Rough Voyage on The Bateman
Chapter XI
Following my pre-Christmas voyage on the Bateman I
became a regular crew member, and for the next several
years from late Spring until early fall I served
before the mast on this worthy vessel -- and
enjoyed every minute of it.
The schooner Arianna Bateman was a busy lady. There
were no barnacles growing on her anchors, since they
spent very little time overboard. Capt. Avalon Simmons
kept her sailing over local waterways and those of
neighboring states on a variety of assignments. She
hauled oysters and shells from Baltimore and the James
River to New Jersey; soft coal from Baltimore and
Norfolk to Carter's Creek and other points on the
Rappahannock River; and journeyed up the York, James
and Piankatank Rivers to load lumber, coal, railroad
ties or whatever freight was available.
We delighted in our voyages on the Bateman. I spent
some rough nights on the Chesapeake in this sturdy
craft. The roughest one of all I believe it would have
to be the night we sprinkled coal over Davy Jones'
locker.
We had carried a load of coal from Baltimore to a
fish factory at Carter's Creek, on the Rappahannock.
The factory manager asked us to bring another load
from Norfolk.
When we arrived in Norfolk to load, Avalon went
ashore to take care of some business -- perhaps
clearance papers. He left me to see to the loading
operation. I told the loading gang boss our captain
wanted no more than 140 tons on the boat. He insisted
147 had been ordered, and he was obliged to put it
aboard.
This much weight did not dangerously overload the
boat, but it put her scuppers near the water. A
scupper is a hole, or gutter, at the side of a ship to
carry water from the deck.
When Avalon returned and asked how much we had
loaded I told him of my admonition to the coal company
boss, which had been ignored. He said I was right not
to get into an argument about the matter, but if he
had been there he would not have allowed that much to
be loaded. Half the cargo was on deck, so we could
unload faster when we reached our destination --
Carter's Creek -- the next morning.
We got the vessel under way in the afternoon and
left Norfolk for Carter's Creek, a distance of
approximately fifty miles. As we neared
Portsmouth -- a little below Norfolk -- we
ran into a hard thunder squall, and had to run down
all the sails and let go both anchors to keep from
drifting into the dock. An old ram, also loaded with
coal, anchored near us during the storm; she got under
way and pulled out about the same time we did.
It was hard work getting the sails back on the
vessel, and tugging the anchors aboard. But we were
all sturdy men, and soon we were on our way again. By
this time the wind had struck up to the southard, as
it sometimes does after a squall has passed. Avalon
said, "boys, we'll have a lively run up tonight." We
all agreed. He had us set the topsail over the single
reef mainsail, and put the flying jib on her; this
made the vessel steer smoothly.
We came on out of Portsmouth, and the rain --
which had stayed with us since we weighed anchor
following the squall -- stopped under Hampton
Roads and anchored. The ram was a large vessel, with
three masts. These boats were often referred to as
"bald tops,, because they had no topmasts or
topsails.
I was mate; others in crew included Everett Booze,
a cousin of my wife's, and another chap named
Wilson -- a combination cook and deckhand. Avalon
came up to me as I steered the vessel and remarked
that he saw no signs of more squalls on the horizon,
and asked what I thought of continuing our trip. This
in view of the fact that the ram, a much larger
vessel, had decided to make for harbor, instead of
braving the current breeze. It was my feeling that
there was no reason to stop and anchor; it was just a
nice stiff sailing breeze. I was very young --
and eager for excitement -- and, as my young
grandson Thomas Leonard Hooper, once observed the
dangerous way is the most fun.
We continued outside Hampton Roads and out into the
open Bay. The wind hauled around a bit to the
southwest. A beautiful night, with the full moon
riding high and casting a greenish hue on the
wind-churned water. There were no other voyagers in
sight; nothing around us but sea and sky, but there
was no sense of loneliness.
The wind kept picking up; a real humdinger of a
southwester. Avalon and the others worked the deck and
stood lookout; I continued at the wheel. We ploughed
on through wind and wave and drove her into Carter's
Creek just after midnight.
It was a rough ride. In fact, it appeared several
times that night that the vessel would founder. Waves
rolled over the deck that must have removed as much as
a ton of that coal at one time. It would be safe to
say that at least twenty-five tons of that coal were
casualties of the sea. The next morning we noted that
her scuppers were well above the water, and she was
bend free -- that is, the rib that rimmed the
deck and contained the scuppers was riding above the
water.
The following evening we hit the bunks early;
nobody slept the previous night. Avalon had us up at
daybreak, anxious to get going. I asked him where we
were going, and he said we were going home to
Hoopersville to lay over and paint the boat.
