Digby Heathcote: The Early Days of a Country Gentleman's Son and Heir

The first day that Digby went out in the John Dory, as Toby called his boat, he discovered his ignorance of nautical affairs. He had day after day been on the ponds at Bloxholme, but then John Pratt had rowed him about, and he had never thought of learning to row himself.

The river was wide at the mouth, and, as there were deep sheltered bays, it was a good place for rowing. When sailing, however, it was necessary to be careful, for gusts often came down suddenly between the cliffs, and had frequently upset boats the people in which had not been ready to let go the sheets in an instant. There was no wind this day.

“Now, young gen’man,” said Toby, looking at Digby, “you’ll just take an oar and pull with the rest?”

“Oh yes,” answered Digby, who was always ready to undertake any manual exercise, “I’ll row.”

Marshall and the other boys got out the oars. Toby eyed Digby, and guessed, by the way he handled his oar the state of the case. However, Digby persevered in silence.

The boat slowly receded from the shore, Toby steering. Digby, who sat about midships, looked at Marshall, and Easton, and Power, who sat further astern, and tried to imitate their movements. He did so very fairly. He thought that he was performing his part wonderfully well.

Toby’s nose curled more than usual as he looked at him.

“Give way, my lads, give way,” he sung out.

The other boys instantly bent to their oars, and made much more rapid strokes than before. Digby had not the slightest notion what “giving way” meant. He only knew, to his cost, that he gave way, for his oar caught in the water, and over he toppled on his back to the bottom of the boat.

“Caught a crab, caught a crab,” sung out the other boys, laughing.

Digby jumped up immediately, full of eagerness, not minding his bruises a bit.

“Have I? Where is he? where is he? Let me see him,” he exclaimed.

This made the rest laugh still more.

“It’s only the sort of crab most young ge’men catches when first they begins to learn to row,” said Toby; “jump up and take your oar, and you’ll soon catch another, I warrant.”

So Digby found, but he was not a boy to be beat by such an occurrence. Each time he jumped up as quickly as he could, and grasping his oar, went on pulling as before.

“What do you mean by ‘Give way?’” he asked, when he discovered that these words invariably produced the unpleasant results.

“I means much the same as the soldier officers does when they says ‘Double quick march.’”

“Oh, I see, we are to make the boat go as fast as we can,” observed Digby.

After that he caught fewer crabs, Toby having also advised him not to dip the blade of his oar so deeply in the water. In a few days he learned how to feather his oar, that is, when lifting the blade out of the water, to turn it, so as to keep it almost horizontal with the surface. This is done that it may not hold wind, and in a rough sea, that it may be less likely to be struck by a wave, or if it is, that it may cut through the top. He also learned to keep time with the rest, a very essential requisite in rowing.

“You’ve done capitally,” said Marshall, after they landed the first day, “many fellows have been here for some time before they have done as well.”

This praise encouraged Digby, and he determined to learn to be a good boatman. He expressed his intentions to Toby. The old man laughed.

“You’ll be good enough in time, I’ve no doubt, master, but it will take you some years before you are fit to be trusted. There’s nothing but experience will make a sailor. You must be out in gales of wind, and have all your sails blown away, and your masts carried over the side, and find yourself on a lee shore on a dark night, with rocks close aboard, and no room to wear, and the wind blowing great guns and small arms, and a strong current running here and there, and setting you on to the coast; and then, if you find means to save the ship, I’ll allow that you’re something of a sailor.”

Digby did not know what all this meant, but he thought the description very dreadful, and certainly he had no notion how he should act. As, however, he had no wish to become a real sailor, that did not trouble him. Easton, however, took in every word that was said. He had set his heart on going to sea, and none of the descriptions of shipwrecks and disasters in which the old man indulged had any terrors for him. They only the more excited his ardour, and he longed to encounter and overcome them.

When Toby Tubb saw that Digby could row fairly, he began to teach him to sail a boat.

