THREE MEN AND A NIGGER IN A BIG BOAT
Robert Barrie
It ain't no use to grumble and complain;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice;
When God sorts the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.
-- James Whitcomb Riley
IN the fall of 1900 I bought Liris. She had a past,
but I reformed her. She was a very powerful boat, designed by Gardiner,
and when she first came out had hollow spars, which she kept shedding
every time she raced. Her dimensions then were: fifty-seven feet over
all, forty feet waterline, thirteen feet beam, eleven feet draft, and a
boom fifty-five feet long; she was an utterly useless affair, not even
good for racing, as the newcomers with small displacement entirely
outclassed such boats.
But she had her good points; even with her big rig she made
a fine trip round from New York in the latter part of November. As I
saw that she was overloaded with spars and ballast I had her hauled
out, and her keel, forty inches deep and said to weigh eighteen tons,
was sawed in half horizontally, the bronze bolts being knocked out and
shortened, and the whole hove up again in a very workmanlike way, and
at a reasonable charge, by John Sheppard, of Essington. I put less
ballast inside than I cut off; so that she floated about five inches
higher than when I got her, and drew less than eight feet. I cut eight
feet off the foot of the mast and ran the bowsprit into the first reef
fid, and cut off several feet at the heel; shortened the topmast and
rigged her as a ketch, having a mizzen made from the big boom, and two
new booms from the spinnaker boom. The result, as far as I could see
and for my purpose, was a success; as to speed, little can be said, as
we had small chance of trying her. We sailed in two club races against
an old Herreshoff forty-footer, and in a light air she beat us easily;
but on another day, in a strong northwest wind, we beat her; soaking
out to windward of her beautifully, although she almost caught us
running home. For cruising, however, she was vastly improved in
seaworthiness, being very comfortable and able.
I used her with but one man, a big negro, who had been
recommended by an official at the Naval Academy, Annapolis. Everything
worked very easily, as the blocks were large and I used smaller sizes
of gear than had been needed for the large rig, and a Spalding hollow
gaff on the main made it easy for one person to set any sail. A gaff
and a sharp-headed mizzen were made, but we used only the latter, and
even then she had a strong weather helm. Forest and Stream
seldom grows enthusiastic, but in a notice probably longer and more
appreciative than any it has ever published apropos of any boat said:
"The clipper stem is very long, being carried out
by a handsome trailboard and figurehead, as in the English boats, while
the after overhang is light and graceful. That Mr. Gardiner has the eye
of an artist, as well as the skill of a successful designer, is amply
shown by a glance at the boat from any point of view when at anchor or
under way."
And after very complete details as to construction adds,
"while Liris was designed and built for speed, she
will be used for two-thirds of the year as a cruiser, the home of her
owners, and to this end nothing has been sacrificed that could make her
comfortable; in fact, the fitting and furnishing are both very
elaborate."
So much for the boat. Except for enthusiasts I have no doubt
so much description of her is tiresome, but my object is to show how
easily a large craft with ample room and comfort can be handled by a
few hands and bow great is the advantage of having a good sized
weatherly boat in case of a breeze.
LIRIS OFF SCHOONER LEDGE LIGHT.
DELAWARE RIVER.
LIRIS: EASE UNDER AWNING.
About July 1, 1901, my youngest brother George and I, with
Isaac the negro in the forecastle, took Liris down the Delaware River
and through the Chesapeake Canal in good time under strong breeze and
mule power; and one bright, sunny, breezy afternoon anchored in the
mouth of the Bohemia River. This we ran up a couple of miles in the
launch until we came to a spot where the water was beautifully clear;
there we had a most enjoyable swim.
The surroundings were delightful; none more ideally perfect
could be found anywhere. It would have required a Daubigny to paint the
picture of the blue sky, the pretty river ripples sparkling and
glistening, the bright green of the reeds and grasses, the intense dark
green of the trees, the hills already covered with yellow wheat
sheaves, the cows standing in the water, and the bright varnished
launch tied to a stake which we luckily found at the spot we had picked
out for our bath. We were back on board at five o'clock, the southwest
breeze blowing so fresh that we were glad to sit in the sun. At sunset
the breeze went down, and as the Elk was as smooth as a pond we went
out again after dinner in the launch in the twilight. Meeting an old
friend coming down from Elkton in his launch, ran down to Ford's
Landing with him and gossiped awhile, then home on board, and, as Pepys
says, "so to bed."
Next morning we were up at sunrise. Of course we see the sun
rise only when cruising. What a charm there is in the dawn and early
morning! Unlike the twilight, the day is before us; there is a feeling
of hope and buoyancy; even the chirping of the birds up in these placid
inland waters adds zest and vigor to the feeling of freedom.
The breeze was light from the southward, but increased as
the sun rose. We breakfasted off Turkey Point, and, coming on deck,
found a good stiff wind and a swirling wake. We had a splendid piece of
sailing over what the poets would call a summer sea; deep blue with
splashes of white, brilliant with sparkles of sunshine. The grand sweep
of the sky and the rush of the sailing added to the spirit of buoyancy,
so that we soon had that true spirit of adventure which a cooped-up
townsman cannot feel.
But this did not last long. Off Still Pond the breeze died
out entirely, but we had a fair tide, and worked down with it until off
Poole's Island, where I thought we might take chances across the
shoals. I knew there was a six or seven-foot lump thereabouts, but
thought it was farther west. In the desire to make time in the light
breeze I took the risk, and got caught by the strong ebb tide driving
us sidewise against the lump. There we stuck, although we hung the
anchor under our boat and towed it with the launch to the end of a new
fifty-fathom hawser and set it up with the capstan as taut as a
fiddlestring. The tide dropped until we were showing two feet of
copper, so we made up our minds that we would not get off until nine
o'clock or so at night. As it kept getting hotter and hotter we had a
swim and pottered round at small jobs.
