Part 10 (2/2)
The adventures of the night were not exhausted, so far as I was concerned, even when we got back to our vessel.
I have already informed the reader that the cabin of the Tomt.i.t was twelve feet long by eight feet wide--a snug apartment, but scarcely large enough, as it struck me, for five men to sleep in comfortably.
Nevertheless, the experiment was to be tried in Clovelly harbour. I bargained, at the outset, for one thing--that the cabin hatch should be kept raised at least a foot all night. This ventilatory condition being complied with, I tumbled into my hammock; Mr. Migott rolled into his; and Sam Dobbs, d.i.c.k Dobbs, and Bob Dobbs cast themselves down promiscuously on the floor and the lockers under us. Out went the lights; and off went my friend and the Brothers Dobbs into the most intolerable concert of snoring that it is possible to imagine.
No alternative was left for my unfortunate self but to lie awake listening, and studying the character of the snore in each of the four sleeping individuals. The snore of Mr. Migott I found to be superior to the rest in point of amiability, softness, and regularity--it was a kind of oily, long-sustained purr, amusing and not unmusical for the first five minutes. Next in point of merit to Mr. Migott, came Bob Dobbs. His note was several octaves lower than my friend's, and his tone was a grunt--but I will do him justice; I will not scruple to admit that the sounds he produced were regular as clockwork. Very inferior was the performance of Sam Dobbs, who, as owner of the boat, ought, I think, to have set a good example. If an idle carpenter planed a board very quickly at one time, and very slowly at another, and if he groaned at intervals over his work, he would produce the best imitation of Sam Dobbs's style of snoring that I can think of. Last, and worst of all, came d.i.c.k Dobbs, who was afflicted with a cold, and whose snore consisted of a succession of loud chokes, gasps, and puffs, all contending together, as it appeared to me, which should suffocate him soonest. There I lay, wide awake, suffering under the awful nose-chorus which I have attempted to describe, for nearly an hour. It was a dark night: there was no wind, and very little air. Horrible doubts about the sufficiency of our ventilation began to beset me. Reminiscences of early reading on the subject of the Black Hole at Calcutta came back vividly to my memory. I thought of the twelve feet by eight, in which we were all huddled together--terror and indignation overpowered me--and I roared for a light, before the cabin of the Tomt.i.t became too mephitic for flame of any kind to exist in it. Uprose they then my Merry Merry Men, bewildered and grumbling, to grope for the match-box. It was found, the lantern was lit, the face of Mr. Migott appeared serenely over the side of his hammock, and the voice of Mr. Migott sweetly and sleepily inquired what was the matter?
”Matter! The Black Hole at Calcutta is the matter. Poisonous, gaseous exhalation is the matter! Outrageous, ungentlemanly snoring is the matter! give me my bedding, and my drop of brandy, and my pipe, and let me go on deck. Let me be a Chaldean shepherd, and contemplate the stars.
Let me be the careful watch who patrols the deck, and guards the s.h.i.+p from foes and wreck. Let me be anything but the companion of men who snore like the famous Furies in the old Greek play.” While I am venting my indignation, and collecting my bedding, the smiling and sleepy face of Mr. Migott disappears slowly from the side of the hammock--and before I am on deck, I hear the oily purr once more, just as amiable, soft, and regular as ever.
What a relief it was to have the sky to look up at, the fresh night air to breathe, the quiet murmur of the sea to listen to! I rolled myself up in my blankets; and, for aught I know to the contrary, was soon snoring on deck as industriously as my companions were snoring below.
The first sounds that woke me in the morning were produced by the tongues of the natives of Clovelly, a.s.sembled on the pier, staring down on me in my nest of blankets, and shouting to each other incessantly. I a.s.sumed that they were making fun of the interesting stranger stretched in repose on the deck of the Tomt.i.t; but I could not understand one word of the Devons.h.i.+re language in which they spoke. Whatever they said of me, I forgive them, however, in consideration of their cream and fresh herrings. Our breakfast on the cabin-hatch in Clovelly harbour, after a dip in the sea, is a remembrance of gustatory bliss which I gratefully cherish. When we had reduced the herrings to skeletons, and the cream-pot to a whited sepulchre of emptiness, we slipped from our moorings, and sailed away from the lovely little village with sincere regret. By noon we were off Hartland Point.
