book to London by mistake, we had to trust to nature’s light and go ahead.  This does well enough for a canoe, but not for the sailing-boat, which, if once aground, and with a sea running, it would be utterly out of the power of one man to save. [36]

In encountering the first roller off the pier at Boulogne, she thumped the ground heavily.  At the second, again, the masts quivered, and all the bottles rattled in my cellar.  Instant decision turned her round from the third roller, and so after bumping the ground twice again in the retreat, we put out to sea, anchored, and got out the dingey, half-ashamed to be discomfited thus at the very first French port.  After an hour or two spent in the dark, carefully sounding to discover

the proper channel, and to get it well into my head, the anchor was weighed, and we entered in a poor sort of triumph upon midnight, slowly ascending the long harbour, but looking in vain for a proper berth.  All was quiet, every one seemed to be in bed, until I came to the sluices at the end, which just then opened, and the rush of foaming water from these bore me back again in the most helpless plight, until I anchored near the well-known “Etablissement,” furled sails, rigged up hatch, and soon dropped fast asleep.

Now there is a peculiarity of the French ports which we may mention here for once for all, but it applies to every one of them, and has to be seriously considered in all your calculations as a sailing-master.

They are quiet enough up to a certain time of night, but as the tide serves, the whole port awakes, all the fishing vessels get ready to start.  The quays become vocal with shouts, yells, calls, whistles, and the most stupid din and hubbub confounds the night, utterly destructive of sleep.  This chorus was in full cry about two o’clock a.m.  Soon great luggers came splashing along with shrieks from the crews, and sails flapping, chains rattling, spars knocking about, as if a tempest were in rage.  Several of these lubberly craft smashed against the pier, and the men screamed

more wildly, and at length one larger and more inebriated than all the rest, dashed in among the small boats where the Rob Roy slept, and swooping down on the poor little yawl, then wrapt in calm repose, she heeled us over on our beam-ends, and after fastening her clumsy, rusty anchor in my mizen shrouds (which were of iron, and declined to snap), she bore me and my boat away far off, ignominiously, stern foremost.

Certainly this was by no means a pleasant foretaste of what might be expected in the numerous other ports we were to enter, and, at any rate, that night’s sleep was gone.  But in a voyage of this sort a night’s sleep must be resigned readily, and the loss is easily borne by trying to forget it, which indeed you soon do when the sun rises, and a good cup of tea has been quaffed, or, if that will not suffice, then another.

Vigorous health is at the bottom of the enthusiastic enjoyment of yachting; but in a common sailor’s life sleep is not a regular thing as we have it on shore, and perhaps that staid glazy and sedate-looking eye, which a hard-worked seaman usually has, is really caused by broken slumber.  He is never completely awake, but he is never entirely asleep.

Boulogne is a much more agreeable place to reside at than one might suppose from merely

passing through it.  Once I spent a month there, and found plenty to see and to do.  Good walks, hotels, churches, and swimming-baths; the river to row in, the reading-room to sit in, the cliffs to climb, and the sands to see.

At Dover the dock-people had generously charged me “nil” for dues.  I had letters for France from the highest authorities to pass the Rob Roy as an article entered for the Paris “Exhibition;” and when the douane and police functionaries came in proper state at Boulogne to appraise her value, and to fill up the numerous forms, certificates, schedules, and other columned documents, I had hours of walking to perform, and most courteous and tedious attention to endure, and then paid for sanitary dues, “two sous per ton,” that was threepence.  Finally, there was this insurmountable difficulty, that though all my ship’s papers were en règle, they must be signed “by two persons on board,” so I offered to sign first as captain and then as cook.  They never troubled me again in any other port, probably thinking the boat too small to have come from a foreign harbour.  In France the law of their paternal Government prevents any Frenchman from sailing thus alone.

The sun warmed a fine fresh breeze from the N.E. as we coasted from Boulogne, and to sail

with it was a luxury all day.  The first pleasure was the morning ablution, either by a wholesale dip under the waves, or a more particular toilette if the Rob Roy was then in full sail.

To effect this we push the hatch forward, and open the interior of the boat.  If the water we float on is clean (whether it be salt or fresh) we dip the tin basin at once, but if we are in a muddy river or doubtful harbour we must draw from our zinc water tank, which holds water for one week.  This tank is concealed by the figure of the cook kneeling in the opposite sketch, but it is next to my large portmanteau in the lower shelf.

A large hole in the top of the tank allows it to be filled at intervals through a tun-dish, while a long vulcanized tube through the cork to the bottom has an end hanging over.  When I wish to draw water it is done by applying the mouth for a moment with suction, and the clear stream then flows by syphon action into a strong tin can of about eight inches cube, which holds fresh water for one day.  By means of this tube, the end of which hangs within an inch or two of my face when in bed, I can drink a cool draught at night without trouble or chance of spilling a drop.  On the tank top is soap, and also a clean towel, which to-morrow will be degraded into a duster, and “relegated,” the newspapers would say,

to the kitchen, and from whence it will again be promoted backwards over the bulkhead to the washing-bag.  This, you see, is the red-tape order of dealing with towels on board the Rob Roy.

On the left shelf of the cabin we find two boxes of japanned tin each about eighteen inches by six inches wide, as shown in the woodcut.  Below the shelf is a portmanteau full of clothes.  One of the boxes holds “Dressing,” another “Reading and writing.”  The aneroid barometer, and my watch are seen suspended alongside.  The boxes on the other side, shown in section at a future page, are marked “Tools” and “Eating,” while the pantry is beside them, with teapot, cup (saucer discarded),

and tumbler, and a tray holding knife and fork, spoons, salt in a snuff-box (far the best cellar after trials of many), pepper (coarse, or it is blown away), mustard, corkscrew, and lever-knife for preserved meat tins, etc., etc.