We Didn't Mean to Go to Sea

by Arthur Ransome

  “Shall I take them off?’’ said Bridget.

  “You wouldn’t like walking on the gravel, if you did,” said Mother, with her eyes on the distant Emily. “You’d feel like the princess with peas in her shoes, or the little mermaid who couldn’t take a step without being cut by sharp knives.”

  “I know that one,” said Bridget.

  Foot by foot they moved back as the tide crept up over the end of the hard. They watched the Emily come up the river. Three young men were aboard her. One was steering and the others were busy with her headsails. Down came the staysail as the Emily came in among the moored yachts. Down came the mainsail. Round she swung and crept towards her buoy under jib alone. One of the young men was on the foredeck, reaching with a boathook for a mooring buoy.

  “They did that very well,” said Mother, as the buoy came aboard.

  A moment later the jib had been rolled up, and the three young men were on the cabin roof making a loose stow of the mainsail. Then all three disappeared into the cabin.

  “Oh, Bridget,” said Mother. “Don’t say they’re going to settle down to cook their dinner.”

  They came out again. The dinghy that had been towing astern was hauled alongside. Somebody jumped into it. The others were passing down bags and then a big straw basket.

  “They’re all coming,” said Bridget, as the other two slipped down into the dinghy, which began to drift astern as they were getting their oars out.

  “They’re coming,” cried Bridget again, as two of the men, each with an oar, began to pull for the hard.

  But the one sitting in the stern with the bags suddenly pointed to the top of the Emily’s mast, and the dinghy spun round and went back to her.

  “They’ve forgotten to take down their flag,” said Mother impatiently.

  The dinghy waited alongside the Emily while one of the crew went aboard, hauled down the flag, and threw it in the cabin. At last they started off again. Bridget and Mother were waiting for them as they reached the hard.

  “They’ve got lots of fish,” said Bridget, looking at a shining silver mass in the straw basket.

  “We had a jolly good day yesterday till the fog came,” said one of the men, laughing at Bridget’s eager face. “Would you like some?” and he held out a big codling. Bridget shrank back, and he laughed again.

  “Do you know a boat called the Goblin?” asked Mother.

  “Brading’s boat?”

  “I suppose you haven’t seen her anywhere?” said Mother quietly, just as if it did not really matter very much. “Some of my young ones are in her with Mr Brading, and I was a little worried yesterday when it came on so thick after midday, and then all that wind and rain.”

  “They’re all right,” said the young man who had offered Bridget the fish, holding on to the slimy, wooden piling at the edge of the hard to keep the dinghy steady while bags and basket were lifted out. “We came in yesterday soon after the fog began and passed close to them. Spoke to them, too. They’re all right. Brading had his anchor down, on the Shelf, just off the dock, out of the channel. Couldn’t have been in a better place. One of them was playing a tin whistle.”

  “That’s my Roger,” laughed Mrs Walker. “If he was playing his whistle there couldn’t be anything wrong.”

  “Brading knows what he’s about,” said one of the others. “We ought to have done the same and stayed there, but we tried to feel our way up, and got on the mud and spent half the night on our beam ends …”

  “Don’t tell tales,” said another.

  “All right, skipper. It was my fault as much as yours.”

  “Well, I’m very much obliged to you,” said Mrs Walker.

  “You never know what may happen in a fog, and I was just a little bit worried about them. Come along, Bridgie.”

  They walked together up the hard.

  “Bridgie,” said Mother gaily. “You’ve got a very silly Mother. I ought to have known all the time that everything was all right. But yesterday, with that fog and then the wind and rain I just couldn’t help feeling that something awful was happening. And there they were, anchored in a safe place, just like I said, and enjoying every minute of it. And, of course, they won’t be back a minute before they promised. Jim Brading said he’d be here at high tide. They’ll be coming up the river in time for tea, and after tea we’ll all go across to Harwich together, just in case Daddy comes by the evening boat.”

  PIN MILL

  CHAPTER XV

  KEEPING AWAKE

  ANOTHER HOUR OF the night went by and still the Goblin was plunging gallantly through the dark. No more heavy splashes had come aboard. There had been no more rain. It was still blowing hard, but not so hard as to make the steering really difficult. More and more of the sky was clear of clouds and bright with stars. But Titty was not looking at them.

  “Titty,” said Susan.

  “Titty,” said Roger.

  Titty, like Roger himself a little earlier, had fallen asleep in the cockpit. She woke in time to hear Susan saying to John that those two would be much better in their bunks.

  “But we can’t miss any of this,” said Titty, with a bit of a shiver.

  “You’ve missed some of it already,” said Susan. “You were asleep just now … And your hands are very cold. You won’t miss any more by being asleep in the warm cabin than by being asleep on deck. So down you go.”

  “And you, too, Roger,” said John. “It’s quite all right for a sailor to take a watch below. You’re off duty. You’ll be wanted again later, and you won’t be any use if you haven’t been to sleep.”

  They may have thought they would have liked to stay up all night, but orders were orders, and anyhow they were very sleepy. Susan went down with them into the lighted cabin, and tucked them into their bunks as well as she could, wedging Roger in his place with a bundle of sail. She came on deck feeling easier in mind. No matter where they were, or what was going to happen to them, at least those two were going to get part of a proper night’s rest.

