On Friday morning, March 15, Henry, Tom and two hired men rowed out to the Jane Woodburn in a hired ex whaling boat. The boat was laden with the 500-foot rope and a variety of other items required for the performance, so each man laboured at the oars against the easterly breeze. Wavelets slapped against the bow of the wooden boat sending occasional bursts of spray over the men. The ships were moored a mile away, nearer the harbour’s northern shore in shallower water that provided better purchase by the ship’s anchors.
Soaked from spray and sore of limb from their exertions, they shipped oars as the boat bumped along the lee side of the Jane Woodburn. 'An iron ship,' observed Tom. 'I’d not noticed that before.’
'Yes, one of the new breed of ships,' replied Henry. ‘Should last a hundred years or more with no danger of woodworm or other rot.’
Captain Saunders peered over the rail and hailed a greeting.
'Good day sirs, I will have a rope lowered so we can haul your gear aboard, and a ladder extended to you.'
Minutes later Henry and Tom stood on the deck and peered up through the rigging, then across to the other ship, the Loch Maree.
'Captain, I suggest we first confirm the measurement between the masts,' said Tom who was keen to get set up. 'Are you fully anchored at this stage?'
‘Captain Campbell has the Loch Maree secured by four anchors, while I have two out, one at the bow and one at the stern as I anticipated there would need to be some adjustments required before I drop the final two,’ replied Saunders.
‘I suggest we run a light line from the base of one mast to the base of the other,’ said Tom. ‘If we can keep this distance to no more than 450 feet that will allow us some leeway.’
*
Three hours later Jane Woodburn had hauled herself forward on her bow anchor rope to increase the distance between the masts to the desired span and set the final two anchors. The walking rope had been hauled up to the topgallant spar. While the lower heights of the forty-foot towers on hard ground did not worry Tom, his core fear of heights remained but he felt obliged to check the knots tied by two of the ship’s crew who had been seconded to undertake the securing of the walking rope. Tom was hoisted aloft in a bosun’s chair with eyes closed the whole way and on reaching the top, he gripped the spar like a vice with one hand and the other clung to the rope used to hoist him while he supervised the rope tying. The walking rope was secured with several windings around the mast and three half hitch knots. As the tