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.