About three o'clock, when we looked for the tide to turn,
things got very black in the west. We put on hatch covers, preparatory
to the usual afternoon squall, but this turned out to be a white
squall, and the worst we had seen in our cruises on the Chesapeake.
Long before we felt any rush of wind the water across the Bay was
white. The squall came down toward us, tearing up the water in spiral
swirls. We were struck hard, so hard that, instead of heeling as we
were to starboard two feet out of water, we were blown over to port.
The boats were thrown about and rattled in a deafening way, and it blew
so that we lay flat across the deck, holding on to the weather rail.
Although the worst part of it was soon over, or we began to be
accustomed to it, a wicked sea was up in no time; at first banging
under the counter, but soon big enough to lift us, aground as we were,
and slam us down on the as hard as concrete sandbar. Nothing could be
done but hang on and hope that the spars would not fall on us, while
the sea and the tropical rain drenched us, and the darkness gave us the
blues. Soon we noticed that the hawser seemed to have slackened, so
crawled forward to the capstan and found, to our joy, that, with two at
the crank handles and one holding end, we were able to set up tight
when the sea raised us, and when we rose the combined tightening of
hawser and increased depth of water enabled us to drag her off. The
anchor holding and the sea increasing, we were in this manner able to
draw clear of the bar and blow off into deep water, where we rode to
three hundred feet; Liris behaving like a duck, sticking her bowsprit
under but not taking any water on deck.
While the heavy rain and blow continued for about an hour we
rested, having looked below to see if we were making water. She was
perfectly tight, and the fact that she was pumped out but once during
the next month is pretty good evidence that she stood that awful
pounding in a remarkable way. I really expected that she would at least
be badly strained. About six o'clock we managed to get in our hawser
and anchor, put on jib and mainsail, and stand down the Bay in a strong
westerly breeze. It was a dirty night, but we had a boat big enough to
move about on in comfort; we had plenty of dry, warm clothes, so had a
good supper, and enjoyed the run immensely. I stayed at the tiller
while George attended to the navigation, and under his directions we
got into Annapolis inner harbor, thick and breezy as it was, without
ever seeing one of the buoys, the whole job being as pretty a piece of
that sort of work as I ever saw. We anchored at midnight.
The next day being Sunday, and having had plenty of exercise
the day before, we had a late breakfast and spent the morning drying
sails. It was a beautiful day, with a northwest wind, and by noon we
had sail covers on and awnings set. After midday dinner we went ashore
and pottered about trying to find some remains of the theater which
appears in an old print of the town. This ''view" was made in
watercolor in 1797, by the Chevalier Colbert, a Knight of Malta and a
descendant of Louis XVI's eminent minister of that name, who came to
this country with Count de Volney in 1795 and returned in 1798. The
sketch was made from Strawberry Hill, the residence of Samuel Sprigg,
who later was governor of Maryland, and presented by the artist to E.
Bordley. The most prominent building shown is, of course, the old State
House which is yet standing. To the left is shown the old Episcopal
Church, and on its right the theater, a three-story building said to
have been built on ground leased from the church.
LIRIS: OFF HERRING BAY, 1901.
It is claimed that Hallam had here the first complete
theatrical company seen in America, and that this theater was the first
on this continent that was built expressly for such a purpose.
Tradition says that it was made of brick, tastefully arranged, and
would accommodate six hundred people. The story goes that Hallam's
company came over from England in the ship Charming Sally,
rehearsing on the quarter deck to the great amusement of the crew, and
landed at Yorktown, Virginia, in the month of June. The advertisement
of their first performance reads:
"By permission of his honor the President. At the
New Theater in Annapolis, by the Company of Comedians on Monday next,
being the 13th of this instant, July, 1752, will be performed a comedy
called the Beaux Stratagem. Likewise a farce called The Virgin
Unmasked. To begin precisely at seven o'clock. Tickets to be had at the
Printing Office. Box 10/s Pit 7/6, Gallery 5/. No person to be admitted
behind the scenes."
It was called the "new" theater because performances had
previously been given in a storehouse fitted up as a theater. There had
been theatrical performances of a kind in New York as early as 1733.
The first professional company appeared there, probably from the island
of Jamaica in 1750, but it was incomplete, the same persons taking
different parts in one play.
LIRIS IN RHODE RIVER.
LIRIS OFF SHARP'S ISLAND.
RAILWAYS AT SOLOMON'S ISLAND.
The Chesapeake country seems to have been in those days
quite a gay and comfortable place: the Abbé Robin, one of the
chaplains of the French Army in America in 1781, tells us that
"female luxury here exceeds what is known in the
provinces of France: a French hair dresser is a man of importance among
them, and it is said, a certain dame here hires one of that craft at a
thousand crowns a year salary,"
and adds,
"the furniture here is constructed out of the most costly
kinds of wood and the most valuable marble, enriched by the elegant
devices of the artist's hand. Their riding machines are light and
handsome, and drawn by the fleetest coursers, managed by slaves richly
dressed; this opulence was particularly observable at Annapolis. That
very inconsiderable town, standing at the mouth of the river Severn,
where it falls into the bay, out of the few buildings it contains, has
at least three-fourths, such as may be stiled elegant and grand."
