Down the Sound in an Old Two-Sticker by John T. Rowland
In the spring of I9IO, an old schooner made her way down the Sound from Greenwich to New London, where she would pick up a cargo of hardwood to carry down east to her home in the Maritime Provinces of Canada. Aboard for the ride andfor whatever he could contribute to the passage was young John Rowland, on spring break from Yale. On the way, amid snow squalls and tricky currents, he learned some things about how this "museum piece" as he called her, was sailed... and about how well he really knew Long Island Sound. By the first decade of this century steam had pretty well crowded sail off the world's oceans, but there was still a large fleet of schooners in regular operation along our coasts. These ranged all the way from big four-masters that carried coal and lumber down to little two-stickers in local trade. Greenwich boasted a lumber yard to which vessels brought cargoes of hard pine from southern ports, like Charleston and Savannah, and sweet-smelling spruce and cedar from such remote places as New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. These tough old schooners interested me, for they retained something of the sea's magic and the mystery of far places. And their people were, of necessity, real sailors. Late one autumn such a fine vessel came in from somewhere on the Bay of Fundy. The season was too far advanced, with freezing weather and heavy gales, for her to risk the return passage that winter. She was a small two-master and very old. Her crew of three brothers made her fast alongside the lumber wharf and left her in the care of the yard. They went home by rail, with a promise to come back and fetch her early in the spring. This vessel fascinated me. And well she might, for she was of a type not seen in our part of the country for many years. (Later I discovered that schooners like this were fairly common in the early 1800s.) She had round, bluff bows and a raised poop deck, the latter elevated some four feet above the level of the waist, with a "ladder," or flight of steps, giving access to either side of the "house." The latter had its floor on the main deck, making a large and roomy cabin in which all hands lived. There was no forecastle. Her rig was that of a conventional two-masted schooner except that the space between the masts was somewhat greater and the foresail relatively larger, making a more even division of sail, which facilitated handling with a small crew. She carried two topmasts and set a sail on each. From the point at which the bulge of the bows ended, her sides ran in a straight line to the stem. That is, on deck; at the waterline she displayed a graceful run, ending in a raking transom. One striking anachronism was the head gear: her bowsprit carried a long jibboom; together they must have extended thirty feet, or about half the vessel's length, ahead of her stem. There were stays forthree jibs, and to hold this whole fabric down she had the heavy chain bobstays and martingale (complete with "dolphin striker") generally found only on much larger vessels. By pacing along the wharf I estimated the old schooner's length to be between 60 and 70 feet. Her width looked at least one-third as much. The cap of the bulwarks was at the level of the poop deck, which meant that the bulwarks in the waist were four feet high-another feature found only in big, deepwater ships-and the railing around the poop was an ornate balustrade of the type seen usually on the piazzas of Victorian houses and in pictures of the quarterdecks of oldtime men-ofwar. Her anchors were raised by a home-built windlass whose SEA HISTORY, SUMMER 1989
iron fittings appeared to have been forged in the village blacksmith shop, and her steering gear was equally simple, efficient, and homemade. Altogether she was a floating museum. The old schooner was much in my mind during the winter term at school, and when I came home for Easter the first thing I did was to walk down and look at her. Two men and a boy were very busy bending sail on the ancient spars which all through the winter had stood as bare as the branches of the trees. They paid me no more heed than any other loafer, but after a while I screwed up my courage to inquire if I might help. At that they all stopped working and stared at me with the frank appraisal one might give a strange animal. Finally a tall, gaunt young man whom I took to be the skipper gave a grudging assent. I took off my overcoat and clambered down. It was plain none of the the three expected much of me. The boy, a lad about my own age but considerably more robust,
I learned that coasters, like the ship of Saint Paul, sail only with a fair wind. continued to look at me with an almost translucent stare. This, of course, put me on my mettle to show them I was not the city slicker I might appear. Sailing under the tutelage of two elder brothers had taught me at least the rudiments of seamanship, and I soon discovered that while the schooner's gear was much heavier it did not differ essentially from that of our own sloop. When we knocked off for tea my hands were red and swollen, and every muscle in my body had an ache of its own; but the job was finished and the vessel ready for sea. I felt a warmth in the atmosphere which had not been there before. Fred, the oldest brother, was owner and skipper; Charlie, a good natured young man with brick red hair, was actually a farmer, but he had come along to cook and lend a hand. Dick, though no older than I, appeared to be already an A-1 sailorman, strong and able beyond his years. He still seemed to regard me with suspicion and was not pleased when I told Fred I would like to go East with them. Fred himself did not exactly enthuse; but the offer of any help at all on a vessel so short-handed as this one could not be brushed aside. He considered a few moments and then asked if I was "well acquainted hereabouts." I replied: yes, I was, wondering why that should interest him. His next words showed that he was not referring to people but to places: "That's good; I've never been through the Sound but once before." Then he asked about my acquaintance with New London and said he aimed to call there for a jag of hardwood to carry home. I told him I had been into New London often and boasted that I could find my way up the harbor in the fog. "Well, now," he replied with some animation, "that's just dandy. You be on board at daylight, and we'll get under way." Then he added: "I'm kinda sorry I engaged that mate to come up from New York. I reckon the four of us could take her down home all right." Walking home that evening, I felt some qualms about the role I had undertaken; but they were short-lived and disappeared entirely when my father offered no serious objections, merely admonishing me to be sure to get back in two weeks in order to return to school on time. He too appeared to place a flattering reliance upon my seafaring knowledge. When I reported on board next morning at sunrise all hands were still asleep. The cook turned out good naturedly and started a fire in his stove, but the mate, who had arrived during the evening proved the most unpleasant individual I had ever
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