Part 10

_March 22nd._ As fair as can be with light airs at northeast. Could wish them at southwest. Away with kicker at eight and had truly a devil’s own time getting up to Ormond. Ran repeatedly hard aground and had vexatious time shifting ballast, pushing and pulling, but there is no better training for business troubles than a cruise in these waters, and H. is getting his. Said good-bye at last to the broad reaches of Halifax River and entered the narrow and palm bordered upper branches. Came to and passed the drawbridge which you have to open and close yourself. Then on and on down seemingly endless stretches of canal. When we passed over it before we plugged straight into the eye of a strong southwester and consoled ourselves with the thought of booming back with sheets broad off, but no such luck for wind held brisk at northeast and we had the kicker on all day. It was a good day, however, for the air was fresh and cool from the sea and the sun bright and warm at our backs. My eye, much mended, gave me little trouble and everything O.K. At night a few miles south of Matanzas Inlet we anchored bow and stern for a quiet night and finished up our day with a supper of strawberry jam pandowdies. Not restaurant ones, but the kind when you cut them the butter and jam squidge out both ends.

[Sidenote: Map D.]

_March 23rd._ Beautiful morning with air still hanging at northeast. Away down canal by eight. Crossed Matanzas Inlet and met such a strong tide we had to clap sail on her to stem it. On through the marshes, avoiding by luck and chance all of the flatgrounds which hung us up so long and hard on way down. At one o’clock we sailed through the St. Augustine drawbridge and came to anchor off the wharves. Last evening the big black spider paid the cabin another visit but we were up and ready and H. swatted him deado. To help us on the way down we had the story of the Inside Route published in the “Rudder.” It is fairly well done and helped us a lot. The author evidently never thought a man once down the East Coast would ever try to come back again, so there is no reverse to the yarn, and complications are fearful. We have tried all ways including upside down, looking glass, etc., etc., but before H. can find where we are in the story, it’s all off and we are high and dry in reality. Things thickened up during afternoon and had I been bound around the Cape, I sure would have stayed in Vineyard Haven. Glass way up to 30.2 and the squall hit about eight o’clock just as I was knitting comfy. Mascot in the sharp running tide began cutting pigeon wings at once. She is sure a very slippery piece of wood either under way or at anchor. Bang and more bang. On deck in pouring rain and smartish breeze to find us most strenuously ramming the stern of the big houseboat _Swordfish_. Got our anchor and also very wet. Tried to find a good big space for Mascot to play in but wind and tide were too much for putt-putt and after ingloriously turning round and round several times, we dropped hook in time to save running into a wharf. Squall blew out in little while and we turned in for peaceful night.

_March 24th._ Bright and fair. Ashore early for provisions and away with sail and kicker to the northward. This is a chance and must drive her a little. Put canvas to her and with freshening southeast trade drove her mile after mile at steamboat speed. Ran into canal and here the wind, whiffling over tree-tops and high banks, produced such wonderful and unexpected jibes that, to save the spars we had to douse the canvas. With a fair tide we legged it fast and about 4 p.m. shot out into St. John’s River and then into Sestor Creek where we soon passed oyster bar on which we spent a night coming down. Then troubles began and we ran ashore so many times in the next mile that we plugged ourselves all out at the push hole and anchored her stem and stern for the night.

_March 25th._ Off to a good start with breeze hauling to the southwest and blowing most viciously. Set a goose wing to help her up the bends of the snake-like little river and stormed on through the marsh which is as brown as when we came down, although there is much new leaf on the trees that makes good color. We had to make a board into the wind’s eye before shooting out into Nassau Sound and when I brought her to it she just whirled round and ran back up creek. I tried her twice but like a colt at a steam roller she would have none of it and we had to jump the two-reefed canvas on her. “Youse all” just ought to have been on the beach and seen that little shippy work up that narrow reach, tack for tack like on parade. On her ear with no ballast, and a chicken stew lashed to the stove pipe she certainly cut out some turkey trots. Never was such a little vessel. Built on honor out of oak just like old _Mizpah_. The most wonderful thing that I should have owned and sailed the four best boats in the world this last thirty-five years.

We bruised that Nassau Sound water scandalously and fairly boiled into the stream beyond. Kept the two reefs on her only settling peak for several sporting jibes. Had Fernandina in sight when we nicked a bend and piled her way up. Tide was falling and it meant quick work. It seems to me sometimes as if H. stopped to think, and there ain’t no time for thinking when you’re high and dry with half a gale pushing you on harder and tide running out from under. I guess I talked some quick and sharp before I got that sail down, her head pushed round, sail hoisted on other tack and dragged her into the channel. I apologized all handsome, however, and we are still on friendly terms. Ran up to wharf at Fernandina about 2 p.m. and have again doubled on our time down.

