by Ice! [V2. 0]
I had concentrated first on the cabin, so that Nelson, the sea bag, and I would have somewhere reasonably warm and dry to live during the coming winter months. By mid- October, we were cozily battened against the weather and the curiosity of the local constabulary.
By Christmas (which we celebrated by making the church roof sheet-lead deal with some of "the boys" in the Elephant and Castle district of London), the masts—beautiful, hollow British Columbia pine—the rigging—courtesy of Sheerness dockyard and a week of fog—and the engine were all in place. By the end of January I had hand sewn a total of fourteen hundred square feet of heavy canvas sails, as well as received delivery of eight hundred square feet of heavy Dacron sails from Jeckells', up in East Anglia. By the time the ice had cleared out of the Paver Medway at the end of February, she was ready for launching, with one of the most lovingly applied paint jobs seen in the Thames Estuary since Queen Victoria was a lass. The outside of the hull was white gloss, picked out with French blue on the rubbing strake and Admiralty varnish (fourteen coats) on the "brightwork." Down below, all was Royal Navy grey, for one of our nocturnal outings had rewarded us with a great thirty-gallon drum of the stuff. It wasn't very chic-looking, but then, neither were Nelson nor I, and it served its purpose. Anyway, it was the light grey used in warships on tropical stations, so it would remind us of starry, balmy nights in the West Indies and the South Pacific during the long, dark, cold, Arctic nights to come.
Down below, I had a bit of brasswork—two gun tarpons, the great bronze badges which they used to wedge into the muzzles of a destroyer's guns when they were not in use. A brass fiddle rail ran around the table and there were brass portholes set into the doghouse sides. Then there were pictures of Shackleton, Nansen, and Scott, all cut out of old "London Illustrated News" magazines, and one of the queen at the forward end of the cabin.
The coke-and-wood-burning stove was an admirable little contraption I had located in the old captain of police's office in the dockyard. As my need was much greater than his possible successor's, I borrowed the stove on a permanent basis.
In March 1959 I was ready to get in the navigational gear. The sextant I already had, an old Dutch model from the 1880s which had a micrometer reading so fine and brass-polish-worn that no one but I could read it. The chronometer I bought in a Petticoat Lane flea market for seven shillings (about a dollar). It was a fine London job from around 1860, brass, set on all-round gimbals, in a beautifully made walnut case with a green baize cushion inside. It was accurate to less than a second a day. A taffrail log, for telling the distance run, snaffled from Her Majesty's stores, cost three pints of ale.
I scoured the secondhand bookshops of London for reading material. Some of the bargains I found were a complete works of Shakespeare, Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, a full set of Mark Twain's works, Marx's Das Kapital, plus definitive editions of Kipling, Byron, Wordsworth, and Keats, together with the works of W. B. Yeats and Wilde. I also managed to scrounge several of Joseph Conrad's books—The Nigger of the Narcissus, The Heart of Darkness, Lord Jim—and many of the Maigret books by Simenon, which I think much of. I also secured a copy of one of the greatest sailing fiction books ever written, The Riddle of the Sands by Erskine Childers, who was later shot as a traitor by the Irish Free State troops during the Irish Troubles.
I found later in the voyage that I had a treasure indeed onboard in the books by Alain Gerbault In Search of the Sun and The Voyage of the Firecrest. I also had Cervantes's Don Quixote and several scruffs volumes by Balzac and Dumas.
These, together with my Reed's Nautical Almanac, the Admiralty Pilot for the Arctic Ocean East of Greenland; and Charles Darwin's Voyage of H.M.S. Beagle, were to be my appreciated companions during many long, dark nights to come.
