Part 3

_November 17th._ Comes without a cloud or a breath of wind. Turned over and snoozed it out until 7. Then up and doing. I had remains of oyster pie for my breakfast and H. stuffed griddles. A regular Chesapeake morning. The Bay a mirror and dotted with sail of all kinds. We got away with launch astern but by 10:30 a cold whiffle came down from north and it was soon eight hands around, and away to a smashing breeze with white caps dancing alongside. We are tearing at it as I write and yet it seems impossible down here in the cozy little cabin with good fire going, sunlight pouring through the open hatch and kitty, who has just eaten and then thrown up the leg of a sea fowl, asleep in my lap. All the comforts of home in 24′ 7″. Don’t it beat all? And just as I finished writing the above sizzle it came butt-ends on and then some. We were over-blown in no time so it was bring her to it and reef in a vicious chop of a sea. Put in the best reef yet and in ship-shape style. H. is all right. Papa felt so good he tied down the leach earing himself. Away again in search of palm trees for this norther was cutting cold. It blew on steadily and soon every sail on the bay but ourselves had run to cover in some little hole in the wall. We drew out into the broad mouth of the Potomac and such a hubble-bubble as there was and the breeze pricking on all the time. The launch still without cover began to lap up the water and was soon shooting from side to side. I dropped my peak to ease things but couldn’t do much. Sea tumbling every which way and more to come. In the holes we could see whiff-on-pooffs laughing. I was below eating dinner when H. yelled “she’s gone.” Sure thing. The launch had stripped the big quarter cleat off the deck and was headed to sea far astern. Thank goodness she wasn’t sunk. Then it was down board up peak and haul sheets. Oh! a fine, noble little ship she is. She looked up into that crooked water like a major. Into Henry’s bunk went my bean dinner, coffee, etc., etc. Round she came and everything else went into mine. Just before reaching the launch an old, whopping sea spilled lanterns, cans, pans, coal and me into the scuppers, and before I could get my wheel again, we all but hit the launch beam on. Just got by but couldn’t catch her. Made a sporting pickup on next try, but saw at once that she would soon roll over if not bailed out. Dropped peak, laid to and H. jumped aboard and bailed out like a sailor. Then away again and found that with a very long painter she did pretty well. Was trying to get round next point without tacking, but the sea was almost breaking and my lead giving me only 2½ fath. In a cast or two I got only 1½ fath. and the water straight up and down. The sooner the quicker and we made a fancy North river jibe and hauled off shore. Soon found easier going and tacking her smartly just inside Smith’s Point Light, we squared away for Great Wicomico River which we entered for a delightfully quiet harbor at 6 p.m. after a truly sporting day. In half an hour we sat down to roast chicken, baked potatoes and brown gravy. Henry getting so used to these little merry-go-rounds that he don’t turn a hair now while a few weeks ago they made his teeth chatter. He says he didn’t know yachting was anything like this and I tell him it “ain’t.” This is boating and to get little boats over big distances you must drive them. There was some whipping to canvas with peak dropped today and a nasty batten poked thro’ the sail and before it tore loose and went to leeward it ripped a foot or more of canvas. Also tore out lazy jack boom block, loosened poop deck irons and split one of the boards. H. thinks we better lay up and repair while there is something left to repair, but they are all non-essentials while this norther is very much an essential towards making southing, so on we go with halliards flying and no down haul. Like Jorrocks, I feel like saying “Yachting is the sport of kings, the essence of war with all the glory and only twenty-five per cent of the danger.”

[Illustration: Rounding for the Launch.]

_November 18th._ Came as bright, crisp and snappy as you please. Under way by 8:45 still clinging to our single reef, although barometer was up after a 2 point drop yesterday for that breeze. With wide sheet we slipped along the shore heading about due south. Again the sails and the fleets of oyster boats. The shore not misty blue but clear cut in the smart northerly air, and the water a deep, wholesome blue. And so on with the breeze always pricking on and driving us faster, but without the concentrated venom of the day before and our single reef just handsome canvas. Past the mouth of the Rappahannock where the seas picked up and with only 2 fath. of water, we were almost out of sight of land. Old squaw stew for dinner, and Henry had to run from the cabin. First touch of mutiny on board. He allowed he would desert at Norfolk or right then and there if I gave him any more sea fowl to eat. Foolish boy, he needs starving. Scotty and I finished the stew. Away past Mobjack Bay; the York River, and as night fell we beat up into the little hole called Back Bay and dropped anchor at 5:45 having done 48 knots in the 9 hours run or 54 land miles. With Norfolk only 18 miles away, I feel as if we had about knocked this stretch to pieces. But what a chance I had at it.

