What's this fellow?
Well, here at Echoes of Pern our players have recently discovered something called Snow Wherries. And they're big. Very big. They're native to the far North in the Snowy Wastelands and come in various sizes based on the terrain!
They're bondable, rideable, dragon-sized birbs and are now High Reaches Weyr's problem.
They don't do well in the heat so are best suited to colder climates.
Their naming convention ends in -ack. Our little model above is Jonquil's curious little fellow, Jonquack!
Template: CrimsonSlush || Colorist: CrimsonSlush || Played by: Helanova
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A charming illustration by Henry Matthew Brock shows the waterman Jacob Faithful having an unexpected meeting with his old benefactors and friends. The text makes much use of the word hard, italicised in the original, and defined as "A road-path made through mud for landing at" by Admiral W.H. Smyth in his Sailor's Word-Book.
As old Beazeley finished, I perceived a wherry pulling in with some ladies. I looked attentively, and recognised my own boat, and Tom pulling. In a minute more they were at the hard, and who, to my astonishment, were there seated, but Mrs. Drummond and Sarah. As Tom got out of the boat and held it steady against the hard, he called to me; I could not do otherwise than go and assist them out; and once more did I touch the hands of those whom I never thought to meet again. Mrs. Drummond retained my hand a short time after she landed, saying, "We are friends, Jacob, are we not?"
"O, yes, madam," replied I, much moved, in a faltering voice.
"I shall not ask that question," said Sarah, gaily, "for we parted friends."
— Frederick Marryat, Jacob Faithful. Illustration by H.M. Brock.
Squeezed between the modern brickwork of the wall of a Greek restaurant in the Bankside area there is a slab of very worn looking flint. This is the only remaining ferryman’s seat in London, one of many that once lined the banks of the river. The exact age of the seat is unknown, though the information sign proclaims it to have “ancient origins” (whatever that means).
The seat probably dates back to at least some time before 1750; prior to this date, the only bridge across the Thames was London Bridge. People not wishing to use this route to cross the water could hire the services of a ferryman (more correctly known as a wherryman), who could be found waiting for such passengers whilst perched on such a seat.
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The waterman Jacob Faithful is returning home on the Thames when he chances across a drunken "party of pleasure" who require his assistance when their wherry sinks. It's his first meeting with a Royal Navy lieutenant who will prove to be a valuable friend later in the book—and an opportunity for revenge on some warehouse clerks who have treated Jacob very badly.
“I tell you I can spin an oar with any man in the king’s service,” said the man in the bow, “Now look.”
He threw his oar out of the rowlocks, spun it in the air, but unfortunately did not catch it when it fell, and consequently it went through the bottom, starting two of the planks of the fragile-built boat, which immediately filled with water.
“Hilloa! waterman!” cried another, perceiving me, “quick, or we shall sink.” But the boat was nearly up to the thwarts in water before I could reach her, and just as I was nearly alongside she filled and turned over.
“Help, waterman; help me first; I’m senior clerk,” cried a voice which I well knew. I put out my oar to him as he struggled in the water, and soon had him clinging to the wherry. I then tried to catch hold of the man who had sunk the boat by his attempt to toss the oar, but he very quietly said, “No, damn it, there’s too many; we shall swamp the wherry; I’ll swim on shore”—and suiting the action to the word, he made for the shore with perfect self-possession, swimming in his clothes with great ease and dexterity.
I picked up two more, and thought that all were saved, when turning round, and looking towards the bridge, I saw resplendent in the bright beams of the moon, and “round as its orb,” the well-remembered face of the stupid young clerk who had been so inimical to me, struggling with all his might. I pulled to him, and putting out my oar over the bow, he seized it after rising from his first sink, and was, with the other three, soon clinging to the side of the wherry.
“Pull me in—pull me in, waterman!” cried the head clerk, whose voice I had recognised.
“No; you will swamp the boat.”
“Well, but pull me in, if not the others. I’m the senior clerk.”
“Can’t help that; you must hold on,” replied I, “while I pull you on shore; we shall soon be there.” I must say that I felt a pleasure in allowing him thus to hang in the water. I might have taken them all in certainly, although at some risk, from their want of presence of mind and hurry, arising from the feeling of self-preservation; but I desired them to hold on, and pulled for the landing-place; which we soon gained. The person who had preferred swimming had arrived before us, and was waiting on the beach.
“Have you got them all, waterman?” said he.
“Yes, sir, I believe so; I have four.”
“The tally is right,” replied he, “and four greater galloots were never picked up; but never mind that. It was my nonsense that nearly drowned them; and, therefore, I’m very glad you’ve managed so well. My jacket went down in the boat, and I must reward you another time.”
“Thank you, sir, no occasion for that, it’s not a regular fare.”
“Nevertheless, give us your name.”
“Oh, you may ask Mr Hodgson, the senior clerk, or that full-moon-faced fellow—they know my name.”
“Waterman, what do you mean?” replied Mr Hodgson, shivering with cold.
“Very impudent fellow,” said the junior of the round face.
“If they know your name, they won’t tell it,” replied the other. “Now, I’ll first tell you mine, which is Lieutenant Wilson, of the navy; and now let’s have yours, that I may ask for it; and tell me what stairs you ply from.”
“My name is Jacob Faithful, sir,” replied I; “and you may ask your friends whether they know it or not when their teeth don’t chatter quite so much.”
— Frederick Marryat, Jacob Faithful. Illustration by Henry Matthew Brock.
Young midshipman Percival Keene finds himself adrift with the drunken bumboat woman Peggy Pearson after the rope securing their small craft to Percival's frigate breaks.
But although I was cold and shivering, and worn out with watching, and tired with holding the lines by which the wherry was steered, I felt almost happy at the return of day. I looked down upon my companion in the boat; she lay sound asleep, with her head upon the basket of tobacco-pipes, her bonnet wet and dripping, with its faded ribbons hanging in the water, which washed to and fro, at the bottom of the boat, as it rolled and rocked to the motion of the waves; her hair had fallen over her face, so as almost to conceal her features; I thought that she had died during the night, so silent and so breathless did she lie. The waves were not so rough now as they had been, for the flood tide had again made; and as the beams of the morning sun glanced on the water, the same billows which appeared so dreadful in the darkness appeared to dance merrily.
I felt hungry; I took up a red herring from one of the baskets, and tore it to pieces with my teeth. I looked around me in every quarter to see if there was any vessel in sight, but there was nothing to be seen but now and then a screaming sea-gull. I tried to rouse my companion by kicking her with my foot; I did not succeed in waking her up, but she turned round on her back, and her hair falling from her face, discovered the features of a young and pretty person, apparently not more than nineteen or twenty years old; her figure was slight and well formed.
Young as I was, I thought it a pity that such a nice-looking person — for she still was so, although in a state of disorder and very dirty — should be so debased by intoxication; and as I looked at the bladder, still half full of spirits, I seized it with an intention to throw it overboard, when I paused at the recollection that it had probably saved my life during the night, and might yet be required.