_March 26th._ Undeniably fair morning with freshening breeze at southard. Away under two reefs. Saw lots of shipping at anchor, loaded and ready for sea. Couldn’t understand why they didn’t get away but found out later. Stormed across Cumberland Sound and we must have waked up the Laird of Skibo in his castle on Cumberland Is., for we roared by like the bull of Basham. Crossed St. Andrew’s Sound with the water all a tawny, yellow red, and so thick with mud that the quarter wave sounded “swush” instead of “swish.” On into Jekyl Creek tearing and bruising the water dreadfully, twisting, turning, jibing and wearing her around. Here as we made a jibe our chart blew out of cockpit and overboard. There was no room to turn so H. jumped into launch and went back while I scudded on. H. caught the chart but couldn’t catch me and away we went as tight as we both could lick it until I shot out of the creek into St. Simon’s Sound, dropped anchor and smothered my canvas. It was now blowing harder than I ever saw it out of a clear and cloudless sky; but it was fair and we were homeward bound, so we tucked in the third reef and let her whittle. Crossed the Sound and dropped hook for the night well up into the next creek. Barometer slowly working down and a good fresh gale of wind blowing. Guess those schooner captains knew a few things.

_March 27th._ Turned out to find things looking mighty different from day before. Wind a point more to westward and blowing viciously. Heavy squall clouds all about. Mistrusted trouble but thought might poke along a little way, so got our two anchors and square away under our three reefs; caught a regular tartar soon after. Rain in sheets and blowing so hard I doused sail to save chance of splitting it. An hour more and the sky lifted in northwest and down she came a screamer. We were at Altamaha Sound, but it seemed no use to put sail and rigging to such strain when it would have been impossible to beat her any distance up the creek beyond the sound if we crossed it, so finding a good weather shore we dropped hook to await events. Now you fellows just think a minute. We anchored last night about 400 miles from Miami which we left just two weeks ago and have had ten sailing days. That’s driving a little boat through pernickety country some. My, but this cold norther feels good and the air is fit to breathe. We were not sorry to bid good-bye to Florida yesterday morning. It is a queer puzzle of a country and I understand it not at all. A land filled with hope, enthusiasm and speculative boom on one side; with poverty, want and failure just around the corner. A land of sweltering, enervating days and nights. A country full of dark, silent, mysterious places and fringed with bright, sparkling beaches. A land of creeping, crawling things and of big birds with broad wings. In two hundred years I will come again and see how it turns out. In meantime it will do its part as the winter playground for half a nation. The venom kind of blew out of the norther, so about four o’clock we gave her the three-reefed canvas and beat her across Altamaha Sound putting another milestone behind. Anchored short ways up creek beyond where night came mighty cold and we slept long and well, snug and warm under two blankets.

_March 28th._ Comes bright with waspish air at northeast and cold as blazes. Would have given most anything for a breath of this stuff in Miami. Tucked on all our winter clothes and sweaters and topped off with oilers. Feel now as if I had caught up that foolish month of December wasted along the Carolina shore. Away to the northard under two reefs and kicker to help us tack for tack. Crossed Doboy Sound a great stretch of brick-red water. What a country for the impressionist where nature has spread the color in great sweeps of her widest brush. Here is your red sea, your long lines of vivid green where red meets the new springing marsh grass crowned with the dark brown and golden yellow of the old. Above, a sky as blue as blue flecked with tumbling clouds as white as snow. Can you beat it? We drove her along all day, bruising it across the sounds sometimes with head, sometimes with fair tide. In Sapello Sound we had an especially long, hard thrash to windward during which the schooner houseboat _Agnes_ slowly beat us out under her power. When we drew out into the broad reaches, however, and got the full force of sea and wind, Miss Agnes bounced at it a little while and then ran away up into a creek for comfort. Old Mascot faced it like a horse and we soon popped into our river and were away again. It was all in all a very sporting day and we anchored her for a quiet night just before going out into St. Catherine’s Sound. The air fresh and cool and filled now and then with the sweet scent of magnolia blossom which we can see budding on the big trees ashore.

_March 29th._ Comes fair with wind still hanging doggedly to eastward and viciously puffy. Away under single reef, for we must drive her a bit to make Thunderbolt tonight. Across St. Catherine’s Sound where we kicked up a good bit of dust and then creek and river winding and twisting through the marsh and giving the quartermaster all he wants at the wheel. We are bidding good-bye to our old friends the pelicans which sometimes have made us feel as if we were sailing on a pond in some big “zoo.” Bully old birds they are. The “dodo” of Alice in Wonderland. We never failed to laugh at their clumsy effort to get started, or to admire their glorious sweeping flight when under way. We carried sail hard and H. about filled the standing room in one wicked puff. Good fun to see the attention we get from ashore. All hands stop work to see us go a-roaring by. People in launches waved their hats and even a sawmill gave us the compliment of three whistles. At four o’clock we rounded to our anchor in Thunderbolt. Nineteen days out of Miami; fifteen sailing days, four hundred and fifty miles, and that’s going some for a twenty-four foot boat. Don’t know where I would have carried her if I could have seen out of both eyes.