“First you have to learn how to steer, Master Digby,” he observed; “look over the stern, you see how the rudder is, now put your hand in the same line above it. Now I press against your hand, the water is pressing just in the same way against the rudder. If you keep your arm stiff, I should make you turn round. Now, the rudder is stiff as long as you don’t let the tiller move, and so the water turns the boat round. Now put the tiller over on the opposite side, then you see the boat also turns the opposite way. You understand, to steer you must be going on, or, what’s the same thing, a current must be running past you. If there is no movement in the water, you may wriggle the tiller about as much as you please, and you can’t turn the boat’s head. Just understand, too, that the water is a thing that presses. It will give way, certainly. It is not like a rock, but still it presses all around you. That’s the reason why a vessel sails stem first, that is to say, she cuts the water with the sharpest part, if the sails are trimmed properly to make her do so. You may trim the sails to make her sail stern first, or if there’s a gale of wind right abeam, she goes partly ahead, but also drives before it with her side, that’s what we call making lee way. Now as to the sails, you see, we have to balance them, or to trim them, as we call it. Once, I’m told, ships were only made to sail right before the wind. Funny voyages they must have been, I’m thinking. What a time they must have been about them, waiting for a fair wind; no wonder they didn’t get round the world in those days. Now, you see, we can sail not only with the wind abeam as close, as four and a half points to the wind in fore and after craft. Still if we want to get where the wind blows from, we could never do it if we couldn’t tack ship, and sail away four and a half points on the other side of the wind. That’s what we call working a traverse. Away a ship sails, zig-zagging along if there isn’t too much wind to blow her back, every tack making good some ground till she reaches the port to which she’s bound. That’s what I calls the philusfy of navigation. But I haven’t yet told you how the sails act on the vessel. You see the wind presses on them, just as the water does on the hull. The better you can get the wind to blow on them at what they calls a right angle, the greater force it has. So in a square-rigged ship, if you can bring the wind a little on the quarter, so that every sail, studden-sails, alow and aloft, can be made to draw, you’ll have the greatest pressure on the sails, and send the ship on the fastest. But we come to balancing, when a ship is on a wind. If all the sail was set forward, it would turn her head round, or if all was set aft it would turn her stern round. So we set some forward, and some aft, and some amidships, and then we trim them together properly, and away she goes in the direction we put her head. Then, you see, if we want to turn her head round we shake the wind out of her after sails, or trice them up, and if we want her stem to go round, we do the same with her head sails, and that, Master Heathcote, is what I calls the theory of sailing. There’s a good deal more for you to learn before you will be fit to be trusted in a boat by yourself, but if you keeps close to those principles, you can’t be far wrong in the long run.”

Such was Digby’s first lesson in seamanship. He did not take in all that was said to him; indeed he was rather young for comprehending the subject, but it made him think and inquire further; and Toby Tubb was perfectly satisfied that his lessons were not thrown away.

“It’s very strange,” soliloquised Toby, “the fathers and mothers of these young ge’men pays lots of money to have ’em taught to ride and dance, and to speak Latin and French, and all sorts of gimcrack nonsense, and not one in a thousand ever thinks of making them learn how to knot, and splice, and reef, and steer, and to take an observation, or work a day’s work, which to my mind is likely to be far more useful to ’em when they comes to take care of themselves in the world. As for me, I don’t know what I should have done without the first, though the shooting the sun and the navigation was above me a good way.”

“There’s nothing like leather.” Toby would have said, there is nothing like hemp, and pitch, and tar, and heart of oak. It is quite as well that different people should have different opinions. Thus the world is prevented from stagnating.

Chapter Four

Digby Gains a Knowledge of Boating and other Manly Employments – The Wonders of the Sea-Side – A Shipwreck – Digby Proves himself a Hero – How he gained a Friend

Digby, as he became more practised in the arts, gained a keen relish for boating, not mere pulling, but for sailing – the harder it blew, the better pleased he was. In this he was joined by Easton, who was always delighted when old Toby would take them out on a stormy day. Marshall and the others confessed that they liked fine weather sailing.

“But, suppose the boat was capsized, what would you do?” said Marshall to Digby.

“Hold on to her, I suppose,” was the answer.

“But very likely you would be thrown to a distance, what then?”

“Why I should try and catch what was nearest to me,” replied Digby.

“But suppose there was nothing near you,” remarked his friend.

“Then, I suppose I should – . Let me see, I scarcely know what I should do – I should try to swim,” said Digby, after some hesitation.

