Читать книгу We Didn't Mean to Go to Sea - Arthur Ransome - Страница 14

CHAPTER IV

DOWN THE RIVER

THEY were off. After one frantic moment when Jim was letting out the mainsheet and Susan was doing her best with the jib sheet and the cockpit seemed to have almost more ropes and people in it than it could hold, things had settled down. The Goblin was slipping away down the river so quietly that they had to look astern at the ripple under the bows of the Imp, or close down at the water, or at the trees on the banks, to feel they were moving at all.

“Two days ago,” said Titty quietly.

“We were in the train,” said Roger.

“I was in the Downs wishing for wind,” laughed Jim.

“And now we’re all here,” said Titty.

“You take her, John,” said Jim, “while I go forrard and tidy up.”

“Do you think I can?” said John, looking anxiously ahead at the big steamer moored in the middle of the river, unloading grain into barges tied alongside her.

“Of course you can. Keep her as she’s going. Close by the steamer. This side of her, or we’ll lose the wind.”

The tiller was in John’s hands, and Jim had run forward over the cabin roof and was busy with the halyards on the foredeck. John had done his best after hoisting up the staysail, but he had not really known how best to tuck the coil of rope out of the way. And now here he was, steering the Goblin. Titty and Susan were looking at him anxiously. Could he do it? It was not nearly as hard as he had feared. Just like steering old Swallow. He looked far down the river and chose a distant point on which to steer. The wind was light, and they were not moving fast through the water, but the ebb tide was carrying them along, and, in no time, it seemed, they were under the steep black side of the steamer. He would not look at her, but out of the corner of his eye saw that high black wall, that made the barges look small. The rattle of the derricks sounded close above him, and the shouts of the stevedores, as sack after sack of grain went down to be stowed in the holds of the barges. They had passed her.

“La Plata,” read Roger, looking up at her stern.

“That’s the River Plate,” said Titty, and looked ahead again, like John, as if the little Goblin herself were bound for the Atlantic and the coasts of South America.

Jim Brading came back, and John made way for him at the tiller.

“You carry on,” said Jim. “You’re doing very well.”

On they went. The trees on both banks of the river came to an end. Green fields sloped down to the water’s edge on one side. On the other, further side, was a sea wall covered with long grass and green saltings and shining mud uncovered by the tide. Cormorants were on the edge of the mud, like black sentinels. A grey heron was wading. A flock of gulls swung up into the air and round to settle again in almost the same place. Now that they were clear of the trees, they had a rather better wind, and the Goblin heeled over, just a little, enough to make Titty take hold of the coaming that made a sort of wall round the edge of the cockpit, enough to make Roger think of doing the same, but stop with hand outstretched to find that with feet wide apart he could stand upright without holding on to anything.

“Can I go on the foredeck?” said Roger, after waiting a moment to make sure that the Goblin would not heel over any further.

“Better not,” said Susan.

“He’ll be all right while we’re reaching like this,” said Jim.

“Go along the windward side,” said John. “Hang on to that rail while you’re getting there, and then take a grip of the halliards.”

“Do be careful, Roger,” said Susan.

There was no need to say that. Roger climbed out of the cockpit, almost decided that he would go forward some other time, but then worked himself slowly along, sat down on the fore end of the cabin roof, and then, warily, pulled himself to his feet.

“I can hear the water creaming under her bows,” he said, looking over his shoulder.

Jim was sitting on the cockpit coaming, relighting the tobacco that was left in that pipe of his, and giving a first lesson in pilotage.

“Red buoys and conical buoys to starboard,” he was saying. “Black can buoys to port. . . That’s coming up with the flood,” he explained. “So we leave the conical ones to port now, because we’re going out, not coming in.”

“That’s a conical one?” said Titty.

“Yes. That’s on the edge of the mud off Levington Creek, and that other one, just ahead, with a cormorant on it, is conical, too. That’s a can buoy, over there, the black one off Collimer Point.”

“So we leave it to starboard?” said John.

“Pass close to it. You can bring her head on it now.”

There was a shout from the foredeck. “Steamer in sight,” cried Roger. “We’re going to meet her. You can see her above that point where the river turns to the right. . . ”

“To starboard,” murmured Titty.

“We’ll give her plenty of room,” said Jim, looking at the smoking funnel and white-painted bridge that were showing over the low green spit of Collimer Point. “But her wash’ll shake us up a bit. Better come along aft, A.B. Roger. Wind’s going southerly, too. We’ll be tacking down the next reach. A long leg and a short. . . ”

Roger worked his way back with a grave face, but grinned happily when he was once more safe with the others in the crowded cockpit.