_March 30th._ First thing to do here is to set the clock one hour ahead for eastern time. Crew occupied all morning in ship’s duties. H. at launch engine, I cleaning cabin. Swarms of midges, worse than Maine black flies, drove us below behind nettings and made us grease up with dope. The day shifting back and forth between northeast and south winds and hourly downpours. Looking the northeaster three days in the face put my eyes out of commission once more and they are in bad shape today.

_March 31st._ Will fit out here for northward run, for we are far enough up for the season and this is a much better place than Charleston. Am figuring on the April moon for the outside run. Have had two rainy moons in succession and hope for a good spell on next one. The weather has broken undeniably fair today and spring is in the air. Every darky cabin is abloom with roses, and flowers are everywhere in wood and field. I guess the birds are singing, for I see their bills and throats wriggle. Wish I could hear them, but I can’t do everything and I can play “The Devil’s Dream” and “Root Hog or Die” on my fiddle which is more than any pesky spring bird can do. Sent H. to masthead to scrape the spar down. He shows no enthusiasm for the job and I will apprentice him to some tailor with middle class trade in small town. Told him spars were like us human critters, the best had some weather cracks and the smooth ones were to be mistrusted. My eyes mending up nicely now and can see with both of them open at same time.

_April 1st._ For three days we have been very busy at ship’s duties. H. has spent the time in the boatswain’s chair using scraper and varnish brush a little and swearing much. He has the mast and hoops scraped, shellacked and varnished and has a definite idea as to what I have been doing on my holidays for past ten years. I have made a set of screen doors and hatch screens all varnished and quite shipshape. It has all been rather slow work as we have to do three miles to Savannah for each little thing needed. The sand flies have been fierce. They are a little bigger than a black fly but have venom in their bite and literally drive us out of cockpit when it is calm. They are equally bad on shore where the darkies build little smudges of leaves in the gutters and huddle for protection in the smoke. We saw people dining at a shore restaurant where smudges had been built all around the house and were ourselves driven from a meal at the casino and fled aboard to protection of our screened cabin and greasy dope. I am in hopes weather will be ugly in a few days and then when it breaks fair again I want to be in Charleston and do up the outside business on a good moon.

_April 8-15._ We left Savannah with some regret for it is a most attractive city. Our last afternoon ashore we passed in looking over the ruins of an old rice plantation. Fine old southern mansion, beautiful avenues of great, wide-spreading live oaks shading rows of little brick slave cabins. In the long shadows of late afternoon it was easy to people it in mind as of 70 years ago. A cold northeaster whistled across the Savannah River as we again poked our bows to the northard. Suspicioned trouble and lashed oil stove and stew pot with extra care. We caught it good and plenty in Calibogue Sound with the dust flying and we smashing into it under double reefs. That afternoon found us in Port Royal Sound with pretty savage conditions for little boats. To double the end of a middle ground before the turn of tide we tucked launch astern in spite of a vicious sea and started at it. We drove her hard and those nasty, curling red waves came kerswish, kerswish across decks so fast there was no time to spit between. Launch filled, went out of business and nearly sank. Had to do the last of the way under sail alone. We just made our mark at the turn of tide and easing sheets a hair we boiled up the Beaufort (N.C.) River. The crew of a Gloucester fishing schooner riding out the blow at anchor had evidently been watching our little circus, for, as we stormed by they all jumped on the rail and gave us a swing of their caps. Fishermen don’t do that often, but I fancy we made quite a little picture with the yellow light of a low-hung sun flashing on our bit of white canvas, our wet decks with cockpit rail level to the red suds and we in yellow oilers, one braced to the wheel, the other perched on weather quarter holding a turn of the sheet. The next day found us floundering about in Coosaw River where the breeze put us entirely out of business and forced me to lay to until, swept along by the tide, I noticed a little creek making into the land and taking a chance, I popped in to quiet water like a Jack-in-the-Box.

For the past few days we have seen the swallows in their flight. Thousands and thousands of them. The air filled with the little devils. A merry, joyous flight it is. Whirling about, up and down, hoppity skipping along and hobnobbing with each other as if it was the greatest fun going. I saw two bound for Potomska and the Pascamanset. I knew them for the two happiest little cusses of the whole bunch.

