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  With our tails between our legs, we pushed through the crowd and made for the road north.

  Bristol Bound

  I travelled to Charleston with a young crew member, Caspar. We had been close friends aboard ship, being of an age with each other. Caspar had joined the Walrus by way of the army. He had deserted in Barbados after listening to our tales in a tavern there, and had found the relative freedom much more to his taste. The army had let him grow tall, strong and curly-haired, and leaving early as he did, he brought no dull military subservience with him. Now he had been both a soldier and a sailor, he made a fine companion for the journey, just as knowing by land as he was by sea. We left the others in a wood just outside Savannah and resolved to push on to Bristol as fast as we could go.

  It was a long walk to Charleston, as far, I suppose, as from here to London. However, we were young, and soon shook off the distress of losing both home and fortune. With light hearts we marched off, bearing all our worldly goods on our backs, that is to say, the clothes in which we stood. In addition we had our knives (no sea-man is ever without a sharp knife), pipes and tobacco, and precious little else. Caspar had a pair of fine boots, his pride whenever ashore, and he wore them around his neck to protect them from any hurt. I walked in rope slippers that lasted but a few days.

  I find it hard after all these years to recall exactly how we managed to stay alive. No doubt the gardens we passed furnished most of our food. I do recall a hard day’s work unloading corn from a barge in return for a square meal and a river ride. That was dusty work, and Caspar’s black hair turned quite white with the dust of it. I can see him now standing down in the shallow hold of the barge, covered in dust and complaining of the weight of the sacks. Being slighter, I had an easier task. I was in the sunlight working with a Negro slave to swing the bags up onto the rail. Still, times cannot have been too hard, or they would stay clearer in my mind.

  We trotted into Charleston on a fine morning and made for the quay. Immediately, we set about finding a ship, for a sailor without a ship is quite as stranded as a fish on the river bank. His ship is his home, and until he can call himself and his mates by the name of a respectable ship, he is a lost soul indeed.

  Cautious of carrying the name of the Walrus with us, we agreed on a tale of leaving a ship some months before to view the Americas. And now having run out of money, we were back to the sea. Charleston had several likely looking ships at the quay, and we went quickly from one to the next asking for a place. We were turned back from the gangway of each.

  It seemed the city fathers of Charleston looked very narrowly at taverns and the other amusements that sailors usually consider vital to life ashore. As a consequence, it was a bit of a sour place. Few sailors were tempted to jump ship and leave empty berths for us.

  Standing amid the bustle of loading and discharging, provisioning and watering, our feeling of dejection must have shown. A boatman called up to us, asking if we were looking for a place. This gentleman did not look altogether straight and perhaps we should have been less ready to accept his offer to run us over to a fine ship just fitting out for Bristol. As things stood, we were without other appointments, and we let him row us round to a nasty, muddy creek where lay the American Providence, fitting out for Bristol just as he had said.

  Laying us alongside, he motioned us up to the deck. We stepped aboard amid a tangle of spars, blocks and cordage. Obviously fitting out still had some way to go.

  “Good morning! Good morning! Now here’s a brace of fine young gentlemen.” A short, red-faced individual in a black clerk’s coat and linen that badly needed laundering came bustling up to us. “Come to join the Providence? A fine ship, fine ship, none better. Good victuals, dry berths, a happy ship. Couldn’t do better, not this side of your mother’s hearth. Couldn’t do better. What did your mothers call you, lads? What are your names? Come on, make your mark and collect your shilling. Fine lads, couldn’t do better!”

  This amazing flow of praises alternately of the ship and ourselves, along with much more that I shall not try to set down, was delivered at such a speed that the gentleman did not seem to draw breath. Although he must have done, for he kept up the flow until he had ushered us to the cabin. A glance over the rail showed our boatman rowing rapidly away, presumably by prior arrangement. Caspar and I looked uncertainly at each other and, overwhelmed by our host, we put our names in the ship’s register. The flow of blandishments ebbed, and we stepped outside.

