With dexterous arm, sagacious of the ground.
Ceaseless they combat every hostile wind,
Wheeling in mazy track with course inclined;
Expert to moor where terrors line the road,
Or win the anchor from its dark abode."
Let us take a peep at Deal beach, and try to realize some of the scenes that are there to be witnessed.
Suppose a fine clear winter's day. A gentle south-westerly breeze has been blowing on and off for several days; many ships have found their way out of the Thames, or have beaten down helped by the tides from the North Sea, and having reached the Downs there ride safely at anchor; the ships-boats, or the galley punts, as the small Deal boats are called, are doing the little work that is to be done, and the large luggers are drawn high upon the beach.
The boatmen are lounging about the beach here and there, or they are smoothing the shingle down with shovels, where the tide has heaped it up, to give the luggers a fair run down into the sea in the event of their being wanted; tanned sails are spread abroad upon the shingle drying, women hang about knitting and watching the ships at anchor for any signal for a boat; at times there is a move down the beach to help a boat that is coming ashore out of the surf and to drag it up high and dry.
The wind gets a slant to the south-east as the tide ebbs, and at once all are alert in the fleet of ships at anchor in the Downs, that have been waiting for a fair breeze. There is a hurry to the beach of all officers, sailors, or passengers that may be ashore; the last supply of fresh provisions is taken on board those ships on which the Captain can afford to be luxurious: you can hear the orders shouted, the capstans at work; jibs are set, topsails loosened, the anchors got up and catted, the sails let fall, and away the ships go down Channel; a fresh northerly breeze bowls along and lasts some days, the outward bound ships go flying through the Downs with top-gallant sails set; and except that they land a few pilots, there is nothing whatever for the Deal men to do.
At last a change of weather promises, the homeward-bound are to have a turn; the outward-bound must anchor in the Downs and wait a while. The French coast shows out clearly, the gulls are whirling about uttering shrill plaintive cries; the boatmen watch the sunset, greyish white streaky clouds are gathering in the west, the sun looks sheer, is the boatmen's word for it, and as the long rays of light break through the clouds—ah! yes, we shall have a change of wind and weather. "The sun is setting up his backstays." "Bright skies make dirty ways;" and before daylight closes the men overhaul their luggers and see that everything is ready for a sudden start, should their services be needed.