Part 13
We were soon off and in light airs stretched down to Neuse River and across to little town of Oriental, where sent a telegram and bought a fine shad just landed from the traps. Then away in freshening southeast breeze. Kept launch humming at it until the short, quick seas began breaking over her stern, for we had pretty long 40 mile road to travel before reaching Wysocking Bay on west shore. This Pamlico Sound may be inside waters but mark me it is a pernickety piece of thin-spread moisture. The shores low, we soon ran out of sight and bowled along as if in mid-ocean until a cast of the lead gave us but 15 feet of water. The Mascot is in no ways fitted for the work here and a right smart breeze would put her at once out of business. The local boats are, as usual, about the ticket. Rather narrow for length, slack bilge and easily driven with small sail. The sea picks up and beats at you as if it were a succession of stony walls and Mascot beamy, short and heavily sparred simply flounders helplessly about. We had rather uncomfortable work making Wysocking Bay just at nightfall. We overran our log and, getting mixed on the bearing of the lighthouse, found ourselves driving along in six feet of water with combing seas precious near in cockpit. Finally got straightened out and ran in under the land to an anchorage, but it was 8:30 before we sat down to fried shad and potatoes and H. most too tired to pick out the bones. Guess must rest up my crew a little in Manteo.
[Illustration: Manteo.]
_April 23rd._ Comes fair with wind hauled to southwest a-breezing right on. Had visit from local old codger who said he did a lot of shooting. Deer in summer, geese in winter. He allowed he didn’t want nothing to do with “bar.” Just naturally didn’t fancy ’em. He hunted his deer by turning on a dog and butchering the critter when it took to the water. Said he would be glad to put us up for a hunting trip any time. Could easily accommodate four of us because he had a good house with only himself, wife and daughter, and had _four_ beds. Me for my own tent or boat in this country. Like the good people of Stumpy, he had never seen a woolen muffler or sweater and couldn’t keep his hands off of them. To his mind they seemed the very essence of comfort and warmth. Think a little trading voyage along here in fall of the year might pay expenses. We tucked single reef in and then it was
Up sail, off and away, Balance partners, all chassé.
We stormed it along all day with short, sharp following sea which made us give launch a painter long enough to reach into next county. On that she towed like a bird. We passed Stumpy without going in, for a second visit would but spoil first impressions. Everywhere were the fish traps and had to keep constant watch not to get inside the outside trap which is often three or four miles from shore. These traps add a distinct danger to navigation in these waters. If overblown you cannot seek shelter and smooth water under a weather shore, but must stay outside and bang away at it. To get mixed up in a set of stakes and net is a very pernickety proposition. We had to guess the laneway between nets some 3 miles away from the creek which forms the fisherman’s harbor of Roanoke Marshes. We hit it right and dropped hook to quiet anchorage in midst of a busy settlement of tiny fish shanties. We were at once boarded by the population which made itself thoroughly at home and roosted about watching us cook and eat our supper. We tried to get a little information as to harbors at Roanoke Is. just across the sound, and sailing directions for any port are given something like this. “It’s this a-way. Youse all keep in the middle between the two pints close to the south pint. When youse all gets up in a little, youse will see a fish house to the northard and a little island. Go either side of the island, but there ain’t no water on the south side since a year gone by last Thanksgiving. No, I reckon it was Christmas when we had the big tide that wrecked Simmon’s wharf. When by the island just steer for the big tree and look out for the shoal ground off the fish house. Say, how much water might youse all be drawing?”
“Three and one-half feet.”
“Well, I swan, you can’t get in thar noways for there ain’t more’n 2 feet water anywhar.”
_April 24th._ We were off and following caution to keep about middle of creek we soon piled her high and dry in the mud. Had to drop sail, run out anchor and heave off with aid of launch. Then away for pleasant little 15 mile sail to Manteo on Roanoke Island. Manteo was good to look at. A rambling, scattering lot of houses with a nice little creek making the snuggest of harbors. From here we look across Roanoke Sound and see the back of Hatteras Beach with rounded sand dunes like mountains against the blue. Before we left Roanoke Marshes we were given a fine shad and tonight we had it smothered and then creamed. O, my. O, my. I wish youse all could have had some. Had lots of trouble cooking it because H. was catching crabs as big as soup plates and I had to keep rushing on deck to handle the net. Lots of Canada geese decoys swimming up and down creek and honking most cheerily. One old gander stands watch on the beach not 20 yds. away to guard his mate who has a nest under an old boat near by. Let any of the others come swimming too close and the old fellow with a sharp hiss is into the water and at ’em.
