We Didn't Mean to Go to Sea

by Arthur Ransome

  “It’d show a lot better if only the wind was blowing the other way,” said Roger.

  “Anybody can see it,” said John. “That’s all that matters.”

  “The enemy aren’t flying flags at all,” said Titty, “except those long streamers at the tops of their masts.” Almost, and yet not quite, she had hoped that one at least of the approaching fleet would fly a skull and cross-bones.

  On they sailed, their eyes now on the small steamer that seemed to stay just where it was, in a line with the thin pencil sticking up on the horizon, now on the fishing boats and on the much larger steamer coming up beyond them.

  “Which are we going to meet first?” said Roger. “That steamer’s coming an awful lick.”

  The fishing boats came nearer and nearer. John, glancing at them from time to time, held on his course as if they had not been there.

  “We’re going too fast for them,” said Roger at last. “They couldn’t catch us if they tried.”

  “Good. Good,” said Titty. “Go it, Goblin.”

  The fishing boat that was leading the fleet was a hundred yards away, surging through the water towards them. A dozen others were scattered astern of her, big, varnished boats, their oaken topsides shining in the sun.

  “They’re shouting,” said Roger.

  “Telling us to stop,” said Titty. “We jolly well won’t. I wonder whether Sinbad knows their language.”

  “There’s a boy with a red cap like Nancy’s,” said Roger. “They’re all waving. What had we better do?”

  “Wave back,” said Susan. “It can’t do any harm.”

  The whole crew of the Goblin waved as they swept past and left the fishing boats to cross their track astern of them, and on all the fishing boats arms were flung up, and a cheer came over the water from the fishermen to the little English boat that had come so far.

  “They sound quite friendly,” said Titty.

  “Perhaps we could go and ask…” began Susan.

  “They’d soon find out we were alone,” said John, “and, anyhow, I can’t now. I’ve got to look out for that steamer.”

  The huge black steamer, with red, rusty patches on her sides and a clatter of noise, was coming up from the south so fast that it was very near indeed when they had left the fishing boats astern. Black smoke poured from its funnel and they could hear the groan and throb of its engines.

  “It’s going to ram us,” said Roger. “Hi! … Shall I get the foghorn?”

  John clenched his teeth.

  “They’ve seen us all right,” he said. “There’s the look-out above the rail, just above the anchor on this side. He was pointing at us. Steam gives way to sail. This isn’t the river. We’ve just got to keep straight on.” But it was not too easy to hold the Goblin to her course and to take no notice of that monster of a ship, those bows towering like a cliff, coming on and on, with the water spirting white on either side.

  And then, ever so slightly, the huge steamer did indeed give way to sail, but not an inch more than she had to. That black cliff cut the water only a few yards astern of the Goblin. The bow wave caught the Goblin and threw her sideways. The black wall of the steamer’s side, far above the Goblin’s masthead, cut off the wind. The Goblin’s sails fell slack. The boom crashed across and back again, and across once more. Far above them, officers on the bridge deck looked down at the crew of the little cutter thrown this way and that about the cockpit.

  “Look out for Sinbad!” cried Titty, as she slipped from her seat, and the kitten, trying to save itself, landed on the floor in the general mix-up of everybody’s legs.

  Then, just as the wind caught them again round the steamer’s stern, the wash hit them. Rolling across the regular seas, it came at them in steep-tossed hillocks. Crash … crash … Two seas, one after another, splashed aboard. Titty rescued Sinbad. John picked himself up and fought with the tiller. The boom swung back to the port side. The Goblin was sailing once more.

  “Beasts! Beasts!” shouted Titty, shaking her fist after the steamer.

  “They’re nearly as bad as the ones that called us fishmongers,” gasped Roger.

  “Are you both sopping wet?” asked Susan.

  “Hamburg,” said John. “I couldn’t read her name. That’s where she’s from. Hamburg’s in Germany. Gosh. I wish I knew just where we were.”

