[THE CAPTAIN'S BOY ON THE PENNY BOAT.]
BY H. F. REDDALL.
Imagine a side-wheel steamboat a hundred and fifty or two hundred feet long, her hull painted black, red, or red and white, with only one deck, entirely open from stem to stern; a hot, stuffy cabin below the water-line, her engines, of the cylinder pattern, entirely below the deck, and you have some idea of a London "penny boat"—a very different affair from our jaunty American river craft.
As most of my young readers are aware, the river Thames divides the great city of London into nearly equal parts. For nearly twelve miles the metropolis stretches along either bank, and, as might be expected, the river forms a convenient-highway for traffic—a sort of marine Broadway, in fact. There are a number of bridges, each possessing from six to ten arches, and through these the swift tide pours with tremendous energy. From early dawn to dark the river's bosom is crowded with every description of vessel. Below London Bridge, the first we meet in going up stream, may be seen the murky collier moored close to the neat and trim East Indiaman, the heavy Dutch galiot scraping sides with the swift mail-packet, or the fishing-boat nodding responsive to the Custom-house revenue-cutter.
Above and between the bridges the scene changes, but is none the less animated. Here comes a heavy, lumbering barge, its brown sail loosely furled, depending for its momentum upon the tide, and guided by a long sweep. Barges, lighters, tugs, fishing-smacks, passenger steamboats, and a variety of smaller craft so crowd the river that were we to stand on Blackfriars Bridge a boat of some description would pass under the arches every thirty or forty seconds.
But by far the most important feature is the passenger-boats. These are apparently countless. They make landings every few blocks, now on one side the river, now on the other, darting here and there, up and down, and adding largely to the bustle. For a penny, the equivalent of two cents American currency, one may enjoy a water ride of five or six miles—say from London Bridge to Lambeth Palace. When we reflect that all this immense traffic is crowded between the banks of a stream at no point as wide as the East River opposite Fulton Ferry, New York, and impeded by bridges at that, the difficulties of navigation will be in some measure understood; and I have purposely dwelt on this that my readers may fully appreciate what follows.
Every one knows how, in America, the steamboat is controlled by a pilot perched high above the passengers in the "pilot-house"; how he steers the boat, and at the same time communicates with the engineer far below him by means of bells—the gong, the big jingle, the little jingle, and so on. But the penny boats of the Thames are managed far differently. The wheelsman is at the stern in the old-fashioned way; but on a bridge stretched amidships between the two paddle-boxes, and right over a skylight opening into the engine-room, stands the captain. Beneath him, sitting or standing by this skylight, is a boy of not more than twelve or fourteen years of age, who, I observed, from time to time called out some utterly unintelligible words, in accordance with which the engine was slowed, stopped, backed, or started ahead as occasion required. It took me a long time to discover what the boy said, from the peculiar sing-song way in which he called out, but it took me much longer to find out why he said it.
So far as I could see he had not as much interest in the boat as I had; apparently he observed the constantly changing panorama of river scenery—not an interesting sight on board escaped him, and yet as we neared or departed from each landing-stage the same mysterious sounds, only varied slightly, issued from his lips, and the boat stopped or went ahead as the case might be. I asked myself if this wonderful boy might not be the captain, but a glance at the weather-beaten figure on the bridge showed me the absurdity of the idea. So I watched the latter individual, from whom I was now sure the boy received his orders. But how? That was the question. The captain and his boy were too far apart to speak intelligibly to one another without all the passengers hearing them: how, then, did the one on the bridge communicate his wishes to the other at the skylight if not by speech?