We were soon on our way. Avalon told the cook
(Wilson) and me to take her on home. He and Everett
were going to clean out the hold. That soft coal had
gotten wet in there and it was a mess. I was at the
wheel, and Wilson was cooking dinner -- a bucket
of fresh trout and bluefish provided by the captain of
a fish steamer docked at Carter's Creek. Wilson also
kept the pumps going, to keep the bilge pumped out;
our two cleanup boys had the plug out of the
centerwell.
Wilson's fried fish were a delight. He was a
splendid cook, as well as a handy guy before the mast.
Feeding us was his greatest satisfaction. I recall a
special dessert he concocted and called a "raisin
duff" with a sauce to pour over it. No, the sauce was
not made of seaweed; it was a pungent mixture of
vinegar, sugar and spices.
Our route took us on down past the Windmill
Lighthouse, on the Windmill Bar in the mouth of the
Rappahannock. It was blowing a stiff breeze from the
northwest, and she was rolling the boys around below.
This was a head wind, so we navigated by making a long
tack and a short one. By nightfall we were abreast of
Hollands Island. We entered Hoopers Straits on a flood
tide, and the wind had moderated. After passing
Hoopers Island lighthouse we were able to fetch on up
Honga River to our anchorage in Hickory Cove.
A reverend Bozman had been holding camp meetings in
a wooded grove back of Hoopers Memorial Church. The
service was over for that evening by the time we came
ashore, but the worshipers were still around,
socializing. We joined them for awhile. It was good to
be home again.
Lumber Cargo in a Strong North
Wind
Chapter XII
Within a few days the schooner Arianna Bateman was
resplendent in her new coat of paint -- inside
and outside. Soon we were off again; this time to the
small town of Walkerton on the York River to take on a
load of lumber.
We finished loading in late afternoon, got under
way, and came on out of the York River headed for the
open Bay. The lumber was consigned to Baltimore.
It was a stormy night; the atmosphere full of
squalls. We rode on by one harbor after another, with
the thought that we would stop and anchor when the
next one was reached. Soon, however, we had passed
them all and were out in the Bay. Avalon said he felt
we could make it safely, at least as far as Hoopers
Straits. If the weather had not improved by that time
we could stop by home (Hoopersville) and wait for more
favorable conditions.
That was also a night to remember. The wind struck
down after the squalls blew over, and bobbed that
vessel around like a cork. The seas sloshed over that
lumber piled on the deck time after time; how it
managed to stay there is a puzzle to me even now. We
had a reefed mainsail and jib on the vessel, and she
sailed smartly; but what a rough ride that was!
We had reached Hoopers Island Lighthouse by
morning. The wind was blowing the water up. Avalon
decided not to press our luck further. I was at the
wheel, as usual. He came to me and said, "Will Hooper,
let's go home." I could not have agreed more heartily.
He threw the main sheet off the cleat, ordered the
centerboard retracted, and we headed back to the
Straits.
The wind velocity had increased markedly since
daybreak. It took us two hours to beat up Honga River
with that load of lumber. Hickory Cove looked good to
us that day.
We were harbor-bound for several days while that
strong north wind blew itself out. Otherwise, the
weather was beautiful -- clear with bright
sunshine.
Finally, one afternoon the wind hauled around to
the south in a gentle breeze. Avalon came for me; he
said we would have a good run up that night, and we
did.
By daybreak we were in Baltimore, in Back Basin,
near Canton. Unable to remember exactly where we
unloaded the lumber, but it was somewhere near there,
possibly at the foot of Broadway. Most of the streets
in South Baltimore, which ran north and south,
extended down to the waterfront.
Near-Miss On A Collision
Course
Chapter XIV
Another voyage on the schooner Bateman stands out
rather avidly in my memory because of a near tragic
happening.
We had landed a load of lumber that day at a pier
on Back Basin in Baltimore and in early evening set
sail to return to the York River for another load.
Jess Booze, Wilson (our cook, who doubled as a deck
hand) and I were in crew. Avalon said he and Jess were
going to bed; Wilson and I would have the first watch.
Weather conditions permitting, the schedule was set up
for four hours on duty and four off. Avalon instructed
me to take the vessel on out, and call him if we
needed help.
We drifted on down the Patapsco River, past
Steelton. The Sparrows Point of today was known as
Steelton in that era. As we moved on down past
Lazarette lighthouse -- abreast of
Steelton -- the light breeze we had started with
began to pick up, and the vessel was responding
vigorously. We were coming out stark light, bound down
the Bay to load with lumber.
We were below North Point when the wind hauled
around to the southwest and everything began to
tighten, that is, the sails filled and strained at
their moorings. Favorable breeze and absence of cargo
made our vessel's sleek hull glide along at a brisk
pace.
