A bastard by birth and orphaned at twelve, Charles has learnt to fend for himself in 1660s London. Homeless, he seeks shelter for the night in some canvas aboard a barge on the Thames. In the morning, he tumbles awake when the sail is hoisted, and t...
Captain pointed to the river as we boarded Bessy, and he explained again how to assess the tides. When he had finished, he said, "To-day, with the wind from the east, the sail upriver will be easy, but descending, it will be on Bessy's nose, and we will have to beat into it."
"But the tide'll turn afore that, sir. And we'll have it helping us down."
"Aye, indeed, lad. You learn well. We have the current with us both up and down, and this is why we waited until now to sail." He pointed toward the bow. "Hoist the jib, lad."
"Aye, sir. Hoist the jib."
As I hauled down on the halyard and Captain sheeted, the wind filled the sail, and when he released the mooring lines, Bessy was pulled away from the wharf and out into the faster current. Then he steered toward the widest arch of the bridge, pulled only by the jib, the mainsail still brailed to the spreet.[1] As we approached, he pointed ahead and asked, "See the line in the water under each of the arches, lad? Can you figure out what they are and why?"
I puzzled for a while, then when we were really near, I realised. "All the legs of the bridge take up space in the river, and less water can go through."
"Indeed. This is why it mounds up before the bridge, slowed by the cribs. Higher on this side than on the other. Now sit ye down and hold tight as we shoot through the arch."
Like a giant hand had grabbed Bessy, we rocked side-to-side, and the whole of the barge shuddered as the bow plunged down with a loud smack. In a trice, we were through the arch, water crashing over the bow as we reached the bottom of the shoot.[2] Then as the stern settled, water leapt up behind us, wetting our backs afore the wind filled the jib again to pull us from the roaring tumult.
"Unbrail the main, lad."
"Aye, sir. Unbrail the main."
I had no sooner climbed back down the mast from releasing the sail when Captain ordered, "Lower the starboard leeboard, lad."[3]
"Aye, sir. Starboard leeboard down."
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When all was done, and Bessy had settled to the wind in her stern, I turned to look back at the bridge. I had so many times seen it from the embankment as I begged, but now it felt different – more alive and personal. And I finally understood the small structures hanging out over the water from the houses – privy closets, as Captain called his.
When I returned aft to sit, Captain said, "It is not usual to pass through the arches at this stage of the tide, lad. Better to await the calm at the changes when the current falls slack or near to that. But if we had waited, we would not make Chelsea and back this afternoon, and your new shoes would need to wait. The morrow[4] is Sunday, and the cobbler is closed."
Our sail was swift, and the river was near highwater slack when we moored to the wharf in Chelsea. We went ashore to a large house at the edge of the village, where we were greeted by an old man. After Captain had talked to him, he gave us each a big, red apple.