  “We’ll simply have to ask someone,” said Susan, looking ahead at the steamer that was still in the same place between the Goblin and the lighthouse. Yellow sand dunes were showing now below the lighthouse. With every moment they were coming nearer to the land.

  “There’s water showing on the cabin floor,” said Roger.

  “Do some pumping,” said John.

  Roger pumped away busily, but after half a dozen strokes found he could pump no more. “It won’t come,” he said, lugging at the handle.

  Susan had a try. It was no use.

  “Choked,” said John. “Never mind … I’ll have a look at it in a minute.”

  He looked about him. There were no vessels in sight except the fishing boats, now far astern, the German steamer now far to the north, that steamer far ahead of them, and a few distant feathers of smoke that showed where other steamers must be below the horizon to the south. John, privately, was a good deal more than bothered. There was a new feel in the motion of the Goblin. The wind was certainly less, but the seas were steeper and shorter.

  “How long do you think it’ll be before we’re in harbour?” asked Susan.

  John would have liked to know the answer to that question himself. What was there between them and the land? It was dreadful having no chart, even if you didn’t know much about how to use one. There might be shoals right out to sea, like the shoals off Harwich. All night, in open sea, John had been almost happy, but now he began to feel once more what he had felt in the fog, that awful horror of sailing in a place where you do not know what may be lurking out of sight for the wrecking of big ships and little.

  “We must be getting into shallow water,” he said at last. “The sea’s changing colour too. Not nearly so blue as it was. Sandy. Keep a good look out for buoys or anything like that. It would be too awful if we went and smashed her up after all.”

  “We’ve got to get in now,” said Susan. “Mother’s expecting us at Pin Mill this afternoon. We’ve simply got to get a telegram off from somewhere.”

  John did not answer.

  That growing line of sand dunes on the horizon terrified him. No signs of any harbour. The church spires looked as if they were far inland.

  “That steamer’s hardly moving,” said Titty.

  “Perhaps she’s anchored,” said Roger.

  John made up his mind. “The water must be deep where she is,” he said. “If only there isn’t a shallow place first. I’m going to steer straight for her. When we’re there we may be able to see where the harbour is.”

  “Anyway,” said Susan, “there’s no harm in asking how far we are from anywhere.”

  “From where?” said Roger.

  “That’s just it,” said Titty.

  “We can ask where she’s from,” said Susan. “That won’t give anything away.”

  “So long as they don’t spot there’s anything the matter with us,” said John. “It’s not like asking a fishing boat. They won’t try to come aboard.”

  “There are four of us,” said Titty.

  “We could bat their knuckles if they tried to come,” said Roger. “They’d have to lower a little boat to come at all.”

  “I’m going to ask,” said John, and held the little Goblin straight on her course, while with grave, serious faces, her crew stared ahead of them at those rolling golden dunes in the hazy distance, and at that motionless steamer that might be friend or foe.

  CHAPTER XIX

  SIGNAL FOR A PILOT

  “SHE’S A LONG way off yet,” said John at last. “You take over, Susan, while I go down and see if I can clear that pump.”

  “Can’t we steer?” said Rog
er. “Jim let us.”

  “In a calm,” said John.

  “Well, it’s not blowing hard now, and it’s no good trying to look through these glasses. They’re all full of water.”

  “We’ll be awfully careful,” said Titty. “And Susan can hold Sinbad when it’s my turn.”

  “Don’t let them jibe her, that’s all,” said John, and went down the companion-way, glad for a moment not to think about what to do next.