We had convincing evidence of the luxury of the past when,
in the evening, we were shown through the old Shaw-Franklin house up on
the Circle, opposite the capitol, by genial John McCusker, who had
charge of the sale of the contents; the owner having recently died. The
place was crammed with antiques; it was very weird going about in this
curious old house, each a candle in hand, looking for titbits. We found
some we wanted and arranged for their purchase. Then back on board, the
stars shining brightly, with almost a frosty twinkle about them.
I went up to Philadelphia the next day and stayed there
three days, while George spent the time pottering about on board, in
the launch, and on shore. By Friday night he had ice and provisions on
board, and on that day an old friend, Seymour Runk, went down with me,
and we arrived at Annapolis so loaded with parcels that we had to
charter three nigger boys as transports. It was nasty and wet, blowing
hard from northeast, when we arrived at five o'clock, and, to make
matters worse, the launch engine would not work, so we had a hard pull
out to Liris.
It blew hard all night, and still harder next morning, so
there was nothing to do but make up our minds to stay where we were.
There was a pelting rain, but as we had a heavy rain awning we were
able to sit out on deck in camp chairs. To some people a rainy day in a
boat is a form of calamity, but what cannot be helped must be endured,
so we settled down for a day's reading. Occasionally George would
report that it was breaking away, but this was always the signal for a
harder squall. About thirty craft were in the harbor.
On Sunday morning, although the weather was peevish and the
wind still in the east, there were signs of clearing, so we put out.
Rounding the buoy off Tolly Point we were able to lay our course down
the Bay past Thomas Point, but, as the wind gradually getting around
toward the south, we were soon close-hauled in moderate wind and some
sea. Off Poplar Island we had a bad rain squall, driving through it
under mainsail and jib. As we could not see the length of the boat we
soon put about and stood over toward Herring Bay. Then it cleared and
the sun came out, so we set mizzen and staysail, but made little
headway, as the wind again fell, and we were putting the bowsprit under.
All this was very tiresome so we had lunch. After that along
came a spanking southeast breeze. In an hour Isaac had to go aloft in
terror to furl topsail, and before long we took in the mizzen. The only
other vessel in sight was a schooner under short sail standing down the
eastern shore in comparatively smooth water while we were working down
the western shore toward the Patuxent, getting the full force of the
sea; so we decided to stand over. When off the lower end of Sharp's
Island the bronze cap of the rudderhead began to twist about in an
alarming way, and we decided to run up the Choptank to Oxford. This we
did in style, and anchored off the ferry wharf shortly after three
o'clock. Just then W. O'Sullivan Dimphel and his party passed us in his
big gas engine whaleboat, so we had a few "refreshments." After dinner
we had a walk on shore, then home, and loafed on deck for awhile, but
soon went to bed, well tired after a strenuous day.
OFF SHARP'S ISLAND: BUSTLING UP THE BAY.
On Monday George and Seymour got off the bronze cap and
found the rudder stock split both fore and aft and cross-ship; so they
went after a blacksmith, who came and made some measurements and
sculled away, returning just before lunch with a band fitted with two
screws that drew the stock together in fine shape, so that we felt
ready for anything; as a matter of fact, we had no more trouble with
it. In the afternoon we all went, in the launch, over to "Panola,"
Dimphel's place, and there his wife gave us afternoon tea. Returning
the little launch made wonderful work of a strong head sea, and carried
three of us dry and comfortable. Such a little boat with a gas engine
is a great convenience, and adds much to the opportunities of a cruise,
for many things can be done or seen with its aid that would not be
possible with oars, or even sails.
When we sailed on Tuesday morning the wind was still fresh
from the south, and after we had rounded the Choptank Light we were
able to stand on the port tack to Cook's Point, and, by pinching up a
bit, pass out close to Sharp's Island Light, which stands out in the
water. The keeper, of course, tolled the bell, as they all do when a
yacht passes, and heartily invited us to come on board. We returned the
invitation just as heartily. The wind had rapidly lightened since the
start, and we were under topsail and jib topsail. We stood close-hauled
across the Bay, and when off Parker's Creek the air was so light that
George went off in the boat and photographed us.
Although the wind was light and variable as we beat down, it
was a bright, clear day, so we amused ourselves at all sorts of jobs,
varying from polishing our outfit of shoes to going to the topmast head
with kodaks. It was an interesting day: the western shore here is a
long hill constantly increasing in height from Herring Bay to the
Patuxent River, where it ends abruptly in cliffs that the topographical
charts say are eighty feet high. This stretch of shore runs with slight
bay-like curves for about thirty miles without a break other than some
little brooks that run down through the gullies and empty into the Bay.
None of these afford shelter for anything larger than a canoe. It is a
bold, rolling land, pretty heavily wooded, but dotted along the ridge
with substantial looking farms. There seems to be a wagon road running
along the crest of this bit of country, which would probably be well
worth exploring with a team.