  “Ah, here is Mr. Doughty, your bo’sun. Mr. Doughty, take these two shillings and make sure you write them down in your slop book for these two young lads. Off you go then, and Mr. Doughty will show you the ropes.”

  So commenced one of the busiest periods of work I can remember. We rigged, ballasted, and watered the ship prior to kedging her over to the wharf to take on our cargo of tobacco. If the work was hard and long, at least the food was sufficient, and as more hands were signed up, we started to resemble a crew. Doughty was a hard man o’war’s man, but fair enough and not over fond of the rope’s end.

  Loading the tuns of tobacco was the job of a longshore crew, but that did not mean that we sailors could have the liberty of a stroll around town. Indeed, guards stood on the wharf to make sure that none of us would try to stretch his legs ashore and disappear before we sailed. We kept busy working over the spare tackle, and helping the sail maker check and repair the storm-sails. On our final afternoon in port, Caspar and I were on the poop helping the sail maker leech a new storm trysail when an owner’s party came aboard, along with the Captain and some passengers.

  Generally speaking, there is nothing will prick a captain more than to be in port with the owners aboard. Afloat, the captain is the lord of the manor, holding sway over the ship and the very lives of his crew. Many take on the airs and aspect of a king, and not a few allow Satan to tempt them into acting the part of Deity for their tiny universe. However, when they return to port, even these captains must revert to ordinary mortals. When the owner comes on board, the captain is pressed between acting as a servant (which indeed he is) on the one hand, and on the other maintaining his customary regal dignity towards the crew. It is a job that few captains do well, and most scheme to rush the owners into the cabin as soon as possible. Lavish hospitality is provided to keep them there throughout their stay.

  Our owners did not allow themselves to be kidnapped, and induced the Captain to lead them onto the poop deck where we knelt working on our sail.

  “Keep working!” he ordered sharply as we jumped to our feet, no doubt hoping to discourage the party from lingering. We quickly bent to our work again and continued uneasily. We felt the weight of the owners’ eyes on our backs. There were two children with the party, a young boy and a girl of nine or ten years.

  “Oh, look, Mama!” cried the girl. “They are sewing.” She ran to the rail and called down to her mother. “Do come up, Mama. The sailors are sewing up here.”

  We could hear the muted protests of the lady as she was persuaded to come up to the poop and inspect the strange sight of men sewing. “Look how big their needles are, Mama. And the thread. And why do they use those funny things on their hands instead of thimbles?”

  After a muffled consultation, the lady decided an interpreter was needed. “Harry, come here!” One of the owners grouped around the Captain changed in an instant from a Man of Business and hurried over. (It seemed that even Owners have Masters.) “Harry, ask these men what they are doing.”

  While Caspar struggled to make himself understood, I made myself as small as possible, and stared at the deck in the hope of avoiding notice. At that moment, the sound of a struggle and a quiet imprecation drew my attention. Then above the level of the poop deck appeared an elegant tricorn hat, and below it the cheerful, brown face of Long John Silver, surging rapidly upwards as he fought his way onto the poop.

  Fortunately, I was struck dumb by surprise. He, thinking much faster than I, fixed me with a look of such ferocity that I stayed dumb. I el
bowed Caspar who had yet to notice our old quartermaster.

  Silver marched up to the owner who was questioning us. To my surprised ears came a slightly more educated version of Silver’s voice saying “Why, Harry! Here’s a thing. I’ve promised the mothers of these boys to keep an eye out for them and here they are, shipped on the Providence. Stand up, my boys, stand up.” We jumped up and stood sheepishly, not knowing what to say or do. “Are you keeping busy, boys? Are you doing your duty?”

  The Captain had come up. “Do you know these men, Captain Silver?”

  “Indeed I do. And their families. A fine pair of young men, and I promised their mothers I would see them well clothed and well fed if I saw them at all. Are you well, boys? Do you have oilskins?”

  Here the Captain forestalled him. “Jones,” he called, “have the slops been issued?”

