William Kingston - The Cruise of the Frolic

Next morning we sailed with the wind back again to the north-east, and, notwithstanding the little inconveniences we had suffered on the passage across, we stood to the westward, and heroically determined to run through the Race of Alderney, to pay a visit to Jersey. There was a nice breeze, and I must say we were glad there was no more of it, as we ran through the passage between Alderney and the French coast. The water seemed possessed; it tumbled and leaped and twisted and danced in a most extraordinary and unnatural manner; and several seas toppled right down on our decks, and we could not help fancying that some huge fish had jumped on board. However, with a fair wind and a strong tide we were soon through it, nor was there danger of any sort; but from the specimen we had we could judge what it would be in a strongish gale. The wind had got round to the southward of west, and before we had managed to weather Cape Gronez the tide turned against us. Cape Gronez is the north-west point of Jersey, and bears a strong similarity to the nose of Louis Philippe, as his portrait used to be represented in “Punch.” We had an opportunity of judging of it, for, for upwards of an hour did we beat between it and those enticing rocks called very properly the Paternosters, for if a ship once strikes on them, it is to be hoped that the crew, being Roman Catholics, will, if they have time, say their Paternosters before they go to the bottom.

At last it came on very thick, we ran back and anchored in a most romantic little cove called Bouley Bay, where we remained all night, hoping the wind would not shift to the northward, and send us on shore. I should advise all timid yachtsmen to keep clear of Jersey, for what with the rapid tides, and rocks innumerable, it is a very ticklish locality. The next morning we got under way at daybreak, and brought up off Elizabeth Castle, which guards the entrance of the harbour of St. Heliers. I have not time to describe Jersey. I can only recommend all who have not seen it, and wish to enjoy some very beautiful scenery, to go there. Two days more saw us crossing to Torbay, which we reached on the morning of the regatta. Had an artist been employed to carve the cliffs on which Torbay is situated, he could scarcely have made them more picturesque, or added tints more suitable, except perhaps that they are a little more red than one might wish. However, it is a very beautiful place, and admirably adapted for a regatta.

The bay before the town was crowded with yachts, and I counted no less than fourteen large schooners, among which I remember the “Brilliant,” which, however, should be called a ship, “Gypsy Queen,” “Dolphin,” “Louisa,” and a vast number of cutters, a large proportion of which were gayly dressed up with flags. The course is round the bay, so that the yachts are in sight the whole time – an advantage possessed by few other places. The “Heroine,” “Cygnet,” and “Cynthia,” sailed, but the race was not a good one, as the “Heroine,” driven to windward by her antagonist, ran her bowsprit into one of the mark boats, and another of them, the “Cynthia,” making a mistake, did not go round her at all. Notwithstanding this, the sight was as beautiful of its kind as I ever saw. There was a ball at night, to which we went, and we flattered ourselves that four dancing bachelors were not unwelcome. We met a number of acquaintances. Hearty lost his heart for the tenth time since he left London. The Gentle Giant, as the Miss Rattlers called Carstairs, looked out for a charmer, but could find none to surpass Mrs Skyscraper. Bubble laughed with all but sighed with none, though Hearty accused him of flirtations innumerable; and I never chronicle my own deeds, however fond I may be of noting those of my friends. However, if we did not break hearts, we passed a very pleasant evening. Hearty invited everybody he knew to come on board the next morning, and we went as far as Dartmouth, and a beautiful sail back we had by moonlight, to the great delight of the romantic portion of the guests. They were a very quiet set of ladies and gentlemen, and more than one sigh was heaved when they had gone on shore for our fast friends at Cowes.

We were present at the Plymouth Regatta, and were going to several other places, when, one day after dinner, Hearty thus gave utterance to his thoughts. We were about a quarter of the way across channel on our passage to the French coast, with a stiffish breeze from the westward, and a chopping sea: —

“It seems to me arrant folly that we four bachelors should keep turning up the salt water all the summer, and boxing about from place to place which we don’t care to visit, when there are a number of fair ladies at Cowes who are undoubtedly pining for our return.”

“My own idea,” exclaimed Carstairs.

“Your argument is unanswerable,” said Bubble.

I nodded.

“All agreed – then we’ll up stick for the Wight,” said Hearty joyfully. “The wind’s fair. We shall be there some time to-morrow. Hillo, Jack! beg the master to step below.”

This was said to a lad who waited at table and assisted the steward.

Old Snow, the master, soon made his appearance. He had been a yachtsman for many years, and previously, if his yarns were to be believed, a smuggler of no mean renown. He was a short man, rather fat, for good living had not been thrown away on him, and very neat and clean in his person, as became the master of a yacht.

“We want to get back to Cowes, Snow,” said Hearty.

“Yes, sir,” answered the skipper, well accustomed to sudden changes in the plans of his yachting masters.

“How soon can we get there?” asked Hearty.

“If we keeps away at once, and this here wind holds, early to-morrow; but, if it falls light, not till the afternoon, maybe; and, if it chops round to the eastward, not till next morning,” replied Snow.

“By all means keep away at once, and get there as fast as you can,” said Hearty; and the master disappeared from the cabin.

Directly afterwards we heard him call the hands aft to case off the main-sheet, the square-sail and gaff-topsail were set, and, by the comparatively easy motion, we felt that we were running off before the wind. Not a little did it contribute to our comfort in concluding our dinner.

The next day, at noon, saw us safely anchored in Cowes Roads.

“There’s Mr Hearty and the Gentle Giant, I declare,” exclaimed the melodious voice of Miss Susan Rattler, from out of a shrubbery, as my two friends were pacing along on the road towards Egypt, to call on Lady Cardiff.

“Oh, the dear men! you don’t say so, Susan!” replied her sister.

Bubble and I were close under them, a little in advance, so they did not see us, though we could not avoid hearing what was said.

“Yes, it’s them, I vow; we must attack them about the pic-nic forthwith,” said Susan.

“Don’t mention Jane Seaton, or poor Ned will be too much out of spirits to do any thing,” observed her sister.

“Trust me to manage all descriptions of he-animals,” replied Rattler minima. “Ah, how d’ye do? – how d’ye do? Welcome, rovers, welcome!” she exclaimed, waving her handkerchief as they approached.

“Lovely ladies, we once more live in your presence,” began Hearty.

“‘Oh that I were a glove upon that hand!’” shouted Carstairs.

“Oh, don’t, you’ll make us blush!” screamed Susan, from over the bushes. “But seriously, we’re so glad you’re come, because now we can have the pic-nic to Netley you promised us.”

“I like frankness – when shall it be?” said Hearty.

“To-morrow, by all means, – never delay a good thing.”

“‘If ’twere done, ’twere well ’twere done quickly,’” observed the captain.

“That’s what Shakespeare says about a beef-steak,” cried Susan. “But I say then, it’s settled – how nice!”