_April 25th._ Comes pretty as a picture. A truly wonderful spell of pleasant weather we are having. Up early. Put up a basket lunch and went ashore after breakfast to spend the day driving up island to see the site of Raleigh’s “Lost Colony” and the spot where Virginia Dare was born. We made a good day of it and enjoyed the shade of the woods and green of the trees. Except for electrics this was our first shore ride since leaving home. The country was like Cape Cod, and the roads deep with sand. Our little beach pony dragged the buggy around at a walk and we just kind of sot, and sot and then sot. When we got back to village we were bid to go out sturgeon fishing tomorrow. I guess H. will go, but the old man feels his age a bit and will let the young fry pull its heart out from 4 a.m. till noon. I have gained back two pounds of weight and my eyes are much better, so it’s me for the rural, quiet life.
_April 26th._ I put in a nice, quiet day shipping rope’s ends and getting out stock for a wire screen on fore hatch. H. turned up at 3 p.m., disgracefully hungry and tired. His day had been a great success. Very sporty get-a-way through triple line of breakers on the beach. A long day three miles at sea pulling heavy nets and catching all manner of strange fish, but no sturgeon. He wants to go again, and as I like it here, too, think we may stay. H. reports two litters wild razorbacks roaming the outside beach. This is interesting news and think must visit that part of country as reports say some of the shoats are red ones. In late afternoon we had a little crab picking bee and for supper crab flakes on toast. Don’t it beat all?
_April 27th._ Sunday and no noise of motorboats for Sunday down here is Sunday in very truth. The morning came with nice, soft rain from southwest hauling westerly and with lifting cloud. Gave our special orders to the grill-room and sat down to breakfast. Coffee, hot buttered toast, H. fried oysters and crab flakes in cream for me. The oysters have turned milky and have little taste but make a pretty good fry still. Visits from fishermen in afternoon and the sun coming out brightly we joined a motorboat party to Nag’s Head on the Hatteras Beach. Had a fine chance to see the sand dunes which seem to me much more beautiful and remarkable than those of Provincetown. Here, like the cone of Vesuvius, they rise from the very sea level and stand out alone against the sky. From Manteo at sunset they are like rose-tinted, snow-covered mountains against the deep blue eastern sky of a southern twilight. They move up and down the shore with the gales, and under one big fellow now lies completely hidden a little hotel just back of the fishing village of Nag’s Head.
_April 28th._ Comes fine in spite of a barometer that tumbled four points yesterday. H. off early again with the sturgeon fishermen. I at work on ship’s duties and making fly screens. By noon, squall clouds made up. Wind hauled northeast and blew freshly. Guess it’s all right, but wish little Asticot was back. He came back all right, having had fine time and helping catch a sturgeon which from sporting standpoint was nix as they just hauled him into the boat half drowned and rolled up in the gill net. They caught two big man-eaters about 14 ft. long and a 75 lb. green turtle. H. appeared on board with plenty of sturgeon steaks and the whole of the green turtle. We had the steaks for supper and they were fine. Sweet and tender but not a bit of taste like fish. More like the most tender veal.
_April 29th._ Saw us with kicker astern bucking all day against head winds and seas until we dropped anchor at Elizabeth City which is at mouth of the Paskotank River leading towards Dismal Swamp canal. Today we opened Mr. Turtle and got about 25 lbs. of meat. Am going to make soup and stews. Have the medicine chest open and within easy reach. Morphine, I think, will have the call.
_April 30th._ Whoop-ee!! I’m a wild horse. Never felt better in my life. Have turned H. out at 4:30 every morning for two weeks. Tried to show him the beauties of the “pride and glory of the day.” Might as well have talked to John the Orangeman. Bless his memory. Afraid he has no imagination and will buy him a peanut stand; stick candy and Coca-Cola on the side. Am rid of the old blue glasses and can see the world and look the clear, smart, cool northwester in the face. H. is shivering at the wheel with sweater, muffler and pants on. What is this new generation coming to, anyway? Green turtle soup is beginning to smell deliciously. Bet it’s food and drink. Corned sturgeon’s steaks for breakfast with Lyonnaise potatoes. Just like the Copley Plaza. All day winding along through the woods and straightway for 22 miles through the Dismal Swamp canal. Was tempted to stop midway of canal and in the launch run up and have a look at Lake Drummond, but having heard there was nothing to see but a big pond surrounded by endless swamp, we thought it better to take advantage of the beautiful day and jog along. We crossed the height of land and locked out at 5 p.m. This canal, with approaches, is more attractive than the Chesapeake and Albemarle route which we took last winter, but the latter is shorter.