“Close to the buoy,” said Jim, “and then we’ll squeeze a bit closer to the wind.”

The black, flat-topped buoy off the point was coming quickly nearer.

“It’s got a red light on the top of it,” said Roger.

“Port-hand buoy,” said Jim.

“But we’re leaving it to starboard,” said Roger.

“Because we’re going down the river, not up,” said John, and Jim grinned to hear his lesson passed on so very soon after it had been learnt.

Even before they had passed the buoy they could see down a new wide reach of the river, the last before it opened into Harwich harbour. Far away ahead of them they could see the little grey town, with its church spire and lighthouse tower, and steamers at anchor in waters wide enough to be almost like the sea.

HARWICH LOOKED LIKE AN ISLAND

There were no woods now on either side, and the whole feel was different. It was as if the river were already saying goodbye to the land. Harwich, in the distance, looked like an island. Sailing down that last reach did not feel like sailing on a river any more. And now they were going to meet a steamer coming in from the sea.

She was a smallish, rusty-sided steamer, going up to Ipswich Docks, Jim said. He was keeping a wary eye on her. He had hauled in the mainsheet, and told John to keep his eye on the burgee and do the best he could. Nearer and nearer the steamer came. No. She was not going fast enough to let them pass under her stern, and the Goblin was not going fast enough to pass clear of her bows.

“We’ll probably have to go about,” said Jim.

“But steam gives way to sail,” said Roger.

“Not when sail’s got plenty of room and steam’s got none to spare. We’ve got the whole river to play with, and she’s got to keep in the deep water channel.”

Titty, Susan, Roger and John all caught their breaths at once. A single short booming hoot startled the river.

“Gosh! What’s that?” said Roger.

“One hoot,” said Jim, putting down his pipe in a safe corner. “She’s going to starboard. Come on. We’ve got to leave her to port.” He slipped down from the coaming and made ready to deal with the ropes. “Here you are, Susan. Cast off this backstay when I sing out. Titty casts off the jib sheet. I’ll do the rest. Bring her round, John, as soon as you like. . . ”

“I say,” said John, “hadn’t you better. . . ”

“Rot,” said Jim. “Just think you’re going about in a dinghy, but don’t swing her round too fast. Now then. . . ”

“Ready about,” said John stoutly and put the helm down.

“Cast off jib sheet,” said Jim, “backstay. . . That’s right, Roger, cast off the staysail sheet.”

The Goblin swung round under the steamer’s rusty sides and headed back for the western shore. High above them, in the wheelhouse of the steamer, a man lifted his hand and let it drop forward again, the grave salute of East Coast sailors.

The crew of the Goblin waved cheerfully back.

Presently they went about again.

“Good as clockwork,” said the skipper, when all was done, and the Goblin was once more heading down river. “Now then, Mate Susan, give the first mate a rest and let’s see how you can steer.”

John handed over, glad to have steered so far without making any serious mistakes. Anyhow, if he had made mistakes they had not been serious enough for the skipper to say anything about them.

“Keep the sails just full,” said Jim, as Susan took the tiller. “Don’t try to go too close to the wind. We’ll have to go about again, anyhow, to clear Fagbury Point.”

“No waggles in the wake, Susan,” said Roger. “Titty and I’ll tell you every time you make one.”

“No talking to the man at the wheel,” said Jim. “Don’t you listen to them, Susan.”

But Susan, with her eye on the burgee, hardly heard him and had not heard Roger at all. What was the rule? Don’t let the sails flap, and don’t let the burgee blow away from the mainsail. She had not sailed with Daddy as John had, going out of Falmouth in a fishing boat. But she could steer the little Swallow just as well as John, and she knew John was watching and as keen as she was that she should make no mistake in steering the Goblin.

Jim once more perched on the edge of the coaming, and Titty and Roger watched with awe blue puffs of smoke from his pipe blowing away with the wind.

“Hullo!” he said suddenly. “Somebody on the mud by Fag-bury Point. Where are those glasses?”

“I know where they are,” said Titty, and dived down into the cabin to fetch them. She was up again in a moment. “Here they are. I say, John, it feels simply lovely being inside her while she’s going.”

Jim was looking through the glasses. “Yes,” he said. “She’s on the mud all right. And there she’ll sit till the tide comes up again to float her off.”

“A wreck!” exclaimed Titty.

“She won’t take any harm there,” said Jim. “Not as if she were outside. . . ”

But at this moment Able-seaman Roger suddenly jumped up on one of the seats in the cockpit and was pulled down again by John.

“Look! Look!” he cried.

“Where?”

“It’s gone. . . There it is again. . . ”

“But where?”