It was a beautiful night; clear, with a full moon
riding high, muted rays splashing the sea around us
with molten silver. On such a night Leander swam the
Hellespont. So much for Creek Mythology!
I remarked to Wilson that we would have a pleasant
run down tonight, and sent him forward as lookout. I
was, of course, at the wheel. This was around the
middle of August -- watermelon season. At that
time of year just about every seaworthy tub the
farmers could charter was ferrying melons to Baltimore
and other Bay ports. On such a clear moonlit night we
would often observe members of this motley fleet
plying the Bay without side lights.
I told Wilson to keep a particularly sharp lookout;
we were certain to have lots of company in the Bay on
such a night. He assured me he would watch carefully,
and pass the word to me so that we could keep a safe
distance from our small fellow travelers. I was truing
to watch the traffic too, but my station at the wheel
afforded only a limited view over the bow.
By the time we sailed down past the Magothy River,
fifteen or twenty of these melon-laden boats had
passed us; in assorted sizes and types, they included
sloops, bateaus, bugeyes and pungys.
The breeze came on stronger, and our boat was
really cutting the water. She began to 'knock herself
down' a little -- that is, list out to the side.
I loved to steer a
boat when she was sailing in this fashion; I
remember well the feel of that wheel in my hands. The
Bateman carried her canvas well, and was known as a
smart sailer; she could outsail most other vessels in
her class.
Now and then I peeped under the boom in an effort
to help watch the traffic. Presently, it occurred to
me that I should take a good look around myself, to
make sure all was well. I put the wheel in the becket
and walked forward -- to the leeward. At that
moment I was startled by a loud "powaaanock" (my word
for the sharp slapping noise made by a wind-buffeted
sail). A glance over the bow revealed we were on a
collision course with a fair-sized bateau; she was
almost under our bow.
I ran quickly to the wheel and swerved the vessel
sharply off course; and the bateau had to jibe all
standing -- that is, sharply in the other
direction -- to keep from under our bow. If the
Bateman had hit that boat she would have cut her in
half.
After the bateau was safely by, and I had started
to breathe again, I once more put the wheel in the
becket and went to look for Wilson. He was sprawled on
the bowsprit fast asleep, snoring. The bowsprit
extends onto the deck six or eight feet and is a nice
place to lay down.
I woke him and asked how long he had been asleep.
He had no idea. Said he was tired and had just
intended to rest a few minutes -- not to fall
asleep. I told him of our close brush with disaster,
and suggested he might as well go to the cabin and go
to bed. A lookout asleep is worse than none at all. He
replied "Capn. I couldn't do that; let me stay on deck
and I'll stay on my feet and move around." I told him
to stay where I could see him. He was alright after
that; kept a sharp watch, and alerted me as soon as he
saw anything approaching us.
We called Jess to replace Wilson when it was time
for his watch, but I was not tired or sleepy, so did
not call Avalon until we were down off Patuxent River
that morning. He scolded me for not getting him up to
stand his watch.
I told him of Wilson's nap and our near-miss with
the bateau, but we decided to say nothing more about
it. Wilson was a good, hardworking guy; he felt bad
about the incident, and was not likely to repeat
it.
Collision between a large and small craft is
particularly lethal for the small boat and crew. The
impact usually destroys the small boat, injures the
crew and knocks them breathless into the water, where
they are powerless to save themselves.
I recall that years after the above incident took
place, a large sloop knifed into a power boat loaded
with melons, just below Hoopers Island lighthouse one
rough night. The power boat was torn apart; three of
the four men aboard were lost.
York River Lumber Run: Symphony of
Nature
Chapter XV
It would be near impossible to describe every
voyage and experience during the years I sailed on the
Arianna Bateman, but each was a new experience, none
were dull. The late Jess Booze, my wife's brother, and
their cousin Everett Booze were also fairly regular
members of the Bateman's crew. We were young men
then -- in our early twenties.
Jess and I worked together off and on from boyhood
until fairly late in our careers. We owned boats in
partnership. Sometimes each would operate a boat with
a full crew. At other times we both worked on one
boat. During those early years we dredged oysters from
the time the season opened in the fall until it closed
in late spring. Afterwards, all through the summer and
into early fall, we sailed with Avalon as he plied the
coastal freight routes in the Bateman. We came ashore
just in time to prepare our boats for opening of the
oyster season.
During this period the standard wage was $18 per
month, a $3 increase over my first berth on the Annie
Hodges, I was 'experienced' by then. Plenty of good
food and a firm bunk in the cabin were our fringe
benefits. There was no such thing as an eight hour
day; during a busy run, or in heavy weather, it could
be three times that long. The word 'overtime' had not
yet been coined.
