Gravesend
In the event we never got to France. We never got further than Gravesend, which turned out to be appropriate, since one of our party was to meet his death there. The day, which had begun bright and sunny, turned foul. Black clouds massed overhead and rain swirled everywhere, obscuring the view of both banks. A vicious east wind snaked down the river. Far from going forward, we seemed at times to be going backward or not moving at all. Water was everywhere, above, around, below, and — most alarming of all — spurting freely through the decks and topsides (which I gathered was the name for the parts of the vessel that were above the waterline). At any moment I feared we might be overturned, although the sailors on the Argo seemed to regard the storm as little more than a spring shower.
Piercing through the noise of the wind and rain was the sound of the shipmaster’s whistle whenever Colin Case summoned the mariners to a particular part of the boat. He left it to a heavily bearded boatswain, whose name was Bennett, to issue most of the orders. This gentleman bellowed out instructions concerning topmasts and main courses. Every command was pushed home with the demand that the men do it yarely. It was all Greek to me — apart from the ‘yarely’, which is sailor-speak for ‘quick’ — but the men went at it like monkeys, tugging at ropes, climbing up masts, lowering the sails and cursing their heads off… cursing most of all.
Jack and I spent the day clinging to ropes or any fixed object on the deck, receiving our ration of oaths if we were in anyone’s way and sometimes when we weren’t. Some of the sailors not only sounded but looked threatening, carrying poles with hooks for some obscure nautical purpose. I observed that Henry Tallman, the black-garbed man, was still on the boat. We might have gone back to the great cabin, which is where Tallman and the shipmaster Colin Case spent some of their time, but neither Jack nor I had much desire to keep company with our fellow travellers, especially Dr Jonathan, whom I held responsible for our plight. Besides, the rocking of the boat stirred me up to fresh bouts of sickness — even though I could’ve sworn that not a particle of anything solid remained in my guts — and I preferred to suffer without unnecessary witnesses.
We tried taking shelter in the hold, where the wine barrels were stored and where we’d been deposited the previous night, but there was something about being shaken about in the dark that was worse than remaining out in the open. I also believed we weren’t alone down there. There were rats in the hold, scuttering and scurrying, but also a human presence. A dark shape in a corner. A mariner, perhaps, or another unfortunate individual being carried away from his homeland. I thought of the hooded figure I’d seen on the afterdeck, and I shivered from more than the cold and wet alone. Jack saw — or sensed — this individual, too, so to the deck we returned. To face the wind and the rain, a combination which reminded me of Feste’s song at the end of Twelfth Night — ‘the rain it raineth every day’ and all that — and caused me to wonder whether I’d ever again see my companions in the King’s Men, so low did I feel.
In the late afternoon we put in at Gravesend, where the river grows less wide and looks out to Tilbury on the northern side. Now I decided that, however unpleasant the bad weather, I preferred it a thousand times over to blue skies, since it had compelled us to put in at a port whereas, otherwise, we might have anchored offshore or by some desolate marshy stretch.
It took us some time and trouble to moor. The rough waters meant that we slammed into another boat as we were docking, or rather the other boat slammed into us. The jar threw Jack and me to the deck. It was a herring buss, I was told, also coming in to moor. The boat was smaller than ours, but with a great bowsprit. Canvas was stretched on hoops arching above the main deck presumably to protect the fish catch.
If I thought I’d heard enough of sailors’ curses before, I realized that it was as nothing to the torrent that swept between the Argo and the fishing boat as the men on each vessel struggled to push away from the other with staves and those vicious-looking hooked implements. Finally, we got ourselves clear of the herring buss and securely tied up to some mighty stakes that stood near the Gravesend wharf. A couple of precarious planks were stretched across the void between the bulwarks of the boat and the dock-side. Below was the turbulent river.
Speaking as if he had done us a favour, Dr Case said we would be able to return to London on the morrow. Of course, it was too late to travel now. He advised us to go by river on the so-called ‘long ferry’, since the route overland was dangerous on account of robbers, particularly in the area around Blackheath. He talked as if he had our best interests at heart. Yet I no longer trusted him, especially when he tried to press Jack Wilson to stay on board because it would be useful to have a French speaker to help him with his business in St-Malo. I recalled our laughter on the previous evening over Jack’s French aunt. Had we been tricked into remaining on the Argo solely in order that Jonathan Case might have a translator to accompany him?
We stayed on board that night and shared a supper with Case and others. He insisted we join him, as a small recompense for the trouble we had been put to. Even so, Jack and I drank very sparingly and we extracted a promise from Colin Case — despite his rough exterior, the captain seemed a more reasonable man than his brother — that they would not depart next morning without leaving us behind. He reassured us that high tide was not due until a couple of hours after sunrise.
I must describe the supper, since it has a bearing on what happened afterwards. Food and drink were brought across the precarious planks from a Gravesend ordinary, and we ate in the great cabin, sitting on the benches and resting our elbows on the table. The food and drink were served by the lad I’d stopped on deck. Looking at him more closely, I realized that he was closer to man than lad, despite his smooth and downy features. Attending at supper apart from Jack and me there were the Case brothers and Henry Tallman, the fellow with the appearance of a puritan and the shoe buckles of a man of fashion. I’d seen no sign of cousin Thomasina and assumed she’d quit the boat at London Bridge. Nor had I glimpsed again the hooded figure seen on the aftercastle and, perhaps, below deck.
The mood of the meal was argumentative from the start. Colin Case and Henry Tallman came in from enjoying a smoke on deck and, their pipes scarcely stowed away, were met with a comment from Jonathan Case that smoking was a filthy habit. Furthermore, it was a habit that had incurred the displeasure of their sovereign. Did they not know that King James was the author of an anonymous pamphlet that had recently been circulating in London, called A Counterblast to Tobacco? Tallman yawningly indicated that he was aware of it, while Colin laughed either at his brother or at the King’s opinion or both. Dr Case took even more offence and made some pompous remark about James being well within his rights to pronounce on the bad habits of his subjects as he was the ‘physician of the body politic’.
Then there was some bad-tempered discussion between the brothers over how long the weather would detain them. Jonathan wanted to proceed as soon and as fast as possible, while Colin pointed out that they were at the mercy of wind and tide.
‘I have heard that there is a sure way to raise a favourable wind,’ said Jonathan Case. ‘You must drown a cat.’
‘Then you will have to catch one in Gravesend,’ said Colin Case. ‘Lay a hand on Gog and Magog and I will lay both hands on you.’
Gog and Magog? I was baffled by this reference to the two giant figures carried in London processions until Colin made a comment on their ratting skills and I realized he was talking about the ship’s cats.