Coosaw River took us into St. Helena’s Sound and with strong southerly breezes we ate up the miles to the northard under double reefs and all we could stagger to. Passed the point where on way down H. went on shore and was nearly bogged. He now confessed that it was about his first experience of real fright. Good thing to get scared up now and then. Sort of gets you used to the feeling and helps you to keep yourself in hand. Wouldn’t give much for a man who says he was never scared as it simply means he is either a fool or has never been properly tried out. So on and away before the gale. Sometimes beating up the bends and again stretching down the reaches with that old main boom jibing across decks as if it would tear the whole stern out of us. H. wouldn’t let me go ashore and catch the very nicest little razorback shoat I saw running on the beach with a lot of brothers and sisters. Could have made ice chest into a nice little pen and put butter and other stuff in the coal box. Would have made him handy as a lady’s maid in no time. Funny how little some people care for pets. And so our twisting winding way to Charleston where we gave our spars and rigging a good looking over and rove a peak down haul to gaff end as an added precaution.

_April 15th._ At 3:30 a.m. the whistle blew and the game was on. The weather map of yesterday gave me every confidence, but my glass hangs lower than we have ever seen it in fair weather. Yesterday a schooner captain said, “Yes, it looks like a chance, but I wouldn’t bet a chew of terbaccer against a suit of clothes at this season.” We were away a little after five, for it takes two hours after turning out to cook and eat a good breakfast, wash up, have a quiet smoke, and tend and fill lights, hoist sail and away. An ebb tide and a fresh southwest breeze swung us quickly down the harbor and a big, red sun bursting above the heavy cloud banks which seem always to hang over the gulf, lighted up the little fluttering flag that flies so bravely night and day over the pile of brick and mortar called Sumpter. My hat came off to it this morning. What other flag have we got flying more worthy of a bow at the break of day? We turned the jetty and headed northward in the heaving ocean swell which we have not felt for over three months. Gosh! but the place seemed to have grown vaster and more endless since we left it. It was cold and raw. We put on everything we had and topped off with oilskins and rubber boots. We were still shivering and cold and finally in a burst of confidence admitted that we were both badly in need of some of those dress shield things that women folks wear, for we were gosh dinged nervous and no mistake. What on earth calls me to tackle this kind of thing I don’t know. We were under single reef and made noble time straight for Cape Romain and the shoals outside. You may get some little idea of this country and famous Cape when you read in government reports that a vessel drawing 22 ft. touched bottom 16 miles at sea. The day quickly clouded over and squalls gathered to the westward. This seems, at this season with wind at southwest, to be the regular order of things, but it is not pretty to look at. One-half the worry and care of this outside work would be avoided by putting on a yawl rig, standing out 50 or 75 miles and jogging quietly along ready to ride out in deep water what came your way. This constant fear of heavy breaking seas on shoal ground is what gets to your nerves and we have seen and know something about it. We were off the Cape by noon, nearly out of sight of land. The squalls were making up so heavily to westward that a shift of wind off shore seemed certain, so I flattened my sheets and stood in for the beach or rather the breakers, for you can’t get very near the beach here. I was well up under the land when we took a sharp puff with rain out of west and was able to ease my sheets and still keep my course for Georgetown jetties. During the afternoon we took squall after squall, but none of them hard enough to pull us down to double reef, but all looking as if they intended blowing us right out of water. It was a villainous sky to look at when we rounded the jetty, hauled our sheets and beat up into the bay below Georgetown and dropped our hook in calm waters. It is no use; I am getting too old and good looking for night work along shore. I intend getting in every night on this run if I can. I thought on my way down I was as good as ever for a knockdown, dragdown proposition, but I found I couldn’t come back after it. I lay the whole trouble with my eyes to that month of sleepless nights and anxious days. I have never gotten back the measly little nine pounds I lost in weight and if I lost another nine there would be mighty little besides shoes and stockings left.

[Sidenote: Map C.]

_April 16th._ Through the night the clouds all went off and morning came as pretty as a picture. It was turn out again at 3:30. H. is alive to the game and needed no second call. Off and away under single reef to smart breeze at west-southwest. Not so much worry to it today, for we could haul the beach close aboard and drive her along handsomely in smooth water. It was a repetition of yesterday. To the eastward, the sea; to the west, the low, desolate coast fringed with the white of the beach and breaking seas. The thickening sky and then the black squalls which came so heavily we had to tuck in our double reef. At five o’clock we were off Little River inlet, one of the best on the coast, with buoys to help the stranger. It didn’t seem possible for such an ugly-looking sky to clear away, or I should have kept going for Southport 30 miles away, so I ran into the hole in the wall and found such smooth water inside that I was mighty glad I came. When this inlet business works it works finely, but you have it always in mind that once inside you stay inside for a week or longer if the ground swell picks up on the bar. This inlet would be a grand one to come to for a bit of shooting. We saw lots of big sickle-bill curlew and the marsh was loud with the whistle of birds. I suggested to H. he better take the gun and get a mess, but sufficient of one of these days is the worry thereof, and he couldn’t be driven three feet away from his bunk and blankets. The night came very ugly and I thought we were surely in for trouble, although glass still remained low and steady.