The wind kept getting hotter and hotter until at last, off
Point of Rocks, something happened. I have experienced sudden shifts of
wind before, but nothing so sudden as what then occurred. We were
standing south, close-hauled against the hot southwest wind and close
under the high shore; ahead of us, and not two hundred yards away, was
a working schooner doing the same as ourselves, when suddenly his booms
swung out to windward, and, without changing his course to any apparent
degree, he continued on his way rejoicing. As there was not much ripple
on the water, and we still had a fairly strong southwest wind and
nothing to indicate any change, it looked like black art. In a few
minutes we experienced the same change. Our booms went over suddenly --
instantly, in fact -- and we felt a change in the atmosphere, such as
one experiences in opening the door of a large refrigerator. The
southeast wind, which was cool and laden with moisture, with the scent
of the sea in it, came up with an exhilarating rush that was fine. We
slipped along in almost perfectly smooth water for a few minutes till
the "bobble" began, when we had a spanking piece of windward work down
to Cove Point and beyond, until we could stand into the mouth of the
Patuxent. It seemed as though the southeast wind could not force its
way in there, for we ran into a dead spot and then faced the hot
southwest wind again coming out of the harbor. The tide was ebbing
strongly, and we and a couple of pungys hitched back and forth, getting
in each other's way and making slow work of it, so that we did not
anchor inside Drum Point until after seven o'clock.
There is a fine harbor there, but the entrance is so narrow
that there is little probability that some rosy dreams of making it a
port rivaling Baltimore will ever come true. A railroad, with its
terminal at Drum Point, has been projected. It even appears as large as
life on a map we carried with us on our first trip here, but there is
no sign of greatness on shore other than an enormous mansion of the
Centennial vintage of architecture. This genuine "folly" is up on a
bluff, in a truly magnificent situation. It is said to have been built
by a New Yorker, who is reputed to have been one of the backers of the
road. This place would make a first-class habitation for ghosts,
standing alone, dreary and forbidding.
Next morning, Wednesday, we went in the launch to Solomon's
Island, about two miles from the point. The harbor is one of the most
interesting and picturesque spots in the Bay. The island circles around
and incloses an area of perhaps a square mile, which is dotted with
little islands covered with trees; these trees are principally pines,
and give a Scandinavian look to the place. This resemblance is
increased by the groups of picturesque craft anchored and moored about
in the most out-of-the-way places and in the oddest ways. As the water
is deep close to the shore canoes or bugeyes, laid up "in ordinary,"
are moored in little coves with lines made fast to trees on either
side. The place is a perfect nest of little shipyards, where the bugeye
is created in all its glory. These yards are pictures that would drive
a painter crazy. Work is done in a leisurely, casual way, with a good
deal of resting and gossip under the overhanging pines. It cannot be
true, but it does seem as though riches were the last consideration
here -- unless we consider that time is money, and that the people here
take out their share of the world's goods in that.
There are about half a dozen little marine railways
scattered about in the coves and creeks, and all seem to do a good
business with the large oyster fleet. These oyster boats are fine, big,
able bugeyes, rated among the natives according to the number of
bushels of oysters they can carry. The sharp rake to their masts,
crisscrossed as they lie in groups in the coves, heightens the effect,
while an occasional sharp-headed sail set adds to it all. As we
launched around this snug little world we all expressed the hope that
some day before we got the final call we would be able to bring our
ship up there in the autumn to spend some days at anchor.
On the island, which is a peninsula at low tide, as the
connecting bar at the west end is bare at that time, we found a
straggling village with a couple of ancient and fishlike general
stores, a fine artesian well, and the sole interests of the place
oystering and bugeye building and repairing. On the southwest side
there is a suggestion of Holland in the way that one has to climb up a
steep dyke-like bank to look out over the water, and this effect is
enhanced by the way in which the better class dwellings face along this
bank. The houses have little garden fronts, and on the summer evenings
the bank is no doubt the promenade, the breeze being generally from the
southwest.
Here, then, we pottered about all morning, made some
purchases, principally ice, and started for home and lunch about noon.
On the way we passed an old negro and some pickaninnies fishing, and
tried to buy some fish; but the old fellow did not care to be bothered,
and it was only after desperate appeals that I could get him to consent
to let me have a dozen of the little bits of things. When he was urged
to name a price he did not seem to care whether he made a sale or got
any money or not. Finally he named a price that made us laugh so that
we almost fell out of the launch -- the stupendous sum of six cents.
Then we went inshore. Loafing in the launch, I cleaned my
half-cent fish, and Seymour and George went up and investigated the
historic old farm known as "Rousbies," on the hillside overlooking the
harbor. They must have had a good gossip, for the fish were all cleaned
long before they came back, and I had to amuse myself looking over the
side at some of their (the fishes') relatives playing about the
propeller. The explorers found a tombstone of a former proprietor which
relates how he had been murdered on board a ship, The Quaker Ketch,
on the last day of October, 1684. An exciting and romantic tale of long
ago hangs thereon, but it is far too long to repeat here in detail.
Such tales are without end in this country; they exude from the shores
of the Chesapeake, as Mark Twain says "ottar of roses" exudes from an
otter.
OLD BARN AT ROUSBY'S
After lunch of the wonderful fish Seymour and I went in the
launch under a hot sun to Solomon's to post some letters and to get
some promised ice. On getting hack we had a swim, and watched the
antics of a crew of niggers on an old battered and tattered schooner.
Some of them were fine specimens, two of them in particular having
magnificent physique. They were all splendid swimmers and divers, and
at slack tide loafed about in the water for an hour, as much at home as
seals, and, with their black heads, looking very much like them. At the
flood they up anchor and went off up the Patuxent in the most
unconcerned way, each man apparently his own officer, doing just what
seemed to him best, and doing it when he pleased, yet all doing the
right thing. While the others went off in the launch on some expedition
down beyond Drum Point, I had a nap, and then gossiped with an
oysterman and tried to get some local history from him, but only
learned that the British had once been here. A resident of the upper
reaches of the river told us later that there are still to be found
remains of American ships that were burned by their owners when chased
up the river by our cousins.