So much for the modern works. Even more important than all these, with the exception, of course, of the navigational volumes, were the English translations of De mensure orbis terrae by the Irish monk Dicuil, written around A.D. 825, and the Venerable Bede's accounts of Celtic settlement in Iceland up to the century before the Norsemen arrived there, De Ratione Temporum. I had notes on the account of the voyage made by the Greek geographer Pytheas of Massalia from Britain to Iceland (or Thule, as he called it) in 330 B.C. There was also a collection of translations of the works of Strabo and Pliny, written around the birth of Christ, which gave accounts of sailing directions from Britain to Thule. There were also scraps of written Celtic lore of the voyages of Saint Brendan to the islands of the North, and translations of the great Icelandic sagas. Snorri Sturluson's Prose Edda and a history of Iceland entitled Islendingabok by Ari the Learned; also, the Sturlunga saga and the Fornaldarsogur, the Sagas of the Old Times, Icelandic translations of the Celtic and Romance legends of Tristan and Yseult, or Erec and Blanchfleur, together with the classic Islendingasogur, the Saga of the Icelanders. These tales, woven of fact and fantasy, of calamitous cowardice and cold courage, are living proof of the leavening influence of the Celt on the savage Viking soul, for in no other Scandinavian culture was such a standard of heroic prose and poetry reached. Nowhere else did the blood gush from the word so wetly and redly, nor the sun rise in such paeans of splendor; nowhere else was man so human, nor yet so godly, except in the old (much older than the Sagas) legends of the Gaels.
By the end of March I had spent approximately $2,700.00 on lead, charts, engine, navigational tables, tools, and other items which, for one reason or the other (usually the other), were impossible to obtain from Royal Navy stores. Also on food and beer and a brand-new bowsprit.
By the time I had laid in my two years' supply of canned food and other bits and piece of necessary gear, such as sleeping bag and warm clothing, I had about a hundred dollars left. With this I launched Cresswell, stood a pint of beer all round at the Admiral Jellicoe, bought a compass, a small radio receiver, and a bundle of mutton cloths from the local butcher to serve as extra blankets and insulation for the cabin, and I was off, in foggy weather, flat calm sea, down the Medway, out of the Dickens-haunted Thames Estuary, and into the North Sea. Destination Whitstable.
As Cresswell lifted her thirty-six feet to the first sea swells, I was elated. Nelson stood up forward in the bows, sniffing the wind, standing as steady as a rock on his three legs, content that there was a full bag of bones for him in the engine compartment and that he was at sea again.
In the afternoon the fog lifted. The low green hills of north Kent and, beyond them, the North Foreland's chalky white cliffs, rose out of the murky North Sea waters. Soon Whitstable was in view and I had completed my first solo voyage in my own craft. It was only a matter of thirty-five miles or so, and there was no wind, but the old Fire Brigade pump worked as good as a homing Trojan, and there was plenty of daylight to spare as I guided Cresswell into the open roadstead, to anchor in front of the town of Whitstable on that faraway April evening.
It was good that we called at Whitstable, for here I found out more of the history of Cresswell than I ever imagined I would. In Sheerness, where I had fitted out in the shadow of the dockyard walls, she was something of a mystery, of uncertain age and lineage. But as soon as she stepped her forefoot into the sally North Sea swell, I knew by the very movement of her hull that here was a vessel which had known men and the sea. She was no shy virgin.
If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse's feet,
Don't go drawing back the blind, or
looking in the street, Them that asks no questions isn't
told a lie. Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by! Five and twenty ponies Trotting through the dark-Brandy for the Parson, 'Baccy for the Clerk; Laces for a Lady, letters for a spy, And watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by! If you do as you've been told, 'likely there's a chance, You'll be give a dainty doll, all the way
from France, With a cap of Valenciennes, and
a velvet hood— A presentfrom the Gentlemen, along o' being good! Five and twenty ponies Trotting through the dark-Brandy for t
he Parson, Baccy for the Clerk, Them that asks no questions isn't
told a lie-Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!
Rudyard Kipling, "A Smuggler's Song."
7
Watch the Wall, My Darling!
Two good things about not having much money: your pockets don't get holes in them and you meet a lot of interesting people whom otherwise you might miss.
The boatman who ferried me ashore in Whitstable was obviously not one of the Brethren, though he was a cheerful enough chap, well fed, rotund under his blue jersey, with sparkling grey blue Saxon eyes over a smoothly shaven jaw. But he didn't have the lean and hungry look, and his oar strokes were a mite too gentle for me to confide in him what was on my mind.