“That is just what I wanted to bring you to,” said Marshall. “You have not learned to swim, you know, and you assuredly would not then swim for the first time, so that if no one was near to help you, you would inevitably be drowned. Take my advice – learn to swim forthwith; Toby will teach you. If you were to go to Eton, you would not be allowed to go in the boats till you had learnt. Everybody should know how to swim, both for their own sakes and for the benefit of their fellow-creatures. It is really disgraceful for an English boy not to know how to do what even savages can do so well.”

Marshall went on in this style till Digby felt perfectly ashamed of himself, and resolved to learn as soon as possible if Toby would teach him. He was manly enough, as has been seen, in disposition, but all his knowledge of manly exercises he had acquired from John Pratt, except riding, which his father had taken a pride in teaching him. Swimming was not among John Pratt’s accomplishments, and so Digby had remained ignorant of it. There are many boys like him, brought up at home or at small private schools, who are even worse off. In many instances their education is very carefully attended to, but for fear of accidents they are not allowed to bathe, or climb trees, or to shoot. Numbers have suffered from this mistake when they have had to go out into the world and take care of themselves – they have been drowned, when, had they been able to swim, their lives would have been saved; had they been accustomed to climb, they might have scaped from a burning house, a wrecked ship, or a wild beast, while they have been called upon to use fire-arms before they know how to load a gun.

“Toby,” said Digby, “I want to learn how to swim.”

“Then come along, master,” replied the old man, and they rowed across to a quiet little bay, with a sandy shore, sheltered by rocks, on the side of the river opposite the town. “Pull off your clothes, master,” said Toby, as they were still some little way from the shore.

Digby did as he was bid.

“Now, jump overboard,” added Toby.

Digby stood up, but as he looked into the water and could see no bottom, he shuddered at the thought of plunging in. Toby passed a band round his waist with a rope to it, but Digby scarcely perceived this – he felt himself pushed, and over he went, heels over head, under the water.

“Oh, I’m drowning, I’m drowning,” he cried out when he came to the surface.

“Oh no, you’re not, master, you’re all right,” said the old man. “Strike out for the shore, and try if you can’t swim there.”

Digby did strike out, but wildly, and not in a way that would have kept him afloat.

“That’s the way you’d have done if the boat was capsized, and you’d have drowned yourself and any one who came to help you,” remarked Toby; “but catch hold of this oar. Now strike away with your feet, right astern; not out of the water, though; keep them lower down. That’s the way to go ahead. Steady, though; strike both of them together. Slow, though; slower. We’re in no hurry, there’s plenty of time; you can learn the use of your hands another day. Draw your legs well under you. Now, as I give the word – strike out, draw up; strike out, draw up. That will do famously. If you keep steadily at it you’ll learn to swim in a very few days.”

Digby felt rather tired when he and the boat at length reached the shore. He had some notion that he had towed her there, which he had not, though. He had learned an important part of the art of swimming. When he came out of the water, and had dressed, Toby showed him how to use his hands.

“Now, Master Heathcote, look here. Do as I do.”

Toby put his hands together, with the fingers straight out and close to each other, and the palms slightly hollowed. Then he brought them up to his breast, and darting them forward, separated his hands and pressed them backwards till he brought his elbows down to the hips, close to his body, and again turned his wrists till his hands once more got back to the attitude with which he had started. He made Digby do this over and over again, till he was quite eager to jump into the water and put his knowledge into practice.

“No, no, master,” said Toby, “you’ve had bathing enough to-day. Just do you keep on doing those movements whenever you have a spare moment, and to-morrow we’ll see how well you can do them in the water.”

Digby was certain that not only would he do them perfectly, but that he should be able to swim any distance.

Toby said nothing, but his nose curled up in its quiet funny way.

The next day was very fine, and all the boys came down to bathe, and to see Digby swim, as he boasted he could do perfectly well. They crossed over to the bay, all of them getting ready for a plunge.

“Now, Digby,” cried Marshall, when they got near the shore, “overboard we go.”

“All right,” cried Digby, putting his hands into the scientific attitude, as far as he could recollect it; and, with great courage, he jumped into the water.

Somehow or other, he could not tell why, down he went some way under the surface, and when he came up he had forgotten all about the way to strike out which Toby had taught him. Instead of that, he flung about his arms and kicked his legs out in the wildest manner, and would have gone down again had not Marshall swam up alongside him, and, putting his hand under his chin, told him to keep perfectly quiet till he had collected his senses. He had resolution enough to do this, and was surprised to find himself floating on the surface of the water with so little support.