Avalon was a fine considerate captain, and it was
always a pleasure to sail with him no matter how rough
the trip turned out. Although $18 per month was the
standard wage, when payday came he always gave us
$20.
I can remember many episodes from our voyages;
memorable, but not altogether uncommon, just
interesting to remember and pleasant to think about.
There were, for example, the long slow but fascinating
passages down the York River to Walkerton, Virginia,
one of our most frequent ports of call to load with
lumber.
In order to reach Walkerton, it was necessary to
navigate a narrow section of the York River which
extended up into the land for ten or twelve miles. The
river was very narrow in spots, but deep. Tall trees
grew close to the river's edge. In the very narrow
sections we would have to pull in the main sheets and
the booms to prevent large tree branches from damaging
the sails and riggings.
It was a difficult passage to navigate under the
best of circumstances, but particularly so at night,
when visibility was restricted; also, heavy stands of
timber allowed only the lightest breeze to
penetrate.
Although it was a slow and tedious run, the beauty
and tranquility of this sheltered route more than
compensated for the inconvenience. On either side
thick carpets of wild flowers grew in colorful
profusion to delight the eye. Sometimes our schedule
would require us to run the passage at night --
although we tried to avoid this. At such times we
would be favored, and those off duty kept awake, by a
chorus of bird songs, frog croaks and various other
sounds from creatures happy and vibrant just to be
alive. I was awed by this joyous symphony of nature;
it reminded me of the lovely Scriptural passage "let
everything that hath breath praise the lord."
One night darkness overtook us as we attempted to
negotiate this tight waterway, and to make matters
worse we were completely becalmed. Avalon was worried
that the sails and riggings would be damaged if we
drifted too close to the tall trees. He asked Jess and
me to launch the yawl boat, a sturdy craft of eighteen
or twenty feet, with two sixteen foot oars, and row
awhile. So we climbed in, and using one oar apiece
pulled that big vessel along just enough to keep
steerageway on her, to keep her from drifting into the
trees. Steerageway is the headway necessary to make a
vessel governable by the helm.
After pulling on those big oars for two hours our
arms were a trifle numb. Avalon told us to come back
aboard, and the vessel could safely drift along with
the flood tide. We had almost reached our
destination.
On arrival that morning we took on a load of lumber
consigned to Baltimore. On the way out, past York Spit
Lighthouse, in the mouth of the York River, a severe
thunder squall forced us to lower all sails except the
jib -- and that almost pulled the mast out of
her.
It was one of those violent southeast squalls, full
of fury but quick to pass over. We put the sails back
and drove her up the Bay. It's a long way from York
River to Baltimore, but we were there before dark.
Father's Voyages on The
Bateman
Chapter XVI
My father, Samuel Thomas Hooper, also sailed in the
coastal freight trade in his youth. In later years he
enlivened many long winter evenings for my wife and me
as we listened to tales of his voyages. Two of these
stand out vividly in my memory.
For a time father sailed as mate aboard the Kate
McNamara, out of Hoopersville, under the command of
Capt. Henry Meekins, my mother's brother. The McNamara
was a two-masted main topmast schooner, well known on
the Bay very smart and seaworthy. She had a varied
career: in the fruit trade to the Bahamas; in service
as a buy boat in the Honga River oyster trade; but,
mainly she plied the coastal freight routes.
During the month of April, 1865, the McNamara was
consigned to ferry coal from Havre de Grace, Maryland,
to Washington, DC. They landed a cargo on the 14th,
and the next day were returning to Havre de Grace to
reload when they were intercepted by a navy gunboat,
ordered to heave to and anchor at Piney Point, and
remain there until further notice. All other vessels
sailing the Potomac River in that vicinity were
likewise halted and detained.
Later that day, officers from the gunboat boarded
and searched each vessel, then ordered the captain to
get under way and depart at once. President Abraham
Lincoln had been shot the night before, and they were
searching for his assassin. Another voyage father
described sounded rougher than any of mine, and was
made on my favorite vessel, the schooner Arianna
Bateman, when she was a spanking new craft --
years before my time.
The original owner, Capt. John H. Simmons, had the
Bateman built at the Joseph Brooks shipyard at
Madison, on the Little Choptank River. This yard also
built many of the large well-known area schooners,
among them the Levi B. Phillips, the Maggie A.
Phillips, and the Laurena Clayton. One of these met a
tragic end. The Levi B. Phillips, out of Hoopersville,
under command of Capt. Warner Parks, and the Maggie
Phillips, out of Deals Island, under Capt. Johnny
Jones, left Baltimore in ballast bound to the Bahamas
to load fruit.
