Part 8

Turned out one morning at 3 a.m. to twist Mascot around on beach for rudder repairs. These beaches, so-called, are not real beaches at all but huge mud banks covered several feet deep with oyster shells through which the brown clay mud oozes at every step. Into this stuff we had to shovel a pit deep enough to crawl into and get under rudder. H. did it you bet and such a mess as he was. In fact by time we got Mascot into deep water once more everything was plastered with slippery clay. Found and calked a little leak around rudder port and think I may have turned a neat trick. Put more canvas and copper tacks on old launch and finally one afternoon settled ourselves in cabin for a quiet hour or two with feeling that things were pretty well taken care of. The weather continued gloriously bright and warm. A beautiful moon made each night as light almost as day and so feel we have cheated winter of two victims if nothing more. It would be hard to explain why, since leaving home we have never used an eel spear, fish grain, net or even dropped over a line. The daily strife against wind and tide has been far too engrossing. The constant repairs to sail, rigging gear and engine have occupied every moment and every bit of our energy so that with each hour of leisure we have wanted to stretch out and rest. I still have the remains of two 10 ft. bamboo poles. Every other bit of fishing gear has been either broken or swept overboard. I am clinging to these two broken and twisted bits of bamboo with the idea that I will yet catch a fish on them before throwing them away just as matter of sentiment. We began breaking them in Hell Gate and foot by foot they have shortened up ever since. Will make good walking sticks pretty soon.

[Illustration: H. did it. You bet.]

_January 21st to 22nd._ Turned out to find a thick fog and light northeaster. Filled water tanks and at 10 o’clock at turn of the tide we slipped away into the mist with launch a-kicking astern and whole sail pulling ahead. It is a dreary thing to point your bow into these desolate wastes of marsh, swamp, and barrens when the sun shines brightly. Indeed, it’s doubly so when the fog spreads over all and gives you view only of two mud-bordered, sedge-covered banks on either side. But tide and wind were fair and we hit it right merrily. Up the creek, down that reach, across the rivers and open sounds. Sometimes with a fair tide, often with a strong head one at it we plugged. These inland streams make up from one big river or sound and after many miles turn and run out into another arm of the sea. You may start into one with head tide and no slouch of a tide either, a good two to two and one-half knot current. You buck it for four or five miles and then come to the divide where, say 50 yards the tide is slack. After that away you go a fluke-o down to the next big water. All day we were at it with freshening breeze and driving fog. At 4:30 p.m. we came to St. Catherine’s Sound which I wanted to cross before night as we had fair wind and weather looked so dirty I thought I might not get over in the morning. Thicker than burgoo by this time, but only a knot and one-half to go. It was the same old story, tide was swirling up river, and I thought it was running down. Pretty soon we were driving through tide rips with 7 and 8 feet of water and then we had 6 feet and then 4 feet and then we were bumping sand good and plenty. By this time I had guessed my error on tide and a few more lucky guesses and plenty of wind let me drag her over the middle ground and sight the opposite shore close aboard. It was getting after 5 o’clock and I had less than an hour of light to find a creek in a strange shore, and a lee one at that, without knowing which side of it I was on. Made a good guess and slipped into it just as night was shutting in. It was a good day’s sail and Jorrocks would have said, “Cum grano salis with a touch of cayenne.” Even H. admits that no other sport offers quite the joyful sensation that follows the slipping into calm and quiet harbor at the falling of night after a good, smart bit of anxious work in dirty outside weather.