_November 19th._ Comes calm and as pretty as a picture. Found us anchored in a snug little harbor and surrounded by busy oystermen. Fried oysters for breakfast, and we took our time, so that it was 11 o’clock before we tripped our hook and started for Norfolk only 18 miles away. There’s where we just missed it for the wind hauled E. S. E. and gave it to us right in the eye with a mean, short, little hubble-bubble that old Mascot found it particularly hard to negotiate. A miserable little sloop-rigged dugout manned by three niggers gave me the beating of my life. She was about 30 ft. long and slid through that chop as if greased. I still held to my reef and with launch in tow made slow but mighty comfortable going. Worked the shore down to Old Point Comfort but taking a strong ebb tide there we had to get whole sail on her and seriously work our passage up Hampton Roads where “Lay the Cumberland Sloop of war.” The wind failed as the sun went down and night found us seeking some little quiet corner in the big, busy harbor of Norfolk which was crowded with barges and schooners waiting cargoes. I counted seven five-masters and one six-master. Henry towed awhile, but we got aground and then a little night air springing up we slowly worked her up past the wharves to a quiet little berth among some other small craft. We are 35 days from Potomska and count up just 21 sailing days. We must stop here and fix up for a day or two sure.

_November 20th to November 26th._ At anchor Norfolk. Most of the time put in while running back and forth to our meals ashore. We did finally complete the cover to the launch and get a new quarter cleat bolted down. We were a trifle fine in spots, and I made H. spend a day by himself which did him good. We passed a day inspecting terminus of Virginia R. R. and one afternoon we actually loafed an hour or two on board. We met two young fellows who were bound to New Orleans in a 26 ft. launch and writing up a story of their trip for publication in the Motor World. Their boat was the most complete mess I ever saw. Their photo outfit took up most all available space, and what was left held a typewriter in a big box. Four gallons of water in two little stone jugs was all the wet goods carried. When they arrived they brought the remains of a canopy top which had blown off one day in the Bay. They seemed happy enough, however, and spent an evening on board and took a picture of “Scotty.” The Mascot with all the room pleased them much.

[Illustration]

[Sidenote: Map C.]

_November 26th._ I turned out at 5, but that crew of mine has no ambition, and it took half an hour to get him out of his blankets. The morning was bitter cold and it was mufflers and mitties once more. We breakfasted and after filling water tanks at wharf we tucked the launch under stern and were away up the south branch of Elizabeth River. Past the docks, ferry boats, tugs, barges and stuff. Then the big navy yard and through railroad bridges and at last the river and the pines. How good it all looked. We were mighty tired of that old harbor with its shrieking whistles and uneasy waters. The river wound and twisted along until it fetched us up near noon at the entrance and first and only lock of the Chesapeake and Albemarle Canal. Here we were mulct $7.50 for getting dropped about 2 ft., but somehow that little drop seemed to separate us entirely from the north and launch us into Dixie waters. The sun was out bright and warm. The air a misty blue from smoke drifting over from big fires in Dismal Swamp. The canal stretched straight away a bright blue line framed in the greens and browns of the bank. Oh! it was all so beautiful, so calmly peaceful and still. We tied to a grape vine and muzzled all four feet right into a great oyster stew and then away on our long road of color. The swamp lonesome, dreary, fascinating, stretched on either side as far as we could see. Dore might have come here to sketch some of his great, gaunt, tree trunks. What can people be made of to talk of these canals as tiresome bits of the southern journey, to be endured and gotten over as quickly as possible. This half day paid for the effort gone before. And as the day wore on it grew always wilder, more beautiful. The dark green of holly, the blue green of the great, long leaved pine, and the browns and yellows of leaf and grasses growing full to the water’s edge. It was a sacrilege to break such stillness with a motor, but we committed it. Three big, bald headed eagles and a few hawks were the only live things we saw. The afternoon wore on. All the wind died and the shadows crept across the stream, while the sun, a big red fire ball dropped behind the pines and it was night quick, quick. The little chain rattled and we were soon swinging quietly at anchor. I had to give Scotty a talking to. No sooner was anchor down than she wanted to go ashore and see the wild cats, but I took her on my knee and said “Non, mon pauvre petit mimi, tu ne peut pas aller chez les chats sauvages. Sois sage et reste tranquille avec nous.” This calmed her at once. I was a bit scared because she had a fit yesterday and honestly I never saw a little cabin so full of one cat before. If she has another, we leave the ship even here in Dismal Swamp. So with cheese fondue and lots of toast for supper, thus ends a mighty fine day and we turned in to the sound of the hoot of an old owl. We turned out again mighty quick, however, to the hail of “What in hell is that?”, to find a river steamer close aboard. No sooner was he safely past than down stream came a tug and the whoppingest, biggest barge. As they swung round the bend the barge just missed us, and the captain from seemingly the top of a mountain shouted “Youse all better move away or some of us all will be running over youse.” We moved all right and promptly.