  “Are they all right?” John asked as she climbed back into the cockpit.

  “Asleep already,” she said, with half a yawn. She wedged herself into a corner of the cockpit on the starboard side, opposite John, and settled down to keep a good look out.

  “Shut the doors,” said John. “Easier to see without the light from below. You can keep the hatch open.”

  “Shall I go down and put the lamp out?”

  “Better not,” said John. “It’ll show through the portholes, and even that’s better than nothing in case of meeting steamers.”

  “The last one didn’t see it,” said Susan.

  “Another one might,” said John.

  Ten minutes or so later he spoke to her again.

  “Susan,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  But he got no answer from the look-out.

  Dimly in the darkness he could see where she was, a darker lump in the corner of the cockpit. But, unless in dreams, she was not keeping watch. Susan, tired out by worry, seasickness, and the shock of thinking John had gone overboard, had fallen asleep. Well, it was no good waking her to send her below like the others. She would never go. Poor old Susan. Best to leave her alone.

  He settled himself to his steering and to keeping a look out at the same time.

  With the doors to the cabin closed there was no light in the cockpit, except a feeble glimmer where the little candle-lamp, hidden from outside, threw a pale yellow glow over the compass card inside the window. South-east by east … South-east … South-east by south … South-south-east … The card never kept still for a moment. How could it, with the Goblin swaying on her way, and John easing her along as he had eased the little Swallow long ago, meeting her with the tiller when she tried to come round, stopping her when she tried to swing off, steering all the time as much by the feel of the wind as by the sight of the compass. He did his best. Roughly his course must be south-east, he thought. He could not be very sure.

  It was not so ha
rd to keep her steady as it had been, if you could call it steady, this regular swinging motion as she hurried along, wave after wave coming up on her quarter, lifting her, passing her, and racing ahead of her into the night. It was like keeping time to a tune, leaning on the tiller, letting it come back, leaning again. So … and back … So … and back …

  The wind must be less than it had been. He was sure of that. Not that it wouldn’t be more than hard enough if they had been going the other way and battling into it. Gosh! Those had been an awful few minutes. Poor old Susan! And then that reefing … Jolly lucky he had tied that life-line round himself when he went forrard. And everything had gone all right so far … The Goblin was still afloat … She wasn’t leaking … Nothing had carried away, as it so easily might… He just would not think of what they would have to do next. Enough for now to keep her sailing safely along with her sleeping crew.

  Her sleeping crew … Just for a second after leaning on the tiller he let it go and took a hurried peep over those closed doors and down into the lighted cabin. He could just see Roger’s feet rolled in blanket, and a lump of red-tanned sail that Susan had used to stop him from sliding about in his bunk. Titty was out of sight in the fore-cabin. And here was poor old Susan asleep in her corner of the cockpit. All three of them were asleep. He was back at the tiller, leaning on it again. He took another look at the compass card under that dim yellow glow, wedged himself against the cockpit coaming with a foot against the opposite seat, looked up at the part of the sky that was full of stars, and a little ashamedly admitted to himself that he was happy.

  Of course he ought not to be. There was all Jim Brading’s chain and his best anchor on the bottom of Harwich harbour. There was Mother at Pin Mill and Jim Brading at Felixstowe not knowing what had become of them. But when they did know, Jim Brading would be pleased, except about that anchor and chain. The Goblin was all right, not bumping herself to pieces on a shoal as she very well might have been. No land sharks or pirates had had a chance of claiming salvage that might have cost Brading his ship. And Mother, when everything was explained to her, would be pleased that things were no worse. He had done his very best. And anyhow, here, at night, far out in the North Sea, what could he do other than what he was doing? If anybody could have seen his face in the faint glimmer from the compass window, he would have seen that there was a grin on it. John was alone in the dark with his ship, and everybody else was asleep. He, for that night, was the Master of the Goblin, and even the lurches of the cockpit beneath him as the Goblin rushed through the dark filled him with a serious kind of joy. He and the Goblin together. On and on. On and on. Years and years hence, when he was grown up, he would have a ship of his own and sail her out into wider seas than this. But he would always and always remember this night when for the first time ship and crew were in his charge, his alone.

  So … and back … So … and back … Lean and sway with this triumphant motion. Good little ship. Good little ship. He put a hand over the edge of the coaming and patted the damp deck in the darkness.

  *

  What was that?

  Flash, flash, in the darkness far ahead. He saw those flashes only when the Goblin was on the top of a sea. There they were again. A flash, and then, a moment later, another. Then darkness for several seconds, and then again those two bright flashes, close together.