It may have been on just such a typical Chesapeake day that
the first active steps leading to the naval operations of the War of
1812 were taken. In May, 1811, the President, frigate, was
lying at anchor off Fort Severn, at Annapolis, flying the broad pennant
of Commodore Rodgers, who happened to be at his home in Havre de Grace,
seventy miles away; the sailing master was in Baltimore, forty miles by
water; others were in Washington, and I suppose everything slumbered in
the usual Chesapeake summer afternoon dolce far niente. Suddenly, at
the very sleepiest time of day, i.e., three o'clock in the afternoon, a
sailing gig bearing the commodore's pennant was seen in the Roads, and
there was no doubt an awakening in the sleepy town when it was known
that Rodgers had received orders to put to sea in search of a British
vessel that had committed some highhanded annoyances to an American
brig. They could be active here on occasion, for two days later the
ship was under way, and in a few days had a misunderstanding with the
British sloop-of-war Little Belt.
But the real excitement in the Bay did not begin until early
in 1813, when the detestable Cochrane, Sir Alexander, vice-admiral, of
diabolical memory, entered through the capes in the Marlborough,
together with the Dragon, Poictiers, Victorious,
all 74's, and the Acasta, Junon, Statira, Maidstone,
Belvidera, Narcissus, Lauristimus, Tartarus,
all small fry, from forty-four to twenty guns. Many others with just as
romantic names joined later. The fleet was well supplied with surf
boats which were brought from the West Indies -- a fact which showed
real foresight on the part of someone for they were just the thing for
the raids which eventuated.
One can readily imagine the alarum and commotion the
appearance of this formidable flotilla would create; the beacon lights
were promptly extinguished: this seems to have been the right thing at
the right time. The old Constellation with a fleet of gunboats
and Old Point Comfort guarded Norfolk and Hampton, so the British fleet
went on up the Bay and spent several weeks destroying small craft and
marauding along the shores. There was no doubt plenty of serious work,
but I can imagine the fun the officers must have had if they were at
all interested in shooting, and how the redcoats must have enjoyed the
crabbing.
What a pity some really personal account of their adventures
here does not turn up. There is a full account of the naval operations,
written by a captain of the British Navy, published at Portsmouth,
England, in 1837, and the little volume contains a chart of the
Patuxent as far as Benedict, the soundings on which are surprisingly
like those in the government chart of the present day. Solomon's Island
is marked Smith's Island, and a note states that there is only a
passage for boats over the bar which connects the island with the
shore, as is still true to the present day. Two points are called Drum
Point, what is now known as Cove Point, being marked Drum Point as well
as the inner one.
Quite a fleet assembled at the mouth of the Patuxent in
August, 1814. Undaunted by the difficulties of exploring an unknown
river, Sir Alexander made a pretty job of it and sailed his fleet of
several frigates and men-of-war with twenty transports right up to
Benedict, where the troops were disembarked and marched to Washington.
Apparently the run was accomplished with comparative ease,
but the captain states that all hands were fagged out by the harassing
operation of getting down; apparently they anchored four times before
getting back to Drum Point. He writes very feelingly later on of the
labor of getting up to Baltimore without pilots, groping their way with
the lead, whilst boats ahead and one on each bow were also sounding. He
thought the heat was very great and exhausting, and mentions that it
varied from seventy-nine to eighty-two degrees in the shade. I wonder
what he would have thought of one hundred and three degrees or so in
the shade, as we have had it.
Here a namesake of mine appears on the scene, and our author
continues:
"I was placed under the orders of Capt. Robert
Barrie, of the Dragon, 74, and left with him in the Chesapeake, having
on board part of Col. Malcolm's battalion of marines, while the fleet
and transports under Sir Alexander Cochrane proceeded out of the
Chesapeake to the southward. No sooner did our senior officer, Capt.
Robert Barrie, find himself free to act according to his own able
judgment, than, with a mind capable of planning and a heart as bold as
a lion to execute, he undertook all kinds of expeditions."
Later the acting commodore seems to have forgotten his
canned goods, or that there are good shops at Annapolis, for he gave
the following order to his squadron in the Chesapeake:
"HMS Dragon, Nov. 1, 1814
Chesapeake Bay.
"The provisions of the squadron under my command are
getting extremely low, and, it being very uncertain at this advanced
season of the year when a supply can arrive, I find myself under the
painful necessity of placing the ship's company and marine battalion on
short allowance.
"You are, therefore, to place the crew and marines on
board your ship upon half allowance, so as to make your provisions last
for two months from this date.
"You will signify to your crew that I trust it will not be
necessary to continue this restriction long, and that I shall try by
every means in my power to procure temporary supplies from the enemy.
In the meantime I am satisfied their zeal for their country's cause
will point out the absolute necessity of persevering in the blockade of
the Chesapeake to the last extremity, and that the temporary privations
they are reduced to will be borne with the utmost cheerfulness.
ROBERT BARRIE,
Captain and Senior Officer."
The writer further states that they are entitled to forage,
and mentions that they paid for what they took; but I suspect that in
many cases they would have had a hard time in finding the owners. He
claims that "the orders of Admiral Cockburn and Captain Barrie were
positive against plundering," and tells a curious story:
"We used occasionally to purchase cattle from the
Americans. The plan agreed upon was this: they were to drive them down
to a certain point, when we were to land and take possession, for the
inhabitants, being all militiamen, and having too much patriotism to
sell food to 'King George's men,' they used to say, 'Put the money
under such a stone or tree, pointing to it, and then we can pick it up
and say we found it.' "
All of which may or may not have been true, but Captain
Barrie was rewarded for his services. The little book is dedicated by
the author, who seems to have been an ardent admirer, to Rear-admiral
Sir Robert Barrie, C.B., K.C.H., as follows:
"My DEAR SIR ROBERT
"In dedicating the following pages to you, under whose
command I had the honour of serving in the Chesapeake, etc., I do it
with the greatest respect, esteem, and admiration of your conduct.