Little engine going finely all day and in the calm of a beautiful spring evening we pushed down the little creek, entered the river, set our lights as darkness fell, and hauling along close to navy yard and the big battleships, we dropped anchor at 7 p.m. off the Norfolk Rowing Club. We are a total of 50 days from Miami with 31 sailing days for a distance, as crow flies, of about 1,000 miles. This means over 30 miles a day _average_, and, the size of boat considered, together with character of water passed through, makes it rather a remarkable record. Day after day we sailed farther than New Bedford to Boston, and, with exception of one night run outside, all runs were made by daylight.
[Sidenote: Map B.]
_May 1st._ Tripped anchor after breakfast and ran through the drawer into a little inner basin like the Charles River one on a smaller scale. It is called the Mowbray Arch Ghent, though why I have not yet discovered.
_May 2nd._ Fair and deliciously warm. None of the Cape Cod dampness on any of this trip. Leather shoes tucked away forward for the whole cruise turned out today without any mould whatever. Always a little dust when sweeping the cabin floor.
H. left me this afternoon to visit coal mines in West Virginia. It was hard to see him go. When his steamer sailed I was out in the launch to wave him good-bye. I guess it was just as well the steamer’s swash came along and gave me all I wanted to do to keep putt-putt right side up. Feelings, like stomach aches, are queer things. Am afraid he won’t come back quite my boy again. Sort of making a start on life’s cruise I fancy, and somebody else is going to be captain. He’ll help sail me home, tie me up to dock and then spread canvas and away. Quite right. I wouldn’t wish it otherwise and the master that gets him will know he’s got a man when the time comes. For H., this cruise has not been all a pleasant summer’s outing. Once or twice he has seen the edge of the big shadow not so very far away and has neither batted an eye nor quivered a lip. He’ll do. Bene, it is well.
Back to the boat a little lonesey and found many things to do pronto.
This Mowbray Arch is very lovely just at the close of day. As you look eastward, on the left is the stone embankment, green grass and trees; a bridge lit with lights in cluster spans the foreground and beyond in soft mist the city and little church with square topped belfry. On the right, the city with its lights and in the dark shadow are wharves with barges, derricks, lighters and little tugs. Don’t you get it? It is the Seine, Tuilleries, Pont Neuf, Notre Dame and the Quartier, all in miniature. It was all very beautiful as I ate my Turtle soup and sipped my glass of iced, Clysmic water.
_May 3rd._ You hear me howl. Turtle soup, Madeira with iced Clysmic may be the proper food for a dry cruise, but for nightmares it makes beer and Swiss cheese look like “also rans.” I saw things last night that beat any contraptions this cruise has yet furnished. Got a bump like a pigeon’s egg over my right eye where I tried to break a deck frame and am expecting complaints from shore as a public nuisance. Bet a noggin of New England rum would have kept the critter quiet. That soup is sure awful good and filling and I’ve got some more brewing now. Don’t know whether I dare tackle it again or not. Wouldn’t like to see those things again for anything, although I disremember just what they looked like now.
I have been four days alone on the boat living very quietly and peacefully in the Arch of Mowbray Ghent. That name is good. I find myself repeating it often. The place is good and I like it much. First along I looked at the conglomerated architecture of the houses of “the best people” and watched the children of Mammon play at the game called “automobiling.” They seem to get lots of fun out of it, play it all day and sometimes late into the night. They scream and laugh more when they play it at night. Sometimes I wonder. I am a little tired of the houses which make me think of the stern of the launch, mostly paint, putty and copper tacks. Across the stream it is more interesting. Buckeyes with long raking masts, coal barges with slow-moving, lazy niggers unloading cargo, and sometimes letting go a wild bit of wailing song. The draw opens often to give a glimpse of the outer harbor with its crowd of shipping half-hidden in the haze of smoke from many stacks. I have rather dreaded these days with the expected calls from shore people, and the invitations to breakfasts, lunches and suppers to follow. “Nix on it Mutt.” I might as well be in Patagonia for all the visitors I have had. A man who lives fifty yards away stopped one evening to see if I would pump out his motorboat in case she wanted to make a sink of it. When I explained it wasn’t my pumping night he went away. I asked a very blonde young man with red cheeks, paddling a green canoe, “the color scheme not bad at all”; what was the meaning of the name of the place? He replied that the promoters named it, and he thought “Ghent” was English, but had never heard who Mowbray was. I asked him aboard, and was going to suggest a lighter green for the canoe in the way of complete harmony with pink cheeks, but he muttered some excuse and paddled off down stream like the white rabbit in “Alice through the Looking Glass.” The “Best People” of Boston who don’t live, but dwell at Beverly and Manchester, would at least have sent word by the head gardener that they wished I would go away. Yankee inquisitiveness would prompt investigation; southern courtesy would compel a call--but here it is neither one thing nor the other. A sort of neutral zone where nobody seems quite certain of his own individuality.
