A RIVER HOLIDAY.
What the yacht-races at Cowes and a score of other places are to that section of the upper ten-thousand who delight in everything that pertains to the sea, and to whom the smell of salt water is as the breath of life—what Henley regatta is to those who find their exercise or pastime among the sunny reaches of the Upper Thames—such is the annual sailing-barge match from Erith to the Nore and back, to the vast river-side population below-bridge who have more or less to do, or are in some way connected, with the dock, canal, or up-river shipping traffic of the port of London. To these worthy people, as well as to some thousands of others from all parts of the metropolis, many of whom, in all probability, rarely adventure so far on the Thames at any other time, it is the race par excellence of the year; and it has much about it to render this widespread popularity deserved.
It is a bright midsummer morning, and the clock is on the stroke of nine when we find ourselves on Blackwall pier, with its vast shut-up hotel staring blankly across the river, once on a time famed far and wide for its capital fish-dinners; but now, alas, given over to desolation and decay. Even as far away as Dalston Junction, at which place we have to change trains, unmistakable signs of holiday-making are apparent; and at each station as we come along we pick up a numerous contingent, all of whom, to judge from appearances, like John Gilpin’s wife, are evidently on pleasure bent.
We find the pier gay with summer costumes and smiling faces; friend greets friend after the hearty, robust English fashion which has not yet died out ‘east of Temple Bar;’ the river gleams with a thousand silver ripples in the morning sun; the heat is tempered by an exhilarating breeze; everybody prophesies that we shall have a glorious day. The majority of those on the pier are waiting the arrival of the excursion steamers from London Bridge. We, more fortunate than many, are the recipients of an invitation to a private party which numbers, all told, some five-and-thirty souls. Presently, from among a cloud of others we single out the particular bit of bunting we have been told to look for; and there, at her temporary moorings at the upper end of the pier, we find the smart little Cygnet, our home that is to be for the next dozen hours. Old acquaintances welcome us with a cordial grip as we step on board, and new acquaintanceships are made, which in their turn will, we hope, grow riper by-and-by. And now we have time to look about us.
The Cygnet is gay with bunting from stem to stern. Aft, a large awning is stretched, which will serve as a protection from either sun or rain, as the case may be. Camp-stools in abundance are provided, so that we can shift our quarters as we may list; and some neighbouring hotel has supplied us with several oblong mahogany tables, for which an excellent use will be found later on. Hampers crammed with good things solid and liquid are being brought on board one after another; and some one below deck is taking Time by the forelock already, in the way of putting a preliminary edge on the carving-knife. We are evidently going to have what our American cousins call ‘a high old time’ of it.
In confidence we may whisper that our little Cygnet is neither more nor less than a Channel steam-tug—one of that numerous fleet which scour the English Channel from the Lizard to the Languard, from the Mouse Light to Dunkirk, on the lookout for homeward-bound ships which, anxious to save a tide or two, and reach their moorings in dock as quickly as may be, are willing to pay for the help that will enable them to do so. A rough life, my masters, and not without its dangers when the stormy winds do blow. Often in wild midwinter weather, or when the equinoctials seem as if they were tearing heaven and earth asunder, these little craft will remain out for days and nights together, afraid to risk making for any harbour, and preferring to keep in the open while waiting for the gale to blow itself out. Only a few winters ago, as the Napoleon steam-tug was towing a huge liner up the Channel in the teeth of a tremendous storm of wind and sleet, her hawser parted, and when, some two minutes later, the crew of the big ship had time to look for the tug, she was nowhere to be seen. At the moment her hawser broke she had been struck by a heavy sea, and had plunged down head foremost, she and all her crew. As a rule, however, these sturdy little craft, which are built as strongly as iron and timber can make them, will safely ride out a gale such as might well cause many a big merchantman to quake with fear.