For a moment there was nothing to see and Titty and John thought it was just Roger stirring everybody up about nothing. Then, about thirty yards away the water was broken, a shining black lump heaved up, dived under, rolled up once more and disappeared.

“It’s a black pig,” said Roger. “Swimming.”

“Porpoise,” said Jim Brading, relighting his pipe. “There’s another away to starboard.”

“Close to us,” shouted Roger.

“He’s diving right under us,” said John. “There he is. . . . on the other side.”

“Whales,” said Titty. “Almost. . . ”

“Altogether,” said Jim. “They are a sort of whale. . . animals you know, not fish.”

“It’s as good as being at sea,” cried Titty. “There they are again. They’re racing us. One on each side. . . Oh, I do wish Nancy was here.”

Porpoises were too much, even for Susan.

“There’s a baby one,” she cried. “There all by itself. . . ”

“Look out for your steering,” said John, putting out a hand but not actually touching the tiller.

Susan gulped, hearing the jib give an impatient flap. “Sorry,” she said, and the sail filled once more. “There it is again. Is it a baby? All right, John, I won’t look again.”

“Oh,” sighed Titty, “they’re beating us.”

The porpoises were already showing far ahead. Here and there a black fin cut the water, a black back rolled up into sight, hurrying, hurrying, and further and further away.

“Off to sea,” said Jim.

“Lucky black pigs,” said Roger. “Gosh! They’ll be bobbing up to look at steamers in the middle of the night. . . I wish we were.”

“What? Bobbing up from under water?” asked Jim.

“Going to sea,” said Roger.

“Well we aren’t,” said Susan, almost impatiently. “We’ve promised. Isn’t this good enough for anybody?”

Jim laughed. “I’d like to take you out myself. Perhaps, when your father comes and Uncle Bob and I get back. . . Look here, Mate Susan. We’ll go about now, and then when we go about again, we’ll be able to fetch the Fagbury buoy and have a look at Titty’s wreck.”

Susan looked at John, but John, Titty and Roger were all busy with the ropes they had to cast off or haul in. She bit her lip pretty hard. “Ready about,” she called, and swung the Goblin steadily round. There was a moment of frantic business in the cockpit as she came head to wind and the headsails blew across and the boom swung over. Then the Goblin, with all sails drawing, was heading across the river. There was a general coiling up of ropes, and everything was at peace once more.

But not for very long, once more it was “Ready about!” “Let fly jib. . . Backstay. . . Haul in jib. . . And staysail.” The Goblin never lost her way for a second as she swung round and headed for the red buoy off Fagbury Point, and that green boat that lay there, heeled over on one side with her boom down on the cabin top and her sails all anyhow.

“I wish we could go on for ever,” said Titty.

“You’ll have pretty sore hands,” said Jim, “handling ropes for the first time.”

Roger and Titty looked at their hands.

“Hot, but not sore yet,” said Roger, rubbing his tenderly together.

Nearer and nearer they came to the green boat that had gone on the mud. Two men were balancing themselves on her sloping cabin top, looking miserably at the water that was ebbing away and would presently leave their vessel high and dry. As the Goblin came nearer, first one man and then the other slid down and wriggled sideways through the door into the cabin.

“They’ll be awfully uncomfortable with the cabin all on one side,” said Roger.

Jim grinned. “They don’t want to talk about it,” said he. “I wouldn’t either. There’s no excuse for going aground in a place like that. Lucky for them they’re in the river.”

“Why?” said Roger.

“Easily lose the boat going aground outside. Let alone the chance of being salvaged by a lot of pirates, like poor old Ell-wright who had that boat before them. . . ”

“Pirates?” said Titty.

“Longshore sharks,” said Jim. “Same thing. That’s right, Susan. Carry right on. Carry right on for Shotley Spit buoy. Yes, the big one right ahead now. A shallow runs right out to it from the point. See that ripple and the gulls on the mud?”

“Do tell us about the pirates,” said Titty.

“Wait till we’re at anchor and I can get at the chart and show you just what happened,” said Jim.

“Where are we going to anchor?” asked John.

“Jolly good place,” said Jim. “Off Shotley Pier in the Stour, so that we can nip ashore and let your mother know I haven’t drowned you.”

“Telephone?” said Susan.

“Yes. There’s one close to the end of the pier. There’s the pier. You can just see it now. But we’ve got to get round the Spit buoy before turning.”