“Bravo, Master Marshall,” cried Toby. “Now strike out, Master Heathcote, as I showed you.”

The recollection of how to strike came back to Digby, and, to his great delight, he found himself making some progress towards the shore, his friend still holding him up by the chin.

“Let me go, I am sure I can swim alone,” he cried.

Marshall did so, but, after a few strokes, down he went, and again he forgot what he had done so satisfactorily on dry land. His feet, however, touched the bottom, and, hopping on one leg, he went on striking out with his hands, and fancying that he was swimming, till he reached the shore. His companions, of course, laughed at him, but he did not mind that, and, running in again, he made one or two more successful attempts, but he forbore boasting any more of the distance he was going to swim. When once again he had gone out till the water reached his chin, he found the boat close to him.

“Don’t be swimming any more, Master Heathcote, but give me your hand,” said Toby, taking it. “There, now throw yourself on your back, stick your legs out, put your head back as far as it will go, lift up your chest, now don’t move, let your arms hang down. There, I’ll hold you steady; a feather would do it. Now you feel how the water keeps you up. There, you might stay there for an hour, or a dozen hours for that matter, if it wasn’t for the cold, in smooth water. You’ll learn to swim in a very few days now, I see, without your clothes, and then you must learn with your clothes on. If I couldn’t have done that I should not have been here; I should have been drownded long ago.”

Thus discoursing, the old man let Digby float by the side of the boat till he had been long enough in the water, and then he helped him out and made him dress quickly.

The other boys then got in, and consulted together how they should spend the remainder of the afternoon. Power, who was the chief fisherman of the party, voted for going outside and trying to catch some mackerel. No objections were made. Toby consented: he had lines and hooks in the boat.

They pulled down to the mouth of the river, and were very soon in the open sea. There was scarcely any wind, the sea was blue and bright, the coast was picturesque, with rocky headlands, and white sandy bay; and green downs above, and cliffs on which numberless wildfowl had taken up their habitations. As they pulled close under the rocks, numbers of gulls flew out, screaming loudly at the intruders on their domains.

“I have often thought, when I have heard people talking of their ancient families and their ancient homes, how much more ancient are the families and the abodes of those white-coated gentry,” observed Marshall. “Up there, now, perhaps, the ancestors of those birds have lived, from generation to generation, since the flood. They witnessed the first peopling of our tight little island by the painted savages, who were as barbarous as the New Zealanders or the Fejee Islanders of the present century; the landing of Julius Caesar and his warriors, the battles of the Norsemen, the Danes, and the Saxons, and the defeat of the Spanish armada. I wish that they could tell us all the interesting things they have seen.”

Easton liked the idea. Digby did not understand it, for his knowledge of history was very limited.

“I know what they’ve seen,” observed Toby. “They’ve seen many a cargo of smuggled silks, and teas, and brandies run hereabouts, in days gone by.”

“Oh, those smugglers are jolly fellows!” exclaimed Digby. “I should like to see something of their fun. I can’t fancy any finer sport than landing a cargo and having to run the gauntlet among a whole posse of revenue officers.”

“Something like prisoners’ base, you would say,” observed Marshall, “only, I suspect, with a greater chance of being caught and shut up for a longer time than would be pleasant.”

“I’ll tell you what it is, young gentlemen,” said Toby, who had been listening in silence to Digby’s and the other boys’ thoughtless remarks, “smuggling is a very bad business, let me tell you. I’ve seen something of it, and I know what it is. I’ve seen money made by it, I’ll allow, just as I’ve seen money made by other evil practices; but I’ve seen very many fine fellows brought to a bad end by it, and have never known any to prosper long at it. Laws were made for the good of all, and no man has a right to break them for his own advantage or pleasure. Though I’m only a poor boatman I’ve found that out, and it’s my duty to make others understand the truth, as well as I can.”

The boys confessed that they had never before seen the matter in that light. They had thought smugglers, and pirates, and bandits, and highwaymen, and outlaws of all descriptions very fine fellows; and it had never occurred to them that they should be looked upon as base scoundrels, who deserved to be hung, or severely punished in some other way.

“Now let us have out the lines,” exclaimed Power, who was eager to begin fishing. Two of the party paddled the boat on, relieving each other, at the rate of about two miles an hour.