Capt. Jones took the Maggie out an hour ahead of
the Levi B., which made him run about thirty miles to
the south of the other vessel. (This was the maiden
voyage of the Maggie, owned by Capt. Luther Phillips,
and named in honor of his wife). They ran into a
hurricane and, presumably, the angry Gulf Stream
swallowed up the proud Maggie Phillips and her five
man crew. They failed to reach their destination and
were never heard from again. Capt. Parks kept a
spanker mainsail on the Levi B., and through a
fantastic feat of seamanship brought his vessel to
port. Captain and crew gave a harrowing account of
their voyage.
Now to return to my father's rough voyages on the
new Bateman. Capt. Johnny Simmons put Us new vessel
(the Bate man) in service with uncle Henry Meekins as
mate. After one season Capt. Johnny told Uncle Henry
he was tired of life on the water, and was going
ashore and build a general store at Hoopersville (in
continuous use since it was built) and leave the
Bateman to him. Father came aboard as mate.
As father remembered, Uncle Henry was a venturesome
man, and my rough voyages in the Bateman years later
were joy rides compared to some of his. Uncle Henry
drove the vessel hard, in all kinds of weather. Even
during heavy squalls they would seldom slacken the
canvas, that is, take the sails in. One tempestuous
night was particularly memorable. They left Baltimore
in company with the big flying jib pungy Southern
Beauty. She was bound out to sea -- to the
Bahamas to load fruit. They both beat down the Bay in
a strong south wind; both vessels carrying all their
canvas.
The Southern Beauty was reported to be the fastest
boat on the Bay. But the Bateman stayed with her as
they tacked from one side of the Bay to the other in
that strong head wind. By nightfall they were down off
the mouth of the Patuxent River, and the Southern
Beauty tacked on in and anchored.
The wind was picking up and father pointed out that
the Southern Beauty, a much larger vessel, had found
the going too rough. Uncle Henry remarked that Capt.
Johnny had told him not to allow any barnacles to grow
on the anchors. He had also told Uncle Henry that he
could not make the Bateman leak.
He wanted to use the trip down the Bay that night
as the acid test. The farther down the rougher the
ride, and the boat continually dipped her leeward
waist under. Father was bringing home three pigs, and
had to lash the crate to the windward rail to keep it
on deck, and keep the animals from drowning.
Finally, Uncle Henry ordered the crew to slack the
flying jib down. There it rested on the guy ropes
(rope hammocks to catch the lowered sail). The boat
rolled and pitched so wildly she dipped this cradled
sail in the water repeatedly and it was as high from
the water as a two story house.
Father informed the captain that none of the crew
members would venture out to tie up the lowered jib;
he, himself, felt this was too dangerous an
undertaking. Whereupon Uncle Henry ordered the jib to
be put back on the vessel. It was a rough and rather
frightening ride -- but a very fast one. Shortly
after midnight they arrived in Hickory Cove, anchored
and went to sleep.
When father awakened he was astonished to find
seven or eight inches of water in the hold. The
Bateman was not a leaky craft, but vibration from the
severe pounding the boat's hull endured on that voyage
was bound to force some water inside. This did no
harm; actually, it helped to tighten a vessel this
new.
Anxious to see Uncle Henry's reaction, father woke
him and led the way to the hold. He glanced inside and
exclaimed "damned if we didn't make her sweat a little
bit."
Cold Climb up a Dredge Line
Chapter XVII
One season Jess Booze and I decided to take the two
boats we owned -- the skipjack Skippy, and a
two-masted bateau named Defender to the Potomac River
for part of me oyster season. Current reports had
indicated that oysters were in better supply there
than they were locally.
Jess worked the Defender with Ransom Tyler as mate,
and two other crewmen. Aboard the Skippy with me was
my mate John, and another crewman whose name escapes
me. He doubled as cook aboard the boat, so for this
small narrative we can just refer to him as Cook. I
had three in crew at the start, but one became ill and
had to return home to Baltimore.
One bitter cold day just before Christmas we had
hit a clump of oysters that were prime specimens, big
as my hand. I had stuck a pole at one end of this
choice area. When we dragged over it, however, one
dredge ploughed through mud instead of oysters.
John was steering and Cook was on the quarterdeck
trimming his oysters; that is, shoveling them onto the
pile after they had been culled. I was sounding out;
that is, using a sounding pole in an effort to get a
better fix on the geography of the area so that we
could let go both dredges on the oyster rock instead
of having one of them rake up mud. I had instructed
John to steer toward the spot where I planned to stick
another pole; then, hopefully, when we dragged the
area between the poles we would be solidly on
oysters.