The Goblin had left the river now and was sailing out into the wide waters of Harwich harbour where the Stour and the Orwell meet before pouring out into the sea. Far away over blue rippled water they could see tall mills by Felixstowe Dock, and the green sheds which Jim told them were for seaplanes, and a huge gantry for lifting the planes out of the water, and a low fort of stone and earthwork on a sandy point. On the other side was another low point, and the houses of Harwich, and a white lighthouse on the water’s edge, and dark wooden jetties, and barges at anchor. Three big vessels were lying quite near them, near enough for them to see the flags on the jackstaffs. Jim pointed out a Dutch motor vessel, a Norwegian timber-ship with a tremendous deck cargo of golden sawn planks, and a rusty-sided Greek with a tattered flag of blue and white stripes.

“But where are the boats that go to Holland?” asked Titty.

Jim pointed away up the Stour, where, on the Harwich side, they could see the masts and funnels of the mailboats along the Parkeston quays.

A small dumpy steamboat came hurrying out from the Harwich jetties. Its deck was crowded with people.

“That’s the ferry,” said Jim. “It runs between Shotley and Harwich and Felixstowe.”

“We’ll be going by it,” said Roger. “We’ll be going to Harwich to meet Daddy’s steamer as soon as we know which day he’s coming.”

They sailed on as far as the first of the big anchored steamships, and then swung round to work their way up into the Stour.

“We’re hardly moving,” said Roger.

“Tide’s against us,” said Jim. “But it’s all right. She’s creeping over it.”

Slowly, though the water was swirling past the Goblin’s sides, they drove up, past the Spit buoy, past Harwich town, past the Trinity House steamer, past a group of anchored barges.

“See those vessels?” said Jim. “The red ones, with lanterns half-way up the mast, lightships in for repairs. There’s the Galloper. Her place is thirty miles out. . . There’s the Outer Gabbard. Each one shows a light of its own, you know, flashes so that you can tell which it is, and each has its own fog signal.”

“We’ve seen ones like them,” said Titty, “in Falmouth. Daddy used to say they came in for cough lozenges when their throats got sore.”

“I was forgetting you knew all about them,” said Jim. “Have you heard the Cork yet? That’s our local nightingale.”

“Four moos a minute,” said Roger. “John timed them, the evening we came. Miss Powell told us what it was.”

“If there’s any mist you’ll hear it better tonight,” said Jim. “It’s a good deal nearer when you’re down here. Close by those piers, Susan. We’ll anchor just beyond the last of them. Well, what do you think of Shotley? If your father’s going to be stationed here I expect you’ll get some sailing in some of those boats. They all belong to the Navy.”

They looked up at the buildings on Shotley Point, houses, a water tower, and a flagstaff on the naval school as tall as the mast of a sailing ship. On one of the black, wooden piers were a lot of grey naval cutters and whalers and gigs. If Daddy’s coming to Shotley meant sailing in those boats, and living somewhere up there, able to look down on Harwich harbour and on the ships coming in and out, things were going to be very good indeed. They looked at the place as people look at a stranger with whom they know they are going to have a lot to do.

SHOTLEY PIER

Slowly the Goblin crept by the first of the piers.

“Only just enough wind,” said Jim. “Can’t take off sail till the last minute. Keep her going just as she is, close past the far pier. Bring her into the wind when I shout. I’m going forrard to get the anchor ready.”

“Can I come too, to see how you do it?” said John.

“Come on.”

Susan, Titty and Roger were alone in the cockpit. Susan was steering just as well as she knew how.

“They’ll want those headsail sheets cast off at the last minute,” she said, not taking her eyes off the pier ahead. “You take one, Titty, and Roger the other, and be ready when he shouts.”

Up on the foredeck Jim was stocking the big anchor, and ranging a lot of chain on deck, while John sat on the cabin roof watching everything he did.

Jim was lowering the anchor over the bows. “You have to be careful the stock doesn’t catch on the bobstay,” he said, and John took a good grip of the forestay and looked over Jim’s shoulder and saw how the anchor hung free at the Goblin’s forefoot, all ready to let go.

“Now for the staysail,” said Jim.

From the cockpit the others watched, Susan doing her best not to think of anything but her steering. The staysail came rattling down. John was bundling it out of the way, while Skipper Jim was standing up judging the distance they had gone beyond the pier.

“Straight into the wind,” he called. “Cast off the jib sheet.”

“That’s yours,” said Titty, and Roger cast it off. The jib was rolling up on itself. The boom swung slowly over the cockpit. Jim was stooping again. There was a sudden rattle and roar as the chain ran out, and the anchor went down.

“We’ve arrived,” said Titty.

“Susan’s still steering,” said Roger.

Susan with a sigh of relief let go of the tiller.

“Who’s for the shore?” called Jim Brading from the foredeck.