Toby produced four long, thin lines, wound up on wooden reels. The lines were considerably slighter than log-lines. Five hooks were fastened to each, about a yard apart.

“But where is the bait?” asked Digby. “You cannot catch fish without bait.”

“Oh, mackerel are in no ways particular,” answered Toby; “a bit of tin or white rag will attract them; but see, I have some hooks with some capital bait. It is called a white cock’s hackle. The feathers are fastened on to the butt, and project an inch or more beyond the bend, so as to cover the barb. This is certain to catch any fish which see it.”

The lines were thrown overboard, one on each side, and one over each quarter. Toby assisted Digby to manage his.

Digby was quite delighted when he felt a sharp tug at the end of his line.

“Haul in, haul in; you’ve got him,” said Toby.

Digby hauled away, and soon he saw a fish skimming and jumping along on the smooth surface of the blue water, leaving a thin wake behind him, while his bright scales glistened in the sun. Digby shouted with glee, – “I’ve the first, I’ve the first. Huzza!”

He almost tumbled overboard in his eagerness to catch hold of the fine mackerel which came with what he called a hop, skip, and a jump alongside. He lifted the fish in. The poor mackerel, with his dark back and white belly, did not look nearly so bright out of the water as he had done in it. Digby thought it a very elegant-looking fish, and very unlike any he had ever before caught with John Pratt.

“Now we shall catch a plenty,” said Toby, as, to Digby’s dismay, he took the fish, and, cutting it up into strips, baited each of the hooks with it. “These mackerel like nothing better than their own kind.”

Two or three dozen mackerel were quickly caught, of which Digby hauled up several.

“But have we no chance of catching any carp, or tench, or perch?” he asked, seriously. “I should have thought that there must be plenty about here.”

His companions laughed heartily.

“What is the taste of the water alongside?” asked Marshall.

“Salt,” said Digby, tasting it.

“Do you think freshwater fish will live in salt-water?” observed his friend.

“Oh, you fine sportsman! You laugh at us for not knowing so much about dogs, and horses, and shooting, and racing, and hunting as you pretend to do, and yet you are ignorant of far more important, and just as interesting matters.”

“Still, young gentlemen, I’m thinking that every man shines most in his own element, as the mackerel would say, if they could speak, and would rather be left there,” observed Toby, who was a great philosopher in many respects, although no man could be much more prejudiced with regard to his own calling of a sailor than he was. Such is often the ease. When judging of the opinion of others, we should always try to discover whether we are not prejudiced too much in favour of our own.

The boys had a capital evening’s sport, and Digby learned much more about conger-eels, and whiting, and bass, and mullet, and turbot, and plaice, and John Dories, and brill, and other salt-water fish, than he had ever known before. He was daily discovering, by practical experience, that there are many things in creation “of which he had never before dreamed in his philosophy.” In other words, he began to suspect, that though he was a very fine fellow, daring to do anything, and ready to fight any boy of his age, he was in reality a remarkably ignorant young gentleman. This, to a lad of Digby’s disposition, was a very important discovery. He was, I hope, on the high road to improvement. There is a saying, that “Where ignorance is bliss, it is folly to be wise;” but depend on it, the moment the ignorance is suspected, it is much greater folly not to set strenuously to work to correct it.

When the lads got home, they recounted with great glee their adventures, and offered, with much satisfaction, their baskets of fish to Mrs Nugent. They were served up fresh for breakfast and dinner the next day, and for two or three days afterwards, cut open and salted.

Digby heard Mr Nugent speaking of the wonders of the deep.

“What, uncle, are there any things besides fish in the sea?” he asked with, what the other boys thought, an almost incredible amount of simplicity.

One of the few recreations Mr Nugent allowed himself, was a fishing expedition on board a trawler. Not that he cared much for the fish which the trawl caught, but his delight was to examine the numberless specimens of animal marine life which came up at the same time. Digby heard his uncle and Marshall talking about Noctilucae, and Medusae, and Cydippi Actiniae, and Asterias, and Echini, and Terebellae, and Nereides, and Cirripedes, and Solens, and Gastropods, and numberless other creatures with hard names, which he thought that he could never recollect, and about which he was persuaded he could not understand.

“And are all these animals found in the sea near here?” he asked.