As usual, I repeatedly warned John and Cook to keep
down -- to keep the boom from knocking them
overboard when it swung around. Cook was bending over
with his rear end stuck in the air, but he assured me
"alright Capn. I'm keeping down." He had scarcely
closed his mouth on the words when the boom struck his
bottom and sent him hurtling over the side. I dropped
the pole, ran quickly to the side and tried to reach
over and grab him as he flailed around in the water.
But he had landed too far away, and in reaching I lost
my balance and tumbled overboard too. Nearby, the
dredge rested on the roller (the fixture over which it
is pulled back aboard). I grabbed the dredge as I
fell, pulled it overboard and went to the bottom with
it.
The dredge, a heavy metal frame with teeth, and
metal chain pouch attached, took up in the mud and
stopped the boat in much the same way an anchor would,
and I climbed up the dredge line. Meanwhile, Cook had
surfaced in the bite of the buoy line. Each dredge has
a buoy attached so that should the dredge line part,
the dredge may be easily retrieved.
When I finished my long cold climb to the surface I
heard Cook hollering "John, take me in." John said,
"no, I take Capn. in first" He paid no attention to my
order to get Cook first. A large, powerfully built
man, he lifted us aboard as though we were babies
although we were both big, strapping fellows.
Cook had a fire going in the forepeak and dinner on
the stove. After John had helped us into dry clothes,
Cook spread the waterlogged $157 from my pocket in two
large lard tin lids and put them beneath the stove to
dry.
Jess and his crew in the Defender were working
about a hundred yards away. I told John to steer
towards them. As we drew near Jess asked John where
Capn. and Cook were, and he replied "Capn. and Cook
drowned." Jess stood there dumbfounded, speechless,
colorless. Then John added "not drowned, pretty near
drowned." I stuck my head from the door and told him
what had happened. They stayed alongside awhile,
recovering from the shock.
Fortunately, there was only the slightest breeze
going that day, which is the reason the dredge took up
in the mud and caused the boat to stop; my weight on
there helped too, of course. In even a moderate wind
we likely would have drowned, as the boat would have
sailed away from us, and we were weighted down with
heavy boots and clothing.
It was near Christmas, so we stayed in the Potomac
only a few more days after that. We brought out boats
home -- back across the Bay in a storm. We did
not return to the Potomac that year, but worked the
remainder of the season in Honga River.
Icebound: The Long Walk
Home
Chapter XVIII
One winter my Friend Jess and I had been dredging
our bateau Defender when bitter weather set in early,
and the oyster fleet was already icebound in harbor by
the middle of December.
Jess and I were unmarried, and still young enough
to be a little reckless with our money. We decided to
take the steamer to Salisbury -- the Eastern
Shore's largest 'city' at that time -- and buy
some new clothes for the holidays.
Hoopersville was a regularly scheduled port of call
for Bay area steamers. A boat that size and type could
get through ice that would stall the largest sailboat.
The liner Virginia had no difficulty making her way up
Honga River to our steamboat wharf in Hickory Cove. We
hopped aboard and were off on what was meant to be a
pleasurable trip.
Compared to the rough accommodations on our work
boats, the Virginia and her sister ships were floating
palaces. The trip to Salisbury was an overnight one,
so once aboard we headed for the mens' cabin and went
to bed. The mens' cabin was a communal sleeping room
equipped with multiple bunk beds and other
conveniences, and cost only a fraction of the price of
a private stateroom. There was also a ladies' cabin
similarly equipped.
We were up early to begin our shopping spree in
Salisbury. The temperature continued to drop. So much
ice formed so fast that the Virginia was unable to
make her way back down the Wicomico River. Jess and I
found ourselves in quite a fix -- stranded sixty
miles from home by land. Overland transportation on
the lower Shore in those days could be pretty rugged,
as we were soon to find out for ourselves.
Within twenty-four hours they were skating on the
Wicomico River, and the Virginia was locked in solid.
Capt. Ned Johnson, master of the Virginia at that
time, and Louis, his fine cook, did everything they
could to lessen the hardship of their stranded
passengers. Sleeping quarters and meals were provided
aboard the steamer without charge.
To digress a little: several years later, the
steamer Virginia, on a run from Baltimore to
Hoopersville, got into trouble as she rounded the
lower end of lower Hoopers Island (Applegarth). One
stormy night, with gale winds, she somehow got too
close to the lower End Bar -- a shoal water area
jutting approximately two miles into Hooper
Straits -- and ran hard aground. A warning beacon
on the end of the Bar was easy to miss on such a
night. There were no injuries, and no damage to the
vessel.