"I must ever consider you as one of those officers upon
whom the country may safely rely in the hour of peril, and in whose
hands it may entrust its honour in the day of battle. Like the
celebrated Bayard of old, your career has obtained for you a character
sans peur et sans reproche.
"Your faithful friend, THE AUTHOR."
The oyster fleet at Solomon's must include well toward two
hundred craft: one evening we counted eighty returning. They are
handled wonderfully well; we hear much of the cleverness of the
Gloucester fishermen, but no bayman ever made such a mess of a job as
did a Gloucester fisherman I once saw in Newport harbor, fouling three
craft while getting under way, officers and crew nervous and excited as
chickens with their heads off. I have seen two baymen back a large
bugeye for several hundred yards out of the thicket of vessels in
Annapolis harbor, and this simply wonderful feat excite no surprise
among the neighbors. They are certainly expert sailors in their line. I
do not know how they would be in deep sea work or on large vessels, but
they are certainly wonderful at handling the typical bay craft of fifty
to ninety feet.
THE OLD SANTEE, NAVAL ACADEMY.
LIRIS RUNNING INTO WYE RIVER.
That night was a sad one for me. The effect of a too healthy
appetite and too little exercise put me out of commission, so I went to
bed shortly after dinner. During the evening we had a hard squall --
George's log says it laid us well over, blew out the large and powerful
riding light, and the next morning he found we had dragged a hundred
yards or so. I give all this as hearsay as I did not get up next
morning until we were well out into the Bay. I rose while the ship's
company were enjoying a state breakfast, and on looking out of the
stateroom skylight saw we were passing Cove Point with a fresh west
wind. A little later I put on an overcoat over my pajamas, got on deck,
sat in an armchair under the lee of a sail on the sunny side, had an
orange and soft boiled egg, and soon began to feel like a white man
again. These are trivial, and, from a certain point of view, ridiculous
details, but they are little things which exercise considerable
influence over life. The sunny side of that sail was to me the most
desirable place on earth, and after a bad night the bright sunny world
seemed particularly cheerful.
The breeze freshened, but George, determined to have a good
run, opened out the gafftopsail and set the baby jib topsail, which
gave Liris just the right balance. We boiled up the highway,
overhauling and passing several lumber-laden schooners, whose skippers
generally gave us a cheerful wave of the hand. There was quite a swing
to the ship, so I had to move my chair alongside one of the boats,
where, sheltered from the wind, I had a couple of naps, and thereafter
felt fine. The navigators had it all their own way during the day so
far as the ship went. Off Poplar Island it lightened, and they set the
large jib topsail; off Bloody Point, at the entrance to Eastern Bay, it
shifted to southwest, and we were almost dead before, so they furled
mizzen and set the cockpit awning. While off Claiborne we met friends
in the Dulwich bound for West River, and farther up the Bay Cynthia,
another Corinthian craft.
The wind changed to cool southeast as we turned Tilghman's
Point, and then freshened again. Beating down was pleasant, but we
approached Deep Water Point in some anxiety and with minds determined
not to be surprised if we grounded, for we had a strong head wind and
tide, and the gut is not much wider than a good sized street. Seymour
at the tiller made Liris behave like a corkscrew; on one side we could
stand inshore until the bowsprit was almost over the beach, but on the
other we had no such certain guide. There was a buoy on the south end
of the long bar which almost entirely closes the river here, but we had
to depend on the lead long before and long after reaching it. The boat
behaved splendidly and never faltered or hesitated in coming about,
although we scarcely had time to get headway before we had to turn
again. She swung around like a knockabout, and was off on the other
tack like clockwork. I was surprised and delighted, for it was a severe
test. I had expected that cutting off of keel would have decreased her
ability at this kind of work.
We anchored off the pretty little village of St. Michael's
about half-past three. I kept ship and entertained some visitors, while
the others dashed off in the launch for the inevitable ice, provisions,
papers, and telegrams. This time we did not go into the quaint little
inner harbor, but lay in the river; so-called, but really a salt arm of
the Bay, cursed with strong tides. A pleasant old fellow came alongside
and remarked that we had selected a pretty bleak harbor; and so we had,
but the usual squall that night was not severe, and we did not suffer
any unusual discomfort. A Baltimore yacht bound in passed close astern,
partly to learn our ship's name and partly to advise us to anchor
inside. These friendly warnings seemed very ridiculous in a river, but
it could get very uncomfortable there with a wind against the tide.
Next morning we wandered about the village, which is very
attractive. The green grass comes down to the water's edge all around
the harbor, which is practically landlocked. There is an air of peace
and quiet after the turbulent waters of the Bay, and the whole is a
strong contrast to the rush of modern life. There is a charm in the
haphazard way in which the older part of the village huddles about the
harbor; in the grass-covered back lanes, where a broad ribbon of
dazzling white oyster shell runs along the center; in the tarry smell
of nets spread about, and the perfume of honeysuckle from old fashioned
gardens, and in the ancient and weatherworn houses. There are some fine
large trees in the place. All this, as seen from the harbor, with the
church steeple rising up over all, makes a pretty picture.
