“When it turns at nine o’clock,”
said Herbert, cheerfully, “look out for us,
and stand ready, you over there at Mill Pond Bank!”
It was one of those March days when the sun shines
hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer
in the light, and winter in the shade. We had
out pea-coats with us, and I took a bag. Of all
my worldly possessions I took no more than the few
necessaries that filled the bag. Where I might
go, what I might do, or when I might return, were
questions utterly unknown to me; nor did I vex my mind
with them, for it was wholly set on Provis’s
safety. I only wondered for the passing moment,
as I stopped at the door and looked back, under what
altered circumstances I should next see those rooms,
if ever.
We loitered down to the Temple stairs, and stood loitering
there, as if we were not quite decided to go upon
the water at all. Of course I had taken care
that the boat should be ready and everything in order.
After a little show of indecision, which there were
none to see but the two or three amphibious creatures
belonging to our Temple stairs, we went on board and
cast off; Herbert in the bow, I steering. It
was then about high-water — half-past eight.
Our plan was this. The tide, beginning to run
down at nine, and being with us until three, we intended
still to creep on after it had turned, and row against
it until dark. We should then be well in those
long reaches below Gravesend, between Kent and Essex,
where the river is broad and solitary, where the waterside
inhabitants are very few, and where lone public-houses
are scattered here and there, of which we could choose
one for a resting-place. There, we meant to
lie by, all night. The steamer for Hamburg,
and the steamer for Rotterdam, would start from London
at about nine on Thursday morning. We should
know at what time to expect them, according to where
we were, and would hail the first; so that if by any
accident we were not taken abroad, we should have
another chance. We knew the distinguishing marks
of each vessel.
The relief of being at last engaged in the execution
of the purpose, was so great to me that I felt it
difficult to realize the condition in which I had
been a few hours before. The crisp air, the
sunlight, the movement on the river, and the moving
river itself — the road that ran with us, seeming
to sympathize with us, animate us, and encourage us
on — freshened me with new hope. I felt
mortified to be of so little use in the boat; but,
there were few better oarsmen than my two friends,
and they rowed with a steady stroke that was to last
all day.
At that time, the steam-traffic on the Thames was
far below its present extent, and watermen’s
boats were far more numerous. Of barges, sailing
colliers, and coasting traders, there were perhaps
as many as now; but, of steam-ships, great and small,
not a tithe or a twentieth part so many. Early
as it was, there were plenty of scullers going here
and there that morning, and plenty of barges dropping
down with the tide; the navigation of the river between
bridges, in an open boat, was a much easier and commoner
matter in those days than it is in these; and we went
ahead among many skiffs and wherries, briskly.