[Illustration]

_November 27th._ Warm cabin all night. Snug and comfy. I turned out 5:30 and found everything white with frost. Kicked H. out after much labor. Fear me he will never have any ambition. His circulation is like that of the Boston Common. Heavy mist over all. The sun up a silver ball and everything bright and sparkling like a Christmas Tree. Fine breakfast with a new feature called Bologna a la Mascot. Here it is. Beat eggs and add little English mustard. Dip thin slices of Bologna and roll in cracker crumbs. Fry in drip fat. Serve on toast with sauce made by adding cream to beaten egg. Try it. I invented it when tending fire at 2 a.m. From companionway we can watch a great bald head eagle on top of an old dead tree. He is a buster and his white head glistens in the sun. Off by nine with the night mists rising from the marshes and the dark pine coming into sight. Past Pungo Ferry, a good name for a lonely spot. Then on into North Landing River. The sun soon brightly warm and we were comfortable in shirt-sleeves. A mighty sudden and pleasant change from early morning. The whole scene was so charmingly beautiful that it was hard to leave deck and go to cooking. Creamed oysters on toast paid, however, for the trouble.

[Illustration: Last Whistling Swan.]

While H. was eating lunch, we came out into the upper reaches of Currituck Sound. Through the glasses I made out some queer looking white spots on the perfectly calm water and by gum! they turned out to be a flock of more than one hundred swan. America’s biggest game bird and the first we had ever seen. Sort of made my insides creep just as it does to see a noted snow mountain for the first time. We began to see ducks now, thousands of them, but all pretty shy. Henry bagged a blue-nosed pig at the fourth shot with Helen. No law on pigs. We triced him to the rigging and crew returned to ordinary ship’s duties. Across head of Currituck and into a little canal cut right through the piney woods. Afternoon was getting on. The reflections of the pines reached from either bank and down the middle lay a pathway of silver for our little boat. I hope my two photos may bring the scene back to mind. I could think only of that picture “The Isle of the Blessed” with its cypress trees. So on and on until night threatened and we slowly felt our way into a little creek near mouth of North River, and while H. was busy with the launch, I tackled the dinner of roast pork, baked white and sweet potatoes and applesauce. Thus ends another perfect cruising day. Barometer tended up and we turned in with cloudy sky and variable northerly airs. Didn’t like the looks much and if bound round Cape Cod would have stayed at Vineyard Haven.

_November 28th._ Thanksgiving. Started prompt on time with smartish breeze true N. E. Turned out at 3:30 and gave her more chain and saw all right. Barometer on the roller coaster. By 5 things were doing and by 6 it was blowing 60 miles and snowing hard. We were perfectly protected up our little creek and luckily swung in enough water to float us although the bank was precious close. H. a bit nervous about drifting ashore at first, but soon got accustomed to the sing of things. He thinks yachting with father is great, but doesn’t care for the snow. Stove drew so hard it nearly took Scotty right through the grate and we had to wrap the Gloucester head with canvas to save the coal. Flapjacks for breakfast and coffee strong enough to carry out the big anchor. Everything covered with snow. The trunks of the pines at edge of forest all snow-white like birches. H. thinks the warm cabin pretty good, but when I suggested it was a fair wind and we might as well tie her down and get along, he said he would take his chance in the launch and go live with the Piney Woods people first. Afraid he has no heart for the game. Got out my fiddle and H. his flute, and we had it back and forth to the tune of “Eight Hands Around and Ladies Change.”