_January 23rd._ Comes without a ripple and with lifting fog giving a wide horizon. Close aboard to the east was St. Catherine’s Island with groves of live oak, and palmetto to the water’s edge. The tide was up and to the west stretched the marsh unbroken as far as eye could see. I like to fancy it the desert, but here are no soft footed camels, no stately dahabiehs with thick-necked Baroudis, and when you shut off the motor you have no soft song of the pumpers of water. Instead there is a nigger shooting marsh hens from his dugout and that is all, and he but adds to the dreary loneliness of the whole. We are off and swallowed up in the solitude by 8 o’clock. How different from our northern summer cruising where I have always looked upon the trip from New Bedford to Newport as quite a bit of sailing with its 33 miles of water. Here we provision for two and possibly three weeks and head her away for one hundred and fifty or two hundred miles at a clip. It brings back the old _Mizpah_ freighting days up the West branch of the Westport River. Thank goodness the ice and snow of many a _Mizpah_ trip are not with us. The twists and bends of the bank came slowly out of the fog, and by 10 o’clock we were at the entrance to Sapelo Sound over which the fog hung most dismally. No more of this sound navigation in fog, thank you. Over with the hook and pipe crew to sewing canvas ballast bags. By noon the fog lifted to an undeniably pretty day, and we were off quick, quick. To-day we saw pelicans for the first time. Funny looking duffers like little old men with long beards. Sapelo Sound is no kindergarten proposition and it was all we wanted with kicker and good breeze to beat the racing tide. When it came to beating up the narrow channel of Mud River, I just folded my tent and went into winter quarters to await the turn. H. on shore for a walk, but I am content to loaf quietly aboard and hope to pull back one of those wandering pounds of my precious meat. Under sail we had a pretty bit of going just at sunset and remarking that we seemed to have passed the region of lumber booms we dropped anchor in the middle of a creek. A beautiful moonlight night.

_January 24th._ Jumped out of my bunk at 5 a.m. to the shriek of a tugboat’s whistle. Turned out to find big tugboat alongside and bearing down stream a great boom of sawed timber. I jumped forward with hope of getting anchor warp buoyed before slipping, but it was no use for the huge mass was on top of me in a minute and I only had time to cast off my turns and take a range from a post on the shore. We were off with a boom to the accompaniment of some extra choice tugboat language. H. and I jumped onto the slippery mass and finally pushed Mascot across the end and clear of it. Then over big yank and take account of stock. No damage done and so turned in again believing Scotty had sought seclusion of lazaret during the rumpus. Turned out for breakfast but no Scotty. After thorough search the awful fact dawned upon our minds that Scotty, the pride and joy and comfort of our trip was no longer on board. Vanished without leaving a single clew. It was a mighty sad breakfast we sat down to with thoughts of that little kit clinging desperately to that old log raft or washing about in the tideway of the sound. Just as we were preparing to wash up, Henry’s quick ear caught a strange sound from the marsh. Then even my half busted ears heard a faint wail. Gosh all hemlock! it was the last, despairing cry of our Scotty. No lifesavers ever tumbled into a boat quicker than we into the launch, and it was give a twirl and away. We guessed at direction and let her go right into the sedge for the tide was up and two feet of water flooded the marsh. To our calls we got one more wail of anguish. H. was overboard and floundering in the sedge in a jiffy. By the greatest piece of luck he came upon a little black spot in the water. He almost ran by it. Then he stooped and picked up Scotty, unconscious. When he handed her to me there was no sign of life and I could touch her eyeball without her winking. Wouldn’t have given a peanut shell for half a dozen such cats. Back to Mascot we rushed. Hot brandy and water for she was still faintly breathing. As luck would have it she had a convulsion just then and bit off end of medicine dropper. The hot cloths all over her and then wait and watch. This all happened just three hours ago and our Scotty is now happily asleep in the sun apparently none the worse for her four hours of semi-submarine life. That was about the closest call yet. We suppose she was on deck and being frightened at the tugboat whistle jumped overboard and managed to reach the marsh. When tide came she must have had at least two hours of swimming and clinging to the sedge. My eye, but we are glad to have her with us again, and only hope that no serious results will follow the swallowing of the end of the glass dropper. Luck she brought us quickly, for making a grapnel out of the bent irons on my davits, helped out with a bit of pipe and stick of wood, I caught and picked up the slipped anchor warp and anchor from 20 ft. of water on the second try. Then it was up sail and away on the turn of the tide although the wind, a strong whole sail breeze, was dead ahead. Hard alee and repeat all morning until crossing a big river we found a racing tide ahead in the creek on the other side. Down yank for another wait. Who cares? The breeze is from the south without a touch of chill and the warm sunlight is luxury. There we were a-setting all comfy, when along comes tugboat and log boom No. 2. No time for nothing. This one was built with two big timbers in form of triangle at the bow and when it hit us I slacked cable and we were pushed bodily one side and the raft went on without my having to slip my rode. It was really all my own carelessness, this getting mixed up with these two booms for I had no business to drop anchor in channel. Mighty lucky to escape with only a little less paint. Late in the afternoon we hitched on little kicker and after 4 or 5 miles anchored for the night at entrance to Altamaha Sound. Taking it all in all, this day was a pretty busy cup of tea. I expect there is more excitement to a polar expedition or an African lion hunt, but I guess this will hold me.