"You come far?" he asked me, as we headed for the town jetty.
"Only from Sheerness. I motored all the way; no wind."
"That's usual this time of year. Where're you bound?"
"Oh, just knocking around. You know, Ramsgate, maybe Broadstairs. Depends on the weather." I tried to sound uncaring.
"Yeah, I s'pose so." He'd got the message alright, and charged me a shilling, twice the going rate. "Well, it'll help him buy a new peaked cap," I thought, as I handed him one-thousandth of all my worldly wealth.
I headed for the shops, to buy some safety pins and envelopes and exchange surreptitious niceties with the lasses behind the counters. Then, as it was but half past four and still thirty minutes to go before pub-opening time, I sipped a slow cup of tea and chewed a sticky bun, surrounded by most of the genteel, elderly ladies of the resort. I was waited on by a chirpy little London cockney girl who managed to look sedate and ladylike in front of the dowagers and at the same time wiggle her hips every time she squeezed past my table.
It was raining when I eventually made my way to the Standard after fixing a date with the waitress for ten o'clock. Business picked up and soon the public bar was filled with fishermen and longshoremen. After a while one of the crowd, a cheerful-looking, lanky, red-haired fellow, dressed like most of the others in jersey and bobble-cap, approached me.
"Saw you come in with the old Mary Eleanor."
"Not me, mate, that's the boat Cresswell, ex-R.N.L. I.," I replied.
"Not on your nellie. I know that boat. By the way, my name's Bill Travels, ex-Australian navy. I took my pension over here."
"Tristan Jones, ex-R.N." I finished off my pint. He bought another.
"Like I was saying," Bill went on, "I had to look twice at that hull, but no mistake. You've done a bloody good job of the conversion, but she's still the Mary E. I knew her, in fact I sailed in her, once or twice, about ten years ago. She belonged to a bloke called Rattler Morgan. He used to be in and out of Ramsgate running stuff over to France. He got her from the joker who took her over to Dunkirk in 1940 for the evacuation."
"What? I never knew she was in that lot."
"Yes, and that bloody patch on the starboard bow is where a Jem' plane put a forty-millimeter shell right through her and killed four Tommies and a Frenchman." He swigged his beer again. "How long have you had her, mate?"
"Oh, a few months. Found her derelict in Sheerness."
"I'm not surprised, 'cos Rattler drew five years in the nick when they eventually caught up with him. They reckoned he'd moonlighted more flamin' booze into Froggyland than Johnnie Walker Zhad sent legally."
I pushed over another three bob for two more pints.
"Where you bound, mate?" He was studying me closely.
I eyed him. "Well, speaking sort of general-like, I'm heading down Channel. What I'd like to do, if I can, is get over to Ireland for the summer. I heard living is much cheaper over there."
"On the blink, then?"
"Oh, I've got a few bob, but I wouldn't mind a few more."
"Yeah? Well, I might be able to put you onto something."
The conversation drifted into the usual realms of boats and people, the age-old exercise of sailor-strangers meeting in a bar, finding out if they have friends in common and if one knows any of the vessels the other knows, then a joke or two, a game of darts, hints on what pubs are good—the same scuttlebutt the world over.
Towards the end of our seventh pint, Bill leaned over close to my ear.
"If you're stuck, Tris, I can put you in with a setup which is genuine, and you'll earn more than a few bob in just a couple of runs over the other side."
"What are they running?"
"Scotch."
"What's in it?"
Bill lowered his voice. "Two hundred quid a time. A hundred on sailing and a hundred when the stuff s landed."
"Where?"
"I can get you to the blokes at this end, but I can't tell you about the other end. They'll put you right on that score when you sail."
"What's in it for you?"
"I sail with you. I get a hundred nikker for the trip."
"Where's your boat?" I was wary.
"Piled her up off Portland back in November. No insurance."
"How do I know you're O.K.?"
"Ask him." Bill nodded towards the landlord of the Standard.