The steamer was stuck there for several weeks. One
day, following a strong northwest wind that forced the
tide to an abnormal low, we were tonging in the
vicinity where she was grounded. The bottom of her
free side was well above the surface; we walked around
her in our hip boots. Eventually, they brought down a
heavy dredge, dug a channel and refloated her.
Back to our freeze-up in Salisbury. After a week,
with no relief from the weather in sight, we decided
to try to make it back on our own. We took the train
to Cambridge and checked in at Cator's Boarding House
for the night. Next morning we went to Phillips livery
stable to hire a horse and buggy for the other thirty
mile leg of our journey home. Mr. Phillips told us we
were among the dozen or so who had been there that
morning for horses. He said no horse could make it
down that section of the county in such weather.
We knew, of course, that we had some rough terrain
to travel. Some roads in that section of south
Dorchester County were made with oyster shells; others
were just widened paths through marsh or woods. Gum
Swamp -- an area between the Catholic Church at
Golden Hill and Great Marsh Bridge -- was nothing
more than a little dirt road, so low and poorly
drained it was mud up to one's ankles in wet weather,
unless the ground was frozen. Frozen at that time it
surely was, for the weather continued bitter cold.
A man could walk over this frozen trail without
difficulty, but the weight of a horse would drive him
through the ice and cause cuts, bruises, or worse, to
his hooves and legs.
It was too expensive to live in a boarding house
and wait for a thaw. Our only alternative was to walk
home. The next morning, after a hearty breakfast at
Mr. Cator's, we began our thirty mile trek home. Our
new finery and other purchases compounded our woes,
since we had to carry all those packages.
We walked along at a normal gait, stopping at
intervals to rest, usually on a tree trunk. The only
fellow travelers encountered in the twenty miles from
Cambridge to Fishing Creek (Upper Hoopers Island) were
a few stray cows nibbling on the scenery. No other
humans were using that road, either on foot or
wheels.
By mid-afternoon we had reached Applegarth's store,
on the south side of Fishing Creek bridge. After a
stop there for rest and a refreshing drink of apple
cider, we set out on the last lap of our journey, the
ten remaining miles to Hoopersville, and arrived home
before dark. My sister Zella, who kept house for the
family after our mother's death, and who later married
Romie Booze, had a good supper cooked. I ate like
there was no tomorrow.
An hour later Jess walked in. I had expected he
would be in bed by that time. When he suggested we go
see the girls, I thought it a great idea. The girls
were a couple of cute chicks about three miles up the
road. So off we went to add another six to our day's
mileage. Neither of us felt tired.
During those early years we were healthy, strong
and vigorous, with exceptional endurance. Our lives
were uncluttered and uncomplicated. We lived close to
nature, and were full of the joy of living.
Crabbing The Old Ground
Chapter XIX
Sometimes a great deal of time and work went into
operations that brought pitifully small reward.
Crabbing -- the taking and handling of
crabs -- early in the century was for the most
part, a very unrewarding pursuit.
Crabs were scarce, and the demand for them modest.
Crab meat had not yet become the favored gourmet
cuisine it is today; few had the yen that now prompts
crab cake and imperial lovers to pay $4.00 a pound for
backfin. Because the market was so sluggish, the
crabber made very little profit -- even if he
could catch the critters. Sometimes we had to go quite
a distance to find some. One lean season Oscar Nelson
and I, still a couple of young bachelors, teamed up
for some crab scraping quite a ways down Honga River,
on an area of flat bottom just below Bishop's
Head -- between Bishop's Head and Holland's
Island called the Old Ground. We were working his
two-masted bateau Defender, which Jess and I later
bought from him.
Perhaps we should explain the crab scraping
procedure. This method of crabbing is similar to
dredging for oysters. The crab scrape has a metal
frame like the dredge -- only not as heavy, and
without teeth. The big difference is that instead of
the six foot long metal chain pouch into which the
oysters are forced as the dredge drags the bottom, the
bag of the crab scrape into which the crabs (if any)
are forced, is made of stout twine mesh. I believe
modern methods of crabbing, notably by crabpot, and to
a lesser extent now by trotline, have made the crab
scraping procedure obsolete.
The Old Ground was too far away for us to commute,
so we stayed down there Monday through Saturday. I
recall that we caught quite a few crabs, but received
a small price for our catch. Word had gotten around
about this fruitful spot, so a number of others had
gotten the same idea, which accounted for the very low
price, a glutted market.
During the week we ate and slept aboard. There were
crude sleeping accommodations in shanty's ashore, for
those whose boats were too small for living aboard, at
a cost of about $2.00 per week. Simple meals were also
available.