  It must be a lightship. Almost on the course, too. If he kept on like this he would be passing it fairly near. He wondered how far away it was. It might turn out to be very useful. It might have a name on its side, though without a chart that would not tell him much. But supposing they were near it when the dawn came, there would be no harm in hailing, and perhaps the lighthouse men would be able to tell him what course to steer to get back to Harwich. That would help a lot. What with the tides and steering to ease the Goblin through the seas, John knew that his course from Harwich would be more like a serpent’s trail than a straight line if he could see it on a chart. Gosh, the lighthouse men might even be able to lend him a chart if he came near enough. And they couldn’t very well hold the Goblin for salvage when they themselves were in a vessel moored and fixed in the middle of the sea. And in daylight it would be safe to come near. They would signal to him if he were standing into danger. He remembered the signal for “You are standing into danger.”… Two shorts and a long. And then his mind went back to last winter holidays and all the signalling with Nancy and Peggy Blackett, and the expedition to the North Pole, and he laughed, wedged there in the cockpit, swaying to and fro, out in the North Sea in the middle of the night, at the memory of Nancy Blackett with the mumps and a face like a pumpkin, earnestly signalling from her sickroom window.

  He looked again at the compass, when the Goblin was pointing directly at the flashes. Just a little east of south-east. That was near enough. For the time being he would be able to do without the compass and steer for those distant flashes. Much easier not to have to keep peering at that glowing card and at the same time to keep as good a look out as could be kept by a busy steersman in the dark.

  *

  So and back … So and back … He sat there swaying with the tiller. Sea after sea rolled up astern, lifted the Goblin with a noise of churning foam, dropped her, and rolled on. Now and then in the darkness he could see the crest of a wave like a grey ghost as it passed close by. Once or twice he lit the big electric torch and flashed it over the side to get an idea of how fast the little Goblin was racing through the water. But mostly he was content to keep up that easy, rhythmical steering, to know by the feel of the wind that there was no danger of a jibe, and to look far ahead for that winking light … flash, flash, one after another, arrows of light over the water, then black for a few seconds, and then again those sudden sharp piercings of the darkness.

  He wondered what the lightship would be like, remembering those he had seen in Harwich harbour and at Falmouth, big red hulls, with thick masts amidships, and lanterns on the masts like huge cages, and some of them with balls and things at the masthead. He thought of the lighthouse men aboard her. Of course, they couldn’t see the Goblin bustling along towards them in the dark. Some of them would be watching, surely, but the rest would be lying in their bunks asleep, like Titty and Roger asleep down below in the cabin of the Goblin … Asleep … John suddenly felt his own eyes closing. He opened them again, extra wide, and stared in the darkness towards the other side of the cockpit where, though he could see nothing but a lump perhaps a little blacker than everything else, he knew that Mate Susan, hunched down in her oilskins, was herself asleep like the rest of the crew.

  LIGHTSHIP AT NIGHT

  On and on. Was that one flash or two? His eyes must have closed again for a moment without his knowing it. This would not do. He straightened his back. With his fingers he opened his eyes as wide as he could, hoping that perhaps they would stay so. Again he found them blinking. He stared ahead into the darkness and tried to count the seconds between one pair of flashes and the next. He counted seven before the flashes came again. The next time he counted five, the time after that six. Then another seven. Then eight. Then six again. How hard it was to keep counting at the same pace. This was a very good way of keeping awake. For a long time he went on counting, beginning afresh each time those two flashes broke out of the darkness. And then, suddenly, he realised that he had counted up to twelve. He must have missed seeing one pair of flashes altogether.

  He rubbed his eyes really hard, blinked them rapidly, looked at the compass, and stared ahead into the night. By now, even when the lightship was not sending out those stabbing flashes, he could see a faint glimmer from her lantern. He would keep those flashes on the starboard bow. It wouldn’t do to pass too near if they were going to reach the lightship while it was still dark. Whatever happened, he simply must not go to sleep. If only he could sing it would be easier to keep awake. But he could not sing because of waking Susan.

  Suddenly he started. A sail was clapping like thunder. The wind was blowing not from behind him but in
to his face. The tiller was kicking this way and that and the Goblin was plunging up and down like a mad thing. Two bright flashes shone out not on the starboard bow but somewhere away to port.

  “John! John! What’s happened?”

  Susan had waked in terror.

  “I fell asleep,” he shouted into the wind. “It’ll be all right in a minute. She’s coming back.”

  Slowly he got the Goblin back on her course, with the flashes of the lightship once more on the starboard bow. The wind eased as he brought it aft. He looked at the compass. Pretty nearly south-east. That was all right.

  “I say, Susan, I’m awfully sorry. I keep on dropping off.”

  “What are those flashes?” asked Susan.

  “Lightship,” said John. “I’m steering for it, and when daylight comes we’ll ask them what we’d better do.”

  “How long have I been asleep?” said Susan.

  “Good long time,” said John. “Are you feeling all right now?”

  “Ever so much better,” said Susan, with half a yawn. She looked down through the hatch at the feet of the sleeping Roger in the cabin. “They haven’t been up, have they?”

  “No.”

  She opened one side of the door a little way so that she could see the clock.

  “I say, it’s after two o’clock. You must be awfully tired.”

  “Only sleepy,” said John. “My eyes will keep shutting. Look here. It’ll be all right if you talk to keep me awake.”

  Susan began talking.

  “What do you think the lightship people will say?”

  “I don’t know … Perhaps they’ll lend us a chart … Anyhow they’ll tell us how to steer for Harwich … We’ve been wiggling about a good deal …”