There is, however, a brisk air about the place, both in the
morning and evening, when the summer boarders, principally beauty and
youth, go for the mail; the rest of the day and evening seems to be
spent by them in or on the water. It is a great place for canoe
sailing. Canoes are everywhere. In the morning the crews, both girls
and boys, are in bathing suits; then, if there is a smart breeze, the
sailing is more than reckless: to capsize means only another bath. They
seem to dress for lunch, so that in the afternoon the sailing is more
discreet. In the evening, when the girls have on white dresses, and the
breeze is generally lighter, things are more placid, and banjos are in
evidence. This seems to be the daily round; at Oxford it was the same,
and I presume it is so at these places all the summer.
We inspected the steam yacht Vision, hauled up in
Kirby's Yard, after having been raised and recreated under Dimphel's
supervision; then out on board and up anchor for the Wye River under
jib and mizzen. It is only a short distance, and we were soon at our
old anchorage off Bruff's Island. Here we were in the prettiest and
most park-like scenery on the whole Eastern Shore, so we determined to
run up the river to the westward of Wye Island and complete the
circumnavigation of the island, in which we had been defeated by an
out-of-order drawbridge on a former occasion. We took lunch and bottles
in a basket of ice, and picnicked ashore on the northeast point at the
junction of the Back and Front Wye Rivers. We found that we had chosen
a spot that had been used for picnics before, for all about us under
the turf were tons of oyster shells that had been cast aside by Indians
centuries ago. It was a lovely spot, and spoke well, in our opinion,
for the red man's taste in these matters. The red man undoubtedly went
up and down to the Bay in canoes and probably paddled; we degenerates,
cursed by civilization, used a launch. We undoubtedly lost in physique
by it, but it was very pleasant.
In the afternoon we returned on board and moved the ship
down to Bozman's Flats at the mouth of Tilghman's Creek, where there is
good but exposed holding ground. It is a nice retired spot, with few
and distant signs of man, and a dash of wildness about it. After a bath
from the beach we had an early dinner, and then sat on deck watching
the picture made by the afterglow of the sun behind the pines of
Tilghman's Point. The promised land of wilderness cast its spell upon
us, and we sat silent in the late twilight until the stars began to
show cold and frosty. It is impossible to do justice to the fascination
of this sort of life; the probability is that any attempt I could make
would become bathos.
Next morning my brother, the slave driver, had us up before
five o'clock, but it was worth it. At that time it was quite nippy, and
there was a steely sharpness about everything that made one think of
winter. The air was clear, wind east, the sun crimson, and the water a
dark blue, and a pea jacket very welcome. Having rounded the point, had
breakfast as we ran down Eastern Bay, and the sun warming things up and
bringing the wind with it, we had a spanking sail over to the West
River, so much so that we carried away the jaws of the gaff when
halfway over. This did not bother us, however, as we ran under
headsails and mizzen while we made a temporary lashing, and were soon,
about nine o'clock, at our proposed anchorage in the mouth of the Rhode
River.
Then we amused ourselves for awhile by washing down decks
and setting awnings, and I went ashore to interview a fisherman and
then on to a farm for chickens, vegetables, and milk. The fascination
of this marketing at farmhouses, or even in the villages, is curious.
During eleven months of the year to carry a basket or a milk can would
be a degradation akin to servitude: then the only knowledge that such a
thing as food must be bought is the monthly making of checks. But on a
cruise there is something very humanizing in the experience of sitting
gossiping with the friendly country people, most of whom are possessed
of an astonishing education and dignity of manner. There is generally a
delightful calm independence about the bay folk in this lotus land that
seems to have been given them by nature in poetic justice as
compensation for the lack of the doubtful joys of money bought luxuries.
A simple manifestation of this bred-in-the-bone unconscious
dignity is in the way in which the white man, while living on terms of
equality and in friendly intercourse with the negro, exercises a
noblesse oblige that promotes mutual respect and goodwill. This manner
is probably the result of atavism, and in it there is no doubt
reproduced the manner that was in fashion during the couple of
centuries that slavery existed in the land. This strain has continued
here largely for the reason that few foreigners of any brand have come
into this part of the country. The lack of fresh blood has perhaps been
a loss to the bay folk in that they have not gained the commercial and
artistic strength that comes from occasional adding of other blood;
but, nevertheless, they have preserved a genuine and unaffected
goodwill, kindliness, and courtesy that adds greatly to the pleasure of
a cruise in these waters.
Well, I got back with the forage, and we had an hour's run
on shore and a fine bath from the clean sandspit that gives protection
on the southeast and makes the Rhode River an attractive little harbor.
There is absolutely no village here; only two houses in sight, and one
of them, that of a gentleman farmer of the old school. You can anchor
behind the low spit in deep water with good holding ground, and under
the awning, with ensign snapping in a strong breeze, lie as unmovable
as though on shore. On a busy day there is a constant procession of
craft of all sorts up to the largest steamships passing up or down the
Bay; the sailing craft generally all bound one way, as the wind may
favor. All of this gives a feeling of being in touch with the world. A
good sized seagoing sailing craft brings up daydreams of the imaginary
Spanish Main, or the Indies, or the Spice Islands of boyhood; or, more
exactly and realistically, remembrances of the Hoogly, of Hong Kong, or
of the Sydney of twenty years ago.