But to-day all thoughts of storm and disaster are far from us as we sway gently at our moorings in the morning sunshine and watch the ever-changing panorama before us. The twin domes of Greenwich Hospital show white and ghostlike through the faint haze which veils everything in the distance. Presently round a point of land where the river curves sharply away to the left comes gliding in stately fashion the big saloon steamer Alexandra, followed by the Albert Edward and several smaller boats, all with numerous flags flying fore and aft, and all, or nearly all, with bands of music, military or otherwise, on board. A few minutes later, the Committee Boat, the old and well-known Eagle, puts in an appearance. Suspended by knots of blue ribbon from the captain’s bridge are the silver cups which will be competed for a little later on. More passengers crowd aboard the big steamers; one of the bands plays lustily, an irrepressible drummer being well to the fore; flags flutter in the breeze; our moorings are cast off; the Cygnet gives one last screech of triumph, or, it may be, of farewell to those left behind, and at length we are fairly off on our way to Erith. In front of us, behind us, and on either side of us are steamers and tugs of all kinds and sizes; but the river is wide; there is room enough for all, and we steam along in pleasant company. Now is the time to make sure of a little luncheon, so that we may not miss the start of the race later on.
Erith is reached a little before eleven; and here we find the competing barges arranged in order, waiting for the signal, while the pleasant little town itself is en fête, and thousands of eyes are looking on from the shore. We voyagers who have come to watch the race keep well in the background, so as not to impede the start; the Committee Boat takes up its position; a gun is fired; and before you know what has happened, anchors are tripped, sails are loosened to the breeze, and the barges, topsail and spritsail, spring forward on their course like a flight of dark-hued seabirds newly set free.
The topsail barges—so the official programme informs us—are not to exceed fifty-five tons register. The first prize is a silver cup of the value of twenty pounds, and ten guineas for the crew; the second prize is a silver cup of the value of fifteen pounds, and five guineas for the crew; then follow other prizes of lesser value. The spritsail barges are not to exceed fifty tons register. The prizes follow in the same ratio as those for the topsails, but are not quite equal to them in value. In addition to their money prizes, a champion flag is presented to each of the winners, which will flaunt proudly in the breeze on their voyages up and down the river for many a day to come.
There are fourteen competitors in the race this year, namely, eight topsails and six sprits. The topsails, merely because they are topsails and spread more canvas to the breeze than the others, gradually forge ahead; but that is only what everybody knows will happen. Having seen them fairly under way, we steam gently along, pass through the midst of the little fleet, and then get well ahead of them, but not so far as to be altogether quit of their company, except when some sharp bend in the river hides them for a little while from view. Now is the time to get up a friendly sweepstake on board, a task which two of the company undertake, and carry out satisfactorily. Some enthusiasts have discovered a pack of cards, and are already deeply immersed in the intellectual game of Nap. By-and-by, the old historical fort of Tilbury is reached and passed; and before long, Gravesend comes into view with its famed hotels and its Gardens, at which we have been so frequently reminded we may ‘spend a happy day.’ Here we come to a stand for a little while, in order that we may watch the procession pass, as do many of the other gaily-decked tugs, together with some of the big steamers. It is a pretty sight to watch the brown and chocolate coloured sails come stealing round the reaches of the river, and to see how cleverly the little craft are handled as they tack here and there to catch an extra capful of the capricious westerly breeze, or to steal for a few moments the wind out of some rival’s sails. To-day, in honour of the occasion, the crews are rigged out in new blue jerseys and knitted scarlet caps; while the boats themselves are as spick-and-span as paint and gilding can make them. Each barge carries at its fore its official number on the programme; and as they glide one by one into view, innumerable are the glasses levelled at them in the effort to make out either their name or number. But position in the race at this point is held to be of small account by those who are supposed to be knowing in such matters: Tattenham Corner—otherwise the lightship at the Nore—is still a long way ahead.
Again we steam along in the wake of the barges, again pass through the midst of them, and again leave them astern. For a while we have left behind us the excitement of the race. There is a pleasant sound of the drawing of corks. It is the time for a cigar, a chat, and a bottle of Bass. As we go gently down, we pass several heavily-laden barges making their way up river, some of which are pointed out to us as winners in matches of years gone by; but their racing-days are over for ever, and they have evidently settled down to the sober, steady work of middle age. They hail chiefly from the Medway district, we are told, and are laden with cement, lime, bricks, stone, hay or straw, some of them voyaging as far inland, by way of the Regent’s Canal, as Camden Town and Paddington.