I had already spoken to the landlord, who had known old Tansy Lee when he used to frequent the pub, and I'd weighed him off as a straight-shooter. He had probably taken his share of the "bent" booze.
"Right," I said. "Hang on a minute and I'll have a word with him. If he okays it, Bill, you're on."
A few minutes later I got the landlord to one side and he confirmed that he had known Aussie Bill for some years, that he always paid his due, and that he was trusted by all and sundry in the town. I returned to Bill. "Right, cobber, you're on. When do we sail?"
"When can you be ready?"
"Where are we bound?"
"The Nab? Well, let's see, that's about ... 140 miles. If we get an easterly, say thirty-six hours; a westerly, say three days. How soon can your mates meet me there?"
"I'll ring 'em up to confirm, but off the bat I'd say yes in three days. It'll be ideal. Not much moon."
"O.K., you talk to them and if it's O.K., we'll sail tomorrow at dawn and be off the Nab for sure in three nights from now."
"Good on you, blue. Have another pint. Then I'll get on the blower and find out the score."
"Right. Hey, Bill, you married?"
"You must be jokin'!"
"Got a bird?"
"Yeah, all over the place." He grimaced. "Why?"
"Well, I've got a date with this tart in the cafe down the road and I can nip down and see if she can bring one of her mates, if you like. They both look like goers."
"Sounds fair enough. What time?"
"See you back here at ten. How're you fixed?"
"Not too good, but I can buy a couple of gin and bitter lemons."
"That'll do."
He disappeared into the saloon bar where the telephone was located, at the posh end of the pub. At ten o'clock I reappeared with my girl and her friend. Being gentlemen that night, we took them into the saloon bar with its black leather sofa-seats and soft, pink lights, where the bank and bookmakers' clerks sat with their wives brushed and combed and not five bob between the lot of them. We soon had the lasses titteringly teased over Booth's Dry Gin so that by the time "Gentlemen Please" was called they would have willingly sailed with us for the Nab. Instead we hauled them around to the fairground and whooshed and whizzed our way into their eyes and thighs to the tune of the organola.
Merry with beer and gin, we made our satiated way back to the girls' rooming house. At twelve, as the clouds broke, the battle-ax who shepherded their morals locked tight the door as they wafted their way to wherever girls go when a door is locked. Bill and I wended stumbling weary steps through the winklestalls of Whitstable in the wet-streaming, windstormy night.
The old ferryboat man, the same one who had taken me ashore that afternoon, nine pints and two orgasms ago, said not a word. He took one look at Aussie Bill, then a fleeting glance at me. As we came alongside Cresswell, old Nelson wagged his tail,
all the while staring at Bill through his eye.
"I know that bugger," said Bill, reaching up and patting him. "That's ol' Tansy Lee's dog!"
"Did you know Tansy, mate?"
"Know him? Course I did. I've had more pints with Tansy than you've had hot breakfasts!"
"Blimey, I used to sail with him. He was my first skipper!"
"Yeah? Where is he now then?"
"He kicked the bucket last August."
"Aboard?"
"No, he was ashore, sort of semiretired the month before."
"Christ, he wouldn't have liked that, Tris."
"Too bloody right, but he had a good send-off. They had practically every old salt on the coast at the wake."
"I'll bet that was a sight for sore eyes."
"So they say, Bill. Want a nightcap? There's some Black Label here."
"Good on you, mate, splash it out. We'll bloody soon replace that!"
And so, for an hour into the windy night, as the boat rocked away on the tide's changing, tales of Tansy were exchanged, while Nelson made a fuss of Bill, whom, of course, he remembered from five years back.
Bright as the bottom of a soldier's sock, we were up at dawn, with the anchor weighed and the mainsail filling to a good easterly. The wind and rogue's luck were with us, and. we bowled down the Channel, after clawing our way around the North Foreland.
It was a magnificent, swift sail, that first run down the English Channel, and Cresswell made the Light on Selsey Bill in just forty-eight hours out of Whitstable. As we had a day to spare, I stood off about six miles and we whiled away the hours hove to, fishing. We caught two bream.