Today the wind is light, southerly, soft with misty air. I can’t just tell whether the mist is due to weather or to the sickening sweetish smell which comes from the rotting refuse of the crab and oyster houses. What people are these who can daily face a breakfast table with such a nuisance in their front yard? For last four nights I have dined superbly on dry toast and turtle soup. I found I was making my brew too strong and so by diluting with half water I toned things to a point where I could eat all I wanted and not see great, long things covered with eelgrass. A truly wonderful soup experience it has been. Were it not for my 25th anniversary in June, I would be tempted to spread canvas and “ketch” me another green one off Hatteras. As regards high cost of living, it interests me some to figure up the expense of all my food on board for past week, since leaving Manteo, at 10 cents per day.
A fruit peddler gave me a tip on some jet black bananas ripened in the sun, which, on account of color he was offering for five cents a dozen. He threw in three more for good measure. They fairly melted in my mouth, and such a flavor. Last night I sliced some in sugar with a spoonful of sherry and stood them on deck. This morning I crawled out just at sunup and ate them cool with the coolness of the night and not at all the same thing as the cold of an ice-chest. They were so good I sliced up and ate some more and so spoiled the whole thing. It can’t be did _quick_ that a-way.
I am now going to write a lot about turtles. I know nothing about turtles, but want to remember this one and what I have thought about him, so skip it, skip it. When he came on board fresh from the sea he was the most delicate shade of milky, bluey green. Not a bit the green of clear, deep ocean water but more the wide shallows churned often by big waves. When the young green of silver-leafed poplars turns downsides upsides on a gray southerly morning you are hitting it mighty close. The shell, 19 × 18 inches, has now turned to a stunning mixture of grays, browns and purply reds. It will make a fine memento of the cruise. The head is the best. Have never had anything get me quite so strong. Was going to mount it all to the merry with pop eyes made with marbles, pipe in mouth, etc., etc., etc. For a week it has stood before me as it stands now on the centreboard box. Have watched the green go and the color of old ivory come. The solemn majesty of that face impresses me so that no indignity will come to it from me. The power and relentless strength of the ages past and yet to come is in the curve and hook of that half open, bony jaw. I will try to do some careful work on it, mount it with silver as a paperweight and give it to Henry as a keepsake. That head might lend courage to a man who found himself some night with head in arms at a table piled high with trouble. I like to wonder what yarns it could spin of its deep sea swimmings and warm floatings between the Tortugas and Cape Cod. That head has looked on strange sights, and that hook has maybe ripped its way into some pretty gruesome shadows. Mighty relentless is the face. If I thought he was on my trail at the dark of the moon I wouldn’t walk or I wouldn’t run, I’d fly, but he’d sure get me just the same. I’m mighty glad he didn’t die in vain for he made awful good soup and that is a pesky sight more than I will do.
[Illustration: The turtle’s head.]
_May 10th._ Norfolk. Henry came back this morning. Just as I thought and hoped it would be, there is nothing to it now but woods, mountains and narrow valleys with cutting and slashing in the woods, big black holes in the mountains and roar of cars and machinery in the valleys. It is high time my anchor was up, my last jib bent and I homeward bound. Away to nice northerly breeze right after lunch. Tack for tack down river with plenty of chance to look over the shipping at anchor. Four big six-masters in port. Fine, noble looking vessels. Took last look at Norfolk Harbor and made out into the choppy water of Hampton Roads. Norfolk Harbor is the best we have seen yet and no sailor need worry about entering it at night for right at the head of it and high in the air there is an enormous electric sign blazing like a southern cross. The sign reads
“Annheuser Busch Budweiser”
and is a better mariner’s guide than any submarine bell. After nice, pretty afternoon sail we dropped hook in the bight back of Old Point Comfort.