  Jones showed his mettle, answering this prompt by assuring the Captain that the slops would be issued that very evening, once the vessel was under sail. “Sailors are well cared for on my ship, Captain Silver,” the Captain stated proudly. “A willing sea-man need have no fear.”

  “I’ll wager you’ll find them willing,” said Silver with emphasis. “I’m convinced they’ll do their duty.” He marched off leaving us to our work.

  That evening we weighed anchor and, sure enough, were issued with a complete set of the best the slop chest had to offer. We did not know if we should accept such finery, for a sailor must pay for all he is given. The wages for a voyage across the Atlantic were quite likely to be less than the cost of our clothes, and we would inevitably be in debt when the time came to leave the ship in Bristol. Doughty re-assured us that the clothes had been charged to the owners’ account by “the gentleman with one leg, he being one of them, you see”. Long John was a part owner! We took the oilskins and warm clothes with elation.

  We saw little of Long John during the voyage. We had generally left the deck by the time the passengers were up and about. From the masthead we might see him on the poop with his wife, a tall Creole lady, and strikingly pretty daughter of fourteen or fifteen years. We had no opportunity to talk. He was an owner and a passenger, and we were but sailors. It is strange to reflect that a ship, a tiny island afloat on a hostile ocean, should divide itself so completely into two parts.

  Our voyage across the Atlantic was fast but uneventful. We had sailed at the end of the season, and made our way up the Bristol Channel in a fine autumn gale. You may imagine that Caspar and I were eager to leap ashore and search for Billy Bones. We gave no thought to the daily necessities of food and a roof over our heads. We knew Long John would provide, our confidence in him even being heightened by seeing him in his new station.

  You have never travelled on a ship and here am I telling a tale that spends a good deal of time in and out of ships. So let me slow down and try to describe a little of what we saw and did. We were sailing into Bristol because, though you may not know it, Bristol is the most significant port in England. Some may say that honour falls to London, but I believe there are more ships from more countries coming into Bristol. Many of the vessels coming up the London river are mere coasters, indeed many of them never see blue ocean water at all. The cargoes coming into Bristol may hail from the East Indies, the Americas, Spain, and Africa. They are rich cargoes, rare cargoes, things that cannot be got in England (or across the Channel in France). If you had a mind to voyage, you could take your choice of vessels travelling to Constantinople, to Calcutta, even to California.

  With all these rich cargoes changing hands, the men of business gather and their gold flows like rivers from the farthest corners of England and out across the seas. You have only to look at the fine houses being built around Bristol to see solid expression of the wealth of the city.

  You know Bristol, you have travelled there and seen the fine buildings, but you travelled by land. Let me tell you how it appears to the mariner coming back to his home country after many years away. First, there is the Bristol Channel, one of the fiercest and busiest stretches of sea the world has to show. We came into the Channel inside of Lundy, leaving the island to port (to our left; port is left, starboard is right). Round the rocky coast of North Devon we sailed, and soon Wales was there to the north. The sea here is still clear and green, and smells fresh. With a good wind and fine weather, it can be a very fine trip. The hills of Exmoor stand out, and people and animals can be seen going about their business. After a shower of rain, the air can be so transparent that I have seen a shepherd and his dog walking out across the fields behind Porlock from a ship hard by the Welsh shore. Every valley has its church and houses, and sailors start to feel they are home again.

  The nearer we sailed to Bristol, the muddier the water became. It is clear up as far as Porlock. After that it might lose some of its shine as it takes the river water from the Levels of Somerset, and then the very cloudy water of the Severn Estuary. By the time Flatholm and Steepholm are well behind you, Wales is fully as near to see as England and the Channel is becoming narrower and narrower.

  Many sailors say the tides of the Bristol Channel are the highest in the world, and I do believe them. The mouth of the Channel, between Pembrokeshire and Devon, is wide and the tides are normal (although the currents run fast). You may imagine the tides in those parts being squeezed into the Channel as it gets narrower and narrower. The press of water is tightly confined as the tide reaches the Severn, and here it forms a remarkable natural phenomenon called the Bore. One spring tide I must journey up to see the Bore. I am told that the tide flowing up the river and meeting with the water coming down forms a huge wave which travels rapidly upstream, faster than a galloping horse. The local fishermen are well used to it and keep themselves and their boats well out of the water when it is due, for they would surely be swamped. I believe the Bore runs even up to Gloucester, though it is much smaller by then.