We had now arrived at the important part of our voyage--the part at which it was necessary to decide, once for all, on our future destination. Mr. Migott and I took counsel together solemnly, unrolled the charts, and then astonished our trusty crew by announcing that the end of the voyage was to be the Scilly Islands. Up to this time the Brothers Dobbs had been inclined to laugh at the notion of getting so far in so small a boat. But they began to look grave now, and to hint at cautious objections. The weather was certainly beautiful; but then the wind was dead against us. Our little vessel was stiff and st.u.r.dy enough for any service, but n.o.body on board knew the strange waters into which we were going--and, as for the charts, could any one of us study them with a proper knowledge of the science of navigation? Would it not be better to take a little cruise to Lundy Island, away there on the starboard bow? And another little cruise about the Welsh coast, where the Dobbses had been before? To these cautious questions, we replied by rash and peremptory negatives; and the Brothers, thereupon, abandoned their view of the case, and accepted ours with great resignation.
For the Scilly Islands, therefore, we now shaped our course, alternately standing out to sea, and running in for the land, so as to get down ultimately to the Land's End, against the wind, in a series of long zig-zags, now in a westerly and now in an easterly direction. Our first tack from Hartland Point was a sail of six hours out to sea. At sunset, the little Tomt.i.t had lost sight of land for the first time since she was launched, and was rising and falling gently on the long swells of the Atlantic. It was a deliciously calm, clear evening, with every promise of the fine weather lasting. The spirits of the Brothers Dobbs, when they found themselves at last in the blue water, rose amazingly.
”Only give us decent weather, sir,” said Bob Dobbs, cheerfully smacking the tiller of the Tomt.i.t; ”and we'll find our way to Scilly somehow, in spite of the wind.”
_How_ we found our way, remains to be seen.
III.
We were now fairly at sea, keeping a regular watch on deck at night, and never running nearer the Cornish coast than was necessary to enable us to compare the great headlands with the marks on our chart. Under present circ.u.mstances, no more than three of us could sleep in the cabin at one time--the combined powers of the snoring party were thus weakened, and the ventilation below could be preserved in a satisfactory state. Instead of chronicling our slow zig-zag progress to the Land's End--which is unlikely to interest anybody not familiar with Cornish names and nautical phrases--I will try to describe the manner in which we pa.s.sed the day on board the Tomt.i.t, now that we were away from land events and amus.e.m.e.nts. If there was to be any such thing as an alloy of dulness in our cruise, this was a.s.suredly the part of it in which Time and the Hour were likely to run slowest through the day.
In the first place, let me record with just pride, that we have solved the difficult problem of a pure republic in our modest little craft. No man in particular among us is master--no man in particular is servant.
The man who can do at the right time, and in the best way, the thing that is most wanted, is always the hero of the situation among us. When d.i.c.k Dobbs is frying the onions for dinner, he is the person most respected in the s.h.i.+p, and Mr. Migott and myself are his faithful and expectant subjects. When grog is to be made, or sauces are to be prepared, Mr. Jollins becomes in his turn the monarch of all he surveys.
When musical entertainments are in progress, Mr. Migott is vocal king, and sole conductor of band and chorus. When nautical talk and sea-stories rule the hour, Bob Dobbs, who has voyaged in various merchantmen all over the world, and is every inch of him a thorough sailor, becomes the best man of the company. When any affairs connected with the internal management of the vessel are under consideration, Sam Dobbs is Chairman of the Committee in the c.o.c.kpit. So we sail along; and such is the perfect const.i.tution of society at which we mariners of England have been able to arrive.
Our freedom extends to the smallest details. We have no stated hours, and we are well a-head of all rules and regulations. We have no breakfast hour, no dinner hour, no time for rising or for going to bed.
We have no particular eatables at particular meals. We don't know the day of the month, or the day of the week; and never look at our watches, except when we wind them up. Our voice is frequently the voice of the sluggard; but we never complain, because n.o.body ever wakes us too soon, or thinks of interfering with our slumbering again. We wear each other's coats, smoke each other's pipes, poach on each other's victuals. We are a happy, dawdling, undisciplined, slovenly lot. We have no principles, no respectability, no business, no stake in the country, no knowledge of Mrs. Grundy. We are a parcel of Lotos-Eaters; and we know nothing, except that we are poking our way along anyhow to the Scilly Islands in the Tomt.i.t.