Oscar and I had agreed he would do the navigating
and see to the housekeeping chores about the boat, and
I would do the cooking, since I was rather good at
this. Before dawn one Monday morning we got under way
and again headed for the Old Ground. Oscar was tending
the boat and I had started preparing the bread for our
breakfast, mixing the flour and other ingredients by
hand. I brought the bread pan to the cabin doorway and
placed it on the deck near the entrance, so I could
sniff the brisk, clean morning air, and enjoy the
beauty and peaceful scenery of our early morning sail
down the river while I raked the bread.
The poet has said "the dawn comes up like thunder,"
but it has never seemed that way to me. This blazing
birth of a new day I was so often privileged to behold
was a spectacle whose radiant serenity always washed
over my spirit like a cleansing tide.
On this particular morning I was gazing around,
drinking in the beauty of the morning as I briskly
pawed through the mixture of flour, yeast, salt and
lard in an effort to homogenize it. I had not noticed
that Oscar, up wind from me, was shaking dried grass
(seaweed) from the crab scrapes. When I glanced down I
was dismayed to see that a sizable amount of dried
seaweed had blown into, and been mixed with, the
contents of the pan.
I called to Oscar to look what he had done to our
bread. He was unperturbed; "hell, a little seaweed
won't hurt us; get it baked, I'm hungry." I picked out
as much as I could, but quite a few fragments
remained. It would have been inexcusably wasteful then
to throw out the mixture and start over. So I baked
the bread to a golden brown and we ate it with gusto,
seaweed and all.
Aground in The Moonlight
Chapter XX
Once Brady Dean and I took a load of oysters to
Salisbury in a small bateau named Venus. The Venus was
an open boat, no decking, just washboards -- but
she was widely built, and very able.
The vessel was owned by Capt. Johnny Clayton (John
M. Clayton) who loaned her to us for the trip to
Salisbury. There was no charge for the use of the
boat, but Capt. Johnny gave us an order for some
lumber to be purchased from the L.E. Williams Company.
He also asked us to bring various other items,
Including feed for his livestock.
Capt. Johnny, a fine gentlemen and a pillar of
strength in the community, was endowed with
considerable business acumen, and his interests were
varied. He established a seafood processing plant here
at Hoopersville in 1890, the first in the area; still
operating In Cambridge, Maryland, under the name of
J.M. Clayton Company, it is one of the oldest plants
in the United States picking crabs commercially. He
owned and operated various commercial vessels,
Including the schooner Laurena Clayton named in honor
of his wife.
We had a nice trip to Salisbury in the Venus with
our load of oysters. It was easy to sell oysters along
the Wicomico In those days, since there were few good
ones up that way; perhaps a few around Mount Vernon or
Dames Quarter.
On the return trip, Capt. Johnny's large order, and
the various items purchased for ourselves loaded that
small boat to capacity. I was a little concerned about
this, but Brady felt certain we could carry it all
safely.
We left Salisbury in the afternoon, sailed down to
White Haven, and anchored there for the night. White
Haven was a good sheltered harbor in which to lay over
for the night. Early next morning we had breakfast,
got under way and came on out. The day was mostly
calm, scarcely any breeze at all, so the trip took all
day and into the night.
Our route was up the Wicomico River to Fishing Bay
to Hooper Straits and into Honga River. It was dark
before we reached Bishop's Head -- a peninsula
that juts out between Fishing Bay and Hooper Straits.
A big expanse of flat bottom, generally known as "the
flats" extends out from Norman's Cove (a harbor on the
eastern side of the Straits, just above Bishop's
Head). When uncertain about the state of the tide or
your boat's draught, the wiser course is to sail
around this area. However, sailing across it shortens
the distance to Honga River.
I warned Brady, who was at the wheel, that he had
better steer clear of the flats because of our heavy
load, but he was certain the Venus would go over
without any difficulty.
My concern proved to be well-founded. The tide was
lower than he thought, and the Venus ran aground. Our
vessel had been stuck there on the edge of the flats
for several hours when the wind started to pick up
into a stiff breeze and waves commenced to break over
her. I asked Brady if he thought he would lose the
vessel, but he remained optimistic. Finally, on the
flood tide, she jumped off and floated free, and we
were again on our way. This forced detention had
caused her to take In a little water, but after she
was pumped out we could find no evidence of
damage.
We knew that section of the bay area bottom as well
as the fish did but this, of course, was an extremely
dangerous situation, and we should not have allowed it
to happen.
Once free, we sailed on up the River to our
anchorage in Hickory Cove. The Venus had no side
lights on this trip, but the bright full moon
furnished all the light we needed. How could we be
sure clouds or stormy weather would not deprive us of
the moon's guiding light? We who follow the water soon
learn to read and interpret the signs of the elements,
and usually know what kind of weather to expect.