Lunched lightly in preparation of Thanksgiving feast to come. Barometer turned up, thermometer turned down and wind hauled by west with breaking cloud and a fearful scream of wind and flurry of snow. I knew this storm would come, and I have been driving south hard in consequence. Here it matters little for the cold doesn’t last many days in succession and we are all ready for it. I am anxious about our two boy friends in the little launch, for it was a tricky day yesterday and might well have caught any man with a lee shore aboard this morning. It was touch and go whether I crept in here or anchored in the open.

Made a mince pie. It looked all right. Put on macaroni to boil and then muffled all up in oilers and mitties and went up the little creek in the launch for a breath of air and to get a picture of the piney woods with tree trunks white with snow. Found a little gill net across the stream and in it a hell-diver all but strangled. Cut him loose and let him go. When we got back to Mascot we found a nice pickerel in the bottom of the boat. Must have jumped in upstream. Macaroni all but boiled out. Just saved it. Fixed it up with cracker crumbs and cheese. Roasted a fine, big chicken. Baked sweet and white potatoes. Had delicious raw oysters in cocktail sauce and while night shut in still, cold and clear, we muzzled into it all and didn’t forget absent friends, although I did forget a pint of “champagne wasser” which I had meant to get at Norfolk. Everything iced down on deck as we turned in. Wouldn’t be much surprised to find ourselves pinched by the morning. Hopes not.

_Friday, November 29th._ Comes clear as a bell and mighty cold. Henry showed mighty little enthusiasm about bailing launch. Boat pretty well iced up, and 100 yds. up creek was my good old enemy, new ice. Away by nine with dead calm and launch tucked astern. The sun got up and such a change. Off mitties and mufflers, coats and even jackets. With eyes shut you might picture yourself on a hillside back of Mentone. Out of the North River and out into Albemarle Sound so dazzling bright in that southern sun. Swans, swans, lots of them, and to see them made my stomach crinkly again. Very few ducks, and Helen Keller could add nothing to the larder. Don’t need anything. Never saw so many things to eat on a little boat before. For lunch there was cold roast chicken and pork, oyster cocktails, applesauce flicked up with raisins, mince pie and cranberry sauce. Can you beat it? Something must be done or we won’t have any hardships to boast of. They may come. There’s lots of time. I looked at Henry’s log yesterday and found the following: “Heavy north east gale with driving snow and awful cold. Father crazy and playing the fiddle.” Now what do you make of that after all I’ve done for him? Across Albemarle Sound with power helped out by sail and light westerly airs. Just before reaching the water to westward of Roanoke Is. we spied a familiar-looking little launch astern and it turned out to be our old friends, husband and wife, still pegging away on the hunt to Florida. Then the breeze drew right out south and chopped up water so that we had to put launch in tow. While beating slowly along we sighted another little launch and were soon passed by _Querida II_ and two boy friends from Norfolk. All this meeting and passing of boats bound on same quest adds much to the interest. Not such good fun today to see the little wretches work up to harbor 6 miles away right in the wind’s eye and leave us slip-slopping about. Sun was nearly set when wind and sea dropped and we again started launch and headed for the harbor, too. This harbor, Roanoke Marshes, is a little creek in back of Roanoke Light and the creek makes into the marshes. Night fell quickly and we were soon cruising along a low, black shore line without sign of light to guide us. No more use than nothing, so after running into numerous fish traps we over yank and called it enough. Our gasoline is running mighty low for we have had no wind since leaving Norfolk. More than 100 miles from here to Beaufort and few if any places to get any. Gosh! but it is an awful long ways to anywhere in these parts. The water is as muddy as pea soup, and looks like it. When the lead gives you 12 ft. you know you are in the channel.

[Illustration]