  These powerful tides moving the sea up and down fifty feet or more leave a very sad shore at the mouth of the Avon River. There are mud banks and little else. It is a dismal entry to Bristol, to anchor off Avonmouth and wait for the pilot to take the ship up the river. The weather is usually foggy and even the clearest days seem to leave a haze over the land.

  We waited for our pilot because every wise captain prefers to employ a man with local skills to enter port, especially a difficult entry like the Avon. When you think that the slightest mistake might bring disaster to the vessel and all aboard, it is understandable that the very best man should be employed.

  Being passengers, Long John and his family were able to leave by cutter as we swung at anchor. It was two weary days before we had picked up our pilot and inched our way up the Clifton Gorge to Bristol. Then we had only to be paid our due, take our discharge, and we were free to swing down the gang-plank onto the busy Bristol Quay.

  The Hunt Sets Out

  We set our bags down on the quay and looked around us, wondering where we should go and what we should do to find Long John. We need not have worried. A dirty little boy trotted up, knuckled his forehead and recited in a rush, “Mr. Silver’s compliments and if you would care to come to the sign of The Spyglass, he would be pleased to welcome you, an’ he said you’d give me a ‘alfpence, sir.”

  Following our tiny guide we pushed our way along the crowded waterfront, passing every class of merchantman in every class of readiness to sail. All around us, cargoes were being discharged into drays and lighters. Others were being swung into waiting holds. Wagons laden with ballast inched their way onto the wharf and returned laden with tuns of tobacco, or wine, or sugar, or any of the myriad products in which the men of Bristol trade and make their fortunes.

  As with the cargoes, so with the men. All nations of the world were in the crowd, distinctive in face and dress. Swedes in profusion, Germans, Dutch, Spaniards, Moors, Africans, Levantines, all were there. Some from farther away, Chinese, Malays, Lascars, and Siamese.

  Our guide turned sharply into a cobbled alley and we found before us The Spyglass
, the sign of its name hanging over the door. We stepped down off the cobbles into the dark and smoky taproom, a long room sadly lit by the open door and a small window into the alley. We looked this way and that for Long John. We found him, not as we expected seated at one of the boards, but standing behind the bar and surveying the room with the air of a proprietor. He wore an old blue coat, and his smart hat had been replaced by a familiar salt-stained one.

  “Welcome aboard, lads, welcome aboard!” he shouted. “Ashore at last. Here.” He set two mugs and a jug on the counter. The grog tasted very good after our abstinence of the last few months.

  We had a fund of all the questions we had kept in store since Long John surprised us on the Providence. He laughed at our confusion and the tales of our trials. Over our grog he told us that not only did he have a part share in the American Providence, but he also owned The Spyglass. In the two days since he had come ashore, Long John had set aside the fine clothes of a ship-owner and donned an inn-keeper’s apron. He even looked the part. He was an old salt retired from the sea, keeping in touch with his mates by running a grog-shop. When we wanted to know how he had managed the miraculous transformation so quickly, he just winked and said, “Friends, lads, friends.”

  (I realise now that his ‘friends’ must have been the counting house that handled his shipping business and money. I wonder what they made of him. Did they think it strange that a wealthy man should want to become the owner and even the proprietor of a low grog-shop? Did they see the pirate lurking inside the fine clothes? Surely they must have done. Over the years I have noted how men of business, no matter how grand, think it no shame to close their eyes and debase themselves to the very gutter in search of a profit.)

  Inn-keeper or not, Long John was as eager as we were to start on the business of finding Billy Bones. He had sent from the Americas asking his agents to obtain an inn for him. He had included a request for news of Billy Bones, a sailor recently landed from Charleston. His request may well have reached Bristol on the same ship as Billy.