  There was very little water showing on the floor, just a puddle, sloshing to and fro at the foot of the steps. He shed his oilskin, rolled his sleeve to his shoulder, and reached down under the engine into greasy, rusty water. Suddenly he, John, acting skipper of the Goblin, had a most dreadful shock. It was as if all his insides were trying to get up into his throat. He stood up, looking at his arm, all wet and stained. This would never do. Was Roger the only one to be free from it? It was all right for Titty and Susan to be seasick, but he was going to be a sailor anyway, and if he couldn’t stand bending down below decks and a whiff of bilge-water and oil, well …! He held his breath, plunged his arm down once more, felt desperately about in the slush, and found the inlet pipe of the pump. His hand, slimy with grease, came up with a sodden lump of cotton waste that had been sucked against the holes of the inlet and closed them as well as if they had been sealed on purpose.

  He straightened himself and held the rag up with one hand while he steadied himself with the other. Gosh, he was glad the pump had not choked when they were tossing about in the night.

  “He’s greener than you were, Susan,” said Roger cheerfully. “I say, John, she isn’t a bit difficult to steer. I’m going to steer again when Titty’s had her turn.”

  “Chuck it overboard,” said John, holding out the black greasy lump he had brought up. “And then have a try at the pump.”

  Roger took the thing in the tips of his fingers and dropped it over the side. He pulled at the pump. “It’s working all right now,” he said.

  “I say, John,” said Susan. “You’re not going to be sea-sick too?”

  “No,” said John, wiping his arm, and climbing up into the cockpit dragging his oilskin after him, to put it on in the open air. He threw up his head to get all the wind he could. “It’s only grovelling about below. Smell of engine mostly.”

  “Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen,” panted Roger, counting the strokes.

  “I’ll have a go,” said John. “Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty…” Already he felt better again. He went on counting till he came to a hundred, when Susan took a turn and he stood by in case anything went wrong with the steering of the able-seamen.

  At the hundred and seventy-third stroke there was a squelching, sucking sound, and the pump handle suddenly went up and down with nothing to stop it.

  “Good,” said John.

  “She isn’t leaking?” said Susan.

  “Can’t be,” said John. “Look here, Susan. Will you steer while I go forrard? There’s an awful mess of ropes on the foredeck, and the burgee’s all cockeye, and the signal halyards are flying loose from the cross-trees. We simply must have her looking all right when we get near the steamer, so that they won’t spot that anything’s wrong.”

  “Put on the life-line,” said Susan. “And don’t go and get overboard.”

  “I won’t,” said John. He knotted the life-line round his middle and scrambled forward along the cabin top. He tightened the flag halyards so that the little flagstaff with the burgee stood up proud and straight above the masthead. But he could not reach those signal halyards that were waving far out of reach.

  “Bring her round to the wind, Susan,” he shouted. “Go on. Luff.”

  “I am luffing,” shouted Susan.

  Yes. The Goblin was coming round. That was the jib clapping. Flick. The halyards in their wild dance touched his face. If only they would do that again. His left hand would be the one to grab with. Up and down the little ship lifted and dropped. Up and down. He caught a glimpse of frightened faces in the cockpit. And then, suddenly, the flying halyards were in his hand. He sat down hard and unexpectedly on the cabin roof.

  “Got them,” he shouted. “Bear away again. Get the sails full.” Would they never hear him?

  But they had heard him all right. The jib clapped but once more, and then settled to quiet. He made the halyards fast to a shroud.

  Then, still sitting on the cabin roof, he had a good look round to see what else wanted doing. The coils of the jib halyards had come adrift, and an end was trailing in the water. Starboard side, too. What must those fishermen have thought? And the mainsail somehow looked sloppy. The main halyard soaked by the rain must have stretched a good deal, and now the morning sun had dried it. It was as slack as it could be. No wonder the boom was drooping a bit. No wonder the luff of the sail looked loose and baggy. He tidied up the jib halyards and wedged them in behind the mast. Then he tried to bowse down the main. No good, with the sail full of wind. They’d have to come round again to spill the wind out of it, or he would never be able to get it up. He looked at the steamer. Still a long way off.