And so after a time Southend comes into view, with its terrace-crowned cliff looking far out across the river, and its mile-and-a-quarter-long pier, which seems as if it were stretching out a friendly hand to greet its neighbour, Sheerness, over the way. Half an hour longer brings us to the Nore.
The lightship at the Nore is the point round which each barge has to make its way before starting on its return journey up river—the distance in all, so we are informed, being about seventy miles: not a bad day’s work for a class of craft which many people are in the habit of decrying as the tortoises of the river. Occasionally it happens that there is not enough wind to enable them to complete the regulation course, in which case the Committee on board the Eagle have power to fix the point at which the return journey shall begin.
We have been taking matters easy for the last hour or so, and we find several steamers and tugs lying on and off round the lightship when we reach it. We follow their example, keeping up just enough steam to prevent us from drifting with the tide, and here we are presently joined by other steamers and pleasure-craft of various kinds. Among the rest comes the indispensable Committee Boat, which is moored alongside the light. Not long have we to wait before the cinnamon-coloured sails of the little fleet steal into sight one by one. Glasses come into requisition again, and all are agog to make out the number of the leading topsail. ‘No. 3—Frances,’ calls out some one keener-sighted than the rest. And so it proves to be. Gallantly she comes sweeping down, every man at his post, every eye on the alert. Suddenly the helm is put about; we see the crew hauling at the ropes like red-nightcapped demons, and then we hear the swish of the water as the Frances, answering to the call upon her, sweeps round the lightship in a short but graceful curve, and catching the breeze next moment on the opposite tack, is speeding away on her return journey, followed by a ringing cheer from a thousand throats.
The next to round the Nore light is the Whimbrel, and after her comes the Bras-de-Fer; while the leader of the spritsails, or ‘stumpies’ as they are familiarly called, is the Bessie. We do not wait till the whole of the laggards have rounded the light, but steam gently away till we come to a certain quiet, sunny reach, where we lie by while sundry hampers are opened and a large measure of justice is meted out to their welcome contents. After this pleasant interlude, onward again at full speed till we once more catch up the barges. Now does the excitement grow apace among such of us as have drawn fortunate numbers in the sweepstake, to ascertain which are the leading craft, for as their positions are by this time, such in all probability will they be at the finish.
Still we go pulsing along at a great pace, showing our heels to many a steamer as big again as ourselves, till at length we find ourselves once more at Erith. Here we secure a position close to the Committee Boat, and not far from the winning-post—a small buoy with a flag atop of it anchored out some distance in the river. Gradually more steamers and tugs take up positions no great distance away. On every side of us are music, dancing, feasting, and high-jinks generally; but not one angry word, not one coarse expression is anywhere to be heard. Nowhere could there be a better-tempered holiday crowd.
At length a buzz, a murmur, a general movement, and each one says to his neighbour, ‘Here comes the first topsail,’ while everybody seems to ask at once, ‘What’s her number?’ A gun is fired, a band plays See the conquering Hero comes, a great shout is set up, and we all know that the Whimbrel has won the first prize.
‘Never prophesy till you know,’ seems to be a maxim of wide application. Who would have thought that the saucy Frances, which headed all the others round the Nore, would only come in fifth at the finish? But so it was; while the R. A. Gibbons, which was fourth round the light, came in for the second prize. So among the spritsails—the first round the light came in second, and the second first.
We do not wait to see the prizes given away, for the evening is growing chilly, and many of us have a long way to go. We chase the dying sunset as we steam swiftly up stream, but fail to overtake it. Little by little its splendours soften, fade, and vanish. Some time between nine and ten, and while there is still a dusky shimmer on the river, we find ourselves once more at Blackwall pier; and there we part, hoping to meet next year when time shall have again brought round the pleasant River Holiday.