“Yes, and thousands more,” answered his uncle; “it would take a lifetime to catch and note the habits of those found on this coast alone. Each person can only hope to add a little to the stock of knowledge which others have obtained, and to ascertain what has been discovered by others. Still, the pursuit of that knowledge is so delightful, as is, indeed, the study of all God’s works, that those occupied in it find themselves amply repaid for all the physical and mental exertion they have to take to attain it.”

“Are the things you speak of like horses, and dogs, and cats, or more like fish?” asked Digby, seriously. “I should think with such curious names they must be very curious looking things.”

Marshall and Power laughed heartily, and even his uncle could not help smiling as he replied:

“Curious and wonderful, indeed, they are, but they are not fish in appearance, and still less like terrestrial quadrupeds. Some have their heads at the end of their feet, and their eyes at the extremities of their arms. Some walk on their heads, and others have their arms growing from the top of their heads. Some, too, can turn themselves inside out, and others of their own accord, break themselves to pieces, and then, what is more wonderful still, like one of the tricks to be seen at a pantomime, the bits send forth arms, and legs, and heads, and tails, and become perfect animals again.”

Digby listened with mute astonishment. He knew that his uncle would not tell him an untruth, and yet he fancied that, somehow or other, he must be laughing at him. The account he had heard, however, made him look forward eagerly to the promised trawling expedition.

The day approached, but Digby was doomed to be disappointed. A heavy gale of wind sprung up in the evening, and blew with great violence during the night.

The next day was Saturday, and was a half-holiday. Just as the boys had finished their lessons, a servant-girl came running in, exclaiming:

“Oh, sir, they say that there is a big ship driving on the shore, and that all the poor souls in her will be lost. Oh, it’s very dreadful! oh dear! oh dear!”

Mr Nugent seized his hat and stick, and the boys prepared to follow him.

“Stay, we will take a brandy-flask, and any rope to be had – a long pole may be useful.”

These articles being quickly found, the boys carrying them, they hurried out to the beach.

Not the eighth of a mile from the shore was a dismasted vessel, rolling and tumbling about in the most fearful manner. The crew were trying to get up jury-masts, or sheers rather, which are formed of two spars, the butt ends resting against the sides of the ship, and the others joined together. The sheers were got up, and then an endeavour was made to hoist a sail on them, to beat the ship off the shore. It was utterly useless. The sail was blown to ribbons, and the sheers blown away. The last resource was to anchor. This was done, and the ship rode head to wind, plunging, however, even more violently than before. Toby Tubb just then joined Mr Nugent and his pupils.

“There’s no use in it. There’s no ground here will hold an anchor ten minutes together.” His prediction proved too true. On drove the hapless ship. She had parted from her anchors, no human power could avert the expected catastrophe. The only hope that any of those on board could be saved, would be that the ship might drive into the sandy cove in which they were standing. If she struck on the dark ledges of rock outside, not a person on board, it was thought, could be saved. The sea was breaking with tremendous violence over them, creating sheets of foam, which were driven towards the shore, almost blinding the lookers-on.

Digby thought he could almost hear the shrieks of the unfortunate people on board. He could see them, clearly, throwing up their arms, as if imploring aid from their fellow-men, who were utterly unable to afford it.

“Could no boat go off to them?” asked Mr Nugent, eagerly.

“No, sir, no boat would live a second in that sea, alongside those rocks,” answered Toby; “what men can do we will do, when the time comes; more is unpossible.”

“I have a rope and some poles, you see,” said Mr Nugent; “they may be useful.”

“So have I, sir, but two ropes may be better than one,” was Toby’s reply. “Now, lads, be ready to do what I tells you; follow me.”

He addressed a party of seamen and fishermen, not all very young though, who were standing near with their hands in their pockets, exhibiting, apparently, very little interest in what was going forward. The ill-fated ship rose on the top of the huge waves which rolled onward towards the shore. Now it appeared that she would be engulphed between them. No further effort was made on board to save her. Such would have been hopeless. Each person was intent on making preparations for his own safety. Digby gazed with horror; he felt inclined to shriek out himself, as he saw the danger of the poor fellows on board. He would gladly have run away and forgotten all about it, but yet he could not tear himself from the spot, or his eyes from the driving ship. A few minutes more, and her fate would be sealed.