  “Susan,” he called. “You’ll have to bring her to the wind again … just for a moment … Luff …”

  Susan knew by this time exactly what was wanted. She swung the Goblin round towards the wind. The mainsail ceased to pull and John gained six or seven inches by swigging down the halyard. “All right now,” he called, and Susan headed for the steamer. John gave a swig at the staysail halyard, too, and then went back to the cockpit.

  “Don’t know what they’ll have thought we were doing,” he said. “But perhaps they weren’t looking.”

  “Even with a telescope they couldn’t have seen much,” said Titty.

  “Hope not,” said John, “but they’ll have seen her yawing about.”

  “The sails look just right now,” said Susan. “They look just like they did when we sailed down the river.”

  “Anyway, I can’t get them any better,” said John. “But we’ll have to sail close up to the steamer, and everything ought to be as right as it can be.”

  “She looks simply fine,” said Titty.

  “Let’s get the cockpit tidied too,” said John.

  “And I think I’ll wash up …” said Susan. “There isn’t much. Only the mugs and a plate.”

  “We’d better not use fresh water for it,” said Titty.

  “We jolly well won’t,” said John. “Suppose they tell us there isn’t a harbour.”

  “There must be,” said Susan, but she could see no sign of one in that coastline of golden sand dunes, and was content to do her best with salt water, which John scooped in a saucepan from the top of a wave that rose alongside just when it was wanted.

  More steamers were in sight now, away to the south and where the golden coastline seemed to come to an end. The only steamer in sight ahead of them was the one that seemed hardly to be moving.

  “Perhaps the harbour’s over there where those other steamers are,” said Titty. “We may be going the wrong way. This one may only be fishing.”

  “Let’s have those glasses,” said John suddenly.

  “They’re no good since they got all splashed,” said Roger.

  John wiped them as well he could with a damp handkerchief, let go of the tiller for a moment, and stared at the steamer ahead of them.

  “We’re all right,” he shouted. “Have a look, Susan. Isn’t that a pretty big flag she’s got at her masthead?”

  Susan looked through the misty glasses and put them down, to be grabbed by Roger. “I can see better without. It’s two flags, one above another. No. It’s one, a huge one.”

  “She’s a pilot vessel,” shouted John. “Remember the pilots at Falmouth. We’re all right now …”

  “They’ll know where we are anyway,” said Titty.

  “It isn’t that,” said John. “We can take a pilot to wherever we want to go. It isn’t like asking for help. Jim said so himself. It’s quite all right to signal for
a pilot. Even liners do it. Where’s that roll of flags?”

  “Behind my bunk,” said Titty. She pushed Sinbad into Susan’s hands and dived down the companion.

  She was up again a moment later with the canvas roll and opened it on the cockpit floor.

  “S for a pilot,” she said. “Here it is.” She held up a small roll of blue and white.

  John hurried forward to the mast, and, sitting on the cabin top, unfastened the signal halyards. When he had caught them and made them fast for tidiness’ sake, the very last thing he had thought was that he would be using them so soon. He bent on the square pilot flag, and, doing his best to send it up hand over hand in professional style, had it fluttering a moment later from the cross-trees.

  SIGNAL FOR A PILOT

  “We’re in for it now,” he said, looking at the steamer, now quite near, and then up at that fluttering blue square with its white border.

  “Will you let the pilot come aboard?” asked Roger.

  “Yes,” said John.

  And then doubts began again.

  “What land do you think it will be?” asked Titty.

  “There are lots it might be,” said John.

  “It can’t be England,” said Roger.

  “Not unless that compass is altogether wrong,” said John.

  “It’ll have a harbour anyhow,” said Susan. “Or there wouldn’t be a pilot boat about.”

  “What language will you talk to him?” said Roger.

  John’s mouth fell.

  “I know a little French,” he said. “But jolly little. I’m always bottom for it at school.”

  “What’s harbour?” said Titty. “S’il vous plaît, montrez nous le rue à une …”

  “Porte,” said Roger hopefully.

  “But it isn’t montrez,” said John. “We want him to take us there.”