So we spent an ideal afternoon. Our appearance seemed to
have excited the yachting spirit of the place, for two big farmer's
boys appeared with miniature craft almost as big as themselves, and
sailed them in exciting races for our benefit. In the early evening we
went in the launch through the beautiful bay to the house mentioned
above, and found a large party from the surrounding branches of the
family gathered for Sunday. It was a scene not to be found north of
Mason's and Dixon's line, unless it be on the stage -- the courtly old
gentleman and his gracious lady-of-the-manor, the cultured and
intellectual women of the second generation, and youth and beauty of
the 'teens, in a fitting setting of old mahogany and family portraits.
We were received as though we were princes from a foreign land. It was
yet daylight, so we were taken up into the tower, from which, as the
house stands on the top of a hill, we were able to view the land and
Bay spread out about us like a map. We lingered there while the
twilight darkened, and finally went below saturated with the legendary
lore of the land. After a most enjoyable two hours we went back to the
launch through the inky blackness of the woodland shortcut, guided by
the lanterns of some youths of the party. On the way back we bumped the
launch over a bar, but as we had good headway she went over like a
steeplechaser.
Next morning, Sunday, was cool but breathless, so we towed
out beyond the cedar bush off the end of the spit about five o'clock,
and a light southerly wind carried us around to Annapolis by the time
shore folks were sitting down to breakfast. Here we had a day of
resting, swimming, exchanging of visits, and a walk ashore through the
Naval Academy grounds. Next morning Seymour had to desert the ship.
We laid at anchor a couple of days resting. Here again the
choice spot is behind the spit, not too far from Heller's Yard and Sail
Loft, so that one has the view out over the Bay. A part of the annual
program is to spend a little money there, ordering things in the most
leisurely way, talking it over well, with the incense of boiling tar in
the nostrils; not at all in the city fashion, as though you were slaves
of time, but in the true Bay style. One afternoon we spent in an
excursion in the launch to "Whitehall," which stands facing the Bay, in
a small bay, northeast from Annapolis. This fine, old specimen, with
its handsome columned façade, was formerly the home of Sharpe,
the early eighteenth century governor of the colony, but was, I
believe, built before his time. Mrs. Story showed us about and told us
the pathetic tale of the transported servant who did the wood carving
in the hall.
Our entire ship's company was now reduced to two men. We do
not count the cook, who is never called upon even to tend the
traditional foresheet, as has been cook's duty from time immemorial;
yet we navigated the ship home without feeling at all shorthanded and
without mishap. We had one burst of excitement on the way. Leaving
Annapolis one morning with a light breeze we met a cousin in the cutter
Merlin off Tolchester, bound down. As the wind was light
we hove to and he came on board, while his man sailed about in circles.
After a "gam" we parted company, and, the wind growing lighter and the
tide being against us, finally anchored. Shortly after lunch there was
a light northerly air, and we beat up slowly till off Fairlee Creek,
when it came suddenly out of the northeast, butt-end first, and we went
tearing along close-hauled down to the planksheer. As we were under the
lee of the land we had smooth water, but when we opened Worton's Cove
we got the full strength of it, so that we had to take in gaff and jib
topsails. It was almost a dead beat against a steadily increasing
breeze; we had a fair tide, but it worked up a sea very quickly, so
that by the time we reached the Sassafras River we were drenched with
spray. By that time we were down to mainsail and jib; when halfway up
to Turkey Point we again set mizzen and staysail, the wind being killed
by a couple of heavy thunder squalls which blackened the whole western
sky. We were anxious to make an anchorage, but did not succeed, and had
to take the fierce outburst from the northwest under staysail alone. It
was as black as ink, the rain like a shower bath, and the lightning
fierce. But the wind was soon over, and we managed to get up into the
Elk and anchored off Cabin John's Creek. It settled into a steady
northeaster, so that we had to let go heavy anchor and put out a lot of
chain. We rode comfortably, however, although in a very bleak harbor.
Next day the northeaster still blew, although not quite so
hard. There was a good sea running, but the little launch did well
against it, and we went up and spent the day with friends at the
Bohemia River. Coming back in the afternoon before the sea we had
trouble and had to keep out oars to prevent the launch broaching.
During that night the wind shifted to northwest, so that the
high shores of Turkey Point made a fine lee for us, but next morning we
had a job getting our anchors. We then worked up to Corn Landing, where
we got the canal tug and went right through behind it to the Delaware,
where we found a southerly breeze that carried us up to the club house
in time for dinner.
We had had a most enjoyable month with plenty of exercise,
and, on the whole, I think we were much better off than we would have
been in a smaller boat. A small boat can, of course, make a harbor in a
lot of little places where it is not safe to take a large one, but this
disadvantage, I think, is more than counterbalanced by the big boat's
ability to take the weather as it comes, in increased speed, thus
shortening the runs and enabling one to make a harbor earlier in the
day in greater comfort and in easier behavior at anchor. I do not mean
at all to disparage the joys of small boat cruising -- I have slept
under a sail on the floorboards of an open boat. I write this, however,
to show how it is possible for a few men wishing to cruise about
handily in a ship sixty feet from figurehead to taffrail. Practically
two of us worked the ship, for Isaac, the nigger, had cooking,
dishwashing, bedmaking, and the cabin cleaning to do, and he was
awfully slow at all of these, and came on deck only to take his ease
with a pipe. This suited us exactly; we wanted exercise, and we got it.
We might have had another man -- there were four cots in the forecastle
-- but I doubt if we would have been any better off, and in another
paid hand we would have perhaps had another of these spoiled children
upon our hands to make pessimistic remarks and predict disaster.
..
© 2000 Craig O'Donnell, editor & general factotum.
May not be reproduced without my permission. Go scan your own damn
article.