We rise when we have had sleep enough--any time you like between seven and ten. If I happen to be on deck first, I begin by hearing the news of the weather and the wind, from Sam, d.i.c.k, or Bob at the helm. Soon the face of Mr. Migott, rosy with recent snoring, rises from the cabin, and his body follows it slowly, clad in the blue Jersey frock which he persists in wearing night and day--in the heat of noon as in the cool of evening. He cannot be prevailed upon to give any reason for his violent attachment to this garment--only wagging his head and smiling mysteriously when we ask why, sleeping or waking, he never parts with it. Well, being up, the next thing is to make the toilette. We keep our fresh water, for minor ablutions, in an old wine cask from Bristol. The colour of the liquid is a tawny yellow: it is, in fact, weak sherry and water. For the major ablutions, we have the s.h.i.+p's bucket and the sea, and a good stock of rough towels to finish with. The next thing is breakfast on deck. When we can catch fish (which is very seldom, though we are well provided with lines and bait) we fall upon the spoil immediately. At other times we range through our sea stores, eating anything we like, cooked anyhow we like. After breakfast we have two words to say to our box of peaches, nectarines, and grapes, from the hospitable country-house. Then the bedding is brought up to air; the deck is cleaned; the breakfast things are taken away; the pipes, cigars, and French novels are produced from the cabin; Mr. Migott coils himself up in a corner of the c.o.c.kpit, and I perch upon the taffrail; and the studies of the morning begin. They end invariably in small-talk, beer, and sleep. So the time slips away cosily till it is necessary to think about dinner.
Now, all is activity on board the Tomt.i.t. Except the man at the helm, every one is occupied with preparations for the banquet of the day. The potatoes, onions, and celery, form one department; the fire and solid cookery another; the was.h.i.+ng of plates and dishes, knives and forks, a third; the laying of the cloth on deck a fourth; the concoction of sauces and production of bottles from the cellar a fifth. No man has any particular department a.s.signed to him: the most active republican of the community, for the time being, plunges into the most active work, and the others follow as they please.
The exercise we get is princ.i.p.ally at this period of the day, and consists in incessant dropping down from the deck to the cabin, and incessant scrambling up from the cabin to the deck. The dinner is a long business; but what do we care for that? We have no appointments to keep, no visitors to interrupt us, and nothing in the world to do but to tickle our palates, wet our whistles, and amuse ourselves in any way we please. Dinner at last over, it is superfluous to say, that the pipes become visible again, and that the taking of forty winks is only a prohibited operation on the part of the man at the helm.
As for tea-time, it is entirely regulated by the wants and wakefulness of Mr. Migott, who, since the death of Dr. Johnson, is the most desperate drinker of tea in all England. When the cups and saucers are cleared away, a conversazione is held in the c.o.c.kpit. Sam Dobbs is the best listener of the company; d.i.c.k Dobbs, who has been a yachtsman, is the jester; Bob Dobbs, the merchant sailor, is the teller of adventures; and my friend and I keep the ball going smartly in all sorts of ways, till it gets dark, and a great drought falls upon the members of the conversazione. Then, if the mermaids are anywhere near us, they may smell the fragrant fumes which tell of sacrifice to Bacchus, and may hear, shortly afterwards, the muse of song invoked by cheerful topers.
Thus the dark hours roll on jovial till the soft influences of sleep descend upon the tuneful choir, and the cabin receives its lodgers for the night.
This is the general rule of life on board the Tomt.i.t. Exceptional incidents of all kinds--saving sea-sickness, to which n.o.body on board is liable--are never wanting to vary existence pleasantly from day to day.
Sometimes Mr. Migott gets on from taking a nap to having a dream, and records the fact by a screech of terror, which rings through the vessel and wakes the sleeper himself, who always asks, ”What's that, eh?”--never believes that the screech has not come from somebody else--never knows what he has been dreaming of--and never fails to go to sleep again before the rest of the s.h.i.+p's company have half done expostulating with him.
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