If I walked at the pony’s head I could not keep an eye on things at the back, and if I walked behind the pony would slow down to a crawl. I partly solved the last difficulty by walking behind and throwing pebbles off the road at the pony.

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