[Illustration]

_January 25th._ The night warm and muggy with torrential rain showers. The morning dull and warm. Were under way by 8 and crossing Altamaha Sound, entered a creek far more attractive than any we had been in for some time. At times we ran close to heavy wood where the big live oaks with long wavy, mossy beards dropped to touch the stream. Here we saw an army of buzzards feasting on some dead carcass. Rather a horrid sight, that. Cloud and sunlight with breeze to southard right in our eye so we let the kicker do the pushing. To-day we first saw orange trees in fruit and great flocks of white herons. The air soft, and truly balmy, not like real air at all. It somehow fails to satisfy. Doesn’t seem to fill the lungs. By noon to St. Simon’s Sound, where we struck the fiercest of ebb tides. Nobody ever told me about these tides. There is a rise and fall of 7 feet and with kicker going strong and braced to a light air, we could not gain and over yank in deep water where we had to give 15 fath. scope. The tide was running better than 4 knots and that’s some tide. A beautiful afternoon and I boiled and roasted half a ham besides a duck which H. got yesterday on the wing with the rifle. Also made my ninth canvas ballast bag all French seamed and Bristol Fashion. At 5 p.m. tide slacked, and we made our next creek and anchored soon after for the night. We can make neither head nor tail of these creek tides and just have to go when they serve and drop over hook when they don’t. Sometimes one sound will dominate the tide in a connecting stream, sometimes the other, and the time of change cannot be judged by change in either sound, but depends upon size of water body drained by that special stream. Local knowledge alone can solve the problem. Under these conditions and with head winds we make but slow progress and must be satisfied with 10, 15, sometimes 20 miles a day. To-day we passed the plantation of Frederica, where John Wesley established Methodism in this country. A deserted, tumbled down outfit to-day, but has the well preserved ruin of a big stone fort at water’s edge built, I suppose, against Indian attack.

_January 26th._ Turned out early for a good try at Fernandina, but had to give it up as an impenetrable fog set in at daylight. In a lift we worked out to the shores of Jekyl Sound, but dared not poke my nose out into the fog and tide. Passed Edwin Gould’s beautiful place on Jekyl Island but the whole thing is monotonously flat which must, after a while, become very tiresome unless your interest all rests in the shooting and fishing. Nasty little midges like black flies pester us considerably and we will have to use dope if they continue. This morning, while the fog kept us at anchor we put a strap around stern of launch and with main boom as swinging crane hoisted boat far enough out of water to repack stuffing box. She seems pretty tight now and it is a great relief for there have been a good many nights when we feared she might sink before morning. On turn of tide at noon fog lifted and we were away with the tide racing us seaward. Turned a little past light and began the long, hard buck against the tide in St. Andrew’s Sound for these two Sounds, Jekyl’s and St. Andrew’s, meet and flow to sea as one. We were precious lucky in having a nice little breeze come out of the southeast and with sheets broad to starboard and kicker kicking for all it was worth, we made fair headway by nicking into shoal water under the shores of Little Cumberland Island. This island, like big Cumberland, is far and away the best looking bit of sand we have seen in many a day. Good sand dunes and fine woods. Big Cumberland belongs to Andy Carnegie and I wonder if Oliver Ricketson isn’t within a mile of me as I write, for, after bucking tide until 5:30 the fog shut in again with rain, and we over anchor quick, quick, only a little way from a good looking outfit near shore of the island. Had good supper of fried oysters with slices of Virginia bacon.

_January 27th._ Comes with heavy southwest blow and rain. Neither of us quite used to this warm weather yet. Nights not much cooler than days and we don’t sleep very soundly. Clouds broke about 10 and we put whole sail to her and dragged it down river until we were fairly overblown and sought a lee under a marsh island where we lunched. Think will wait until later before double reefing and putting her across mouth of St. Mary’s River to Fernandina for tide is running ebb until 5:30 and it may be as well to get over and take first of flood up the harbor. Am gaining daily in my respect for these tides in the open stretches. Might just as well try Quick’s Hole and in a strong breeze the sea over these shoal grounds is fierce. Were severely cautioned before leaving not to get slack in manners and behaviour, so have been especially careful. Today, however, with Florida in sight H. threw slices of bacon at me and dipped out mustard with his thumb. Guess he’ll eat on back porch awhile when he gets back.

Breeze freshened steadily all day to a 4 point drop in barometer. Double reefed her at 4 p.m. and gave her a touch of peak to help her up tideway for H. to get his anchor. Crash! bang, and away went boom crutch tearing out both deck plates. Scotty swore she hadn’t cut loose main sheet and H. had to own up. I got a range on it as it drifted out of sight and finally when we got ship to going we kept a smart lookout and not only saw it but picked it up first grab. This soft feeling wind kind of deceived me or else it did breeze on quickly. At all events I soon found myself mightily overblown and thrashing it in a fearful blobble of lumpy water. The launch hung back like a yoke of steers and Mascot was nearly out of hand. Cockpit rail to the water and the dust coming kerswish across decks at every jump and she jumping sixty to the minute. Eased the peak a bit, but this would never do at all. Tide swashed me out a mile or so and then I got her round and dropped yank in lee of a bit of marsh. I am kind of young and inexperienced, but I certainly hardly expected to have to run to cover in a land-locked bay only two miles wide, but my hands were up and both anchors down and there we are with the lights of Fernandina twinkling only two miles away. This morning it was “Florida or bust” and we busted. This blow which reached proportions of a gale of wind, came out of a clear sky like our northwest winter gales. Barometer starts up at 8 p.m. but with heavy clouds to northward and eastward we wonder a little what next?

_January 28th._ The gale sort of naturally blew itself out during the night, giving us an uncomfortable shaking up for an hour or two on the full of the tide at midnight. The morning came raw and cold with breeze piping on again with the dawn from the northwest. We were off under double reef by 8 and had a sporting sail down wind to Fernandina some three miles away. Were visited by owner of a nearby launch who inquired about make of our noiseless engine. He was quite surprised to find that we had none for they don’t see any good sailing craft about here and we noticed that we attracted considerable attention as we sailed by the wharves. Guess I was showing off her paces a little, too, as I had a piping breeze, two reefs and smooth water. Found on shore that yesterday’s blow reached over 50 miles an hour and don’t wonder I was a bit overblown in spots. I went to Jacksonville and back for mail in afternoon. Have caught a lumbago by this sudden change in weather and when I first start I walk like a buzzard.

_January 29th._ Fernandina. The day was a peach but I enjoyed it little, feeling mean, headachy and generally down. Did up letter writing all morning. Provisioned ship in p.m. and felt fairly perky by night although a sight of the map of this country would have made me cry. H. not much better. Our slump undoubtedly due to sudden change with 3 or 4 strenuous days ending with that sharp blow and cold.

_January 30th._ Turned out to a dandy morning, feeling much better all round. Good breakfast helped still more and putting kicker astern we were soon headed southward. Came to drawbridge, but just as it was opening I took bottom and made an inglorious halt. Off again and through that draw and then on and on through marsh and creek as so many days before. Here posts with boards nailed to them are supposed to guide you on your way, but the boards are ripped off and the posts all broken down so you have to rely upon guesswork and what knowledge you have acquired to pick your way. We had luck and only scraped the keel once to Nassau Sound, where we nicked a strong tide under the shore and were able to double a point and square away into the marsh once more. The breeze came fresh easterly and putting the big rag to her, with fair tide we certainly did eat up the miles. Everything went finely. H. killed a duck on the wing with Helen Keller and the St. John’s River was only a mile away when, kerplunk, we took the mud and it was all off. Set two anchors to keep from bilging and employed crew in usual ship’s duties. We must have cleaned up better than 30 miles since morning and it was 4 p.m. and time to stop anyway. I made a crout-au-pot for supper. Good thing for scurvy. Tried to get H. to rub some back of his ears, but he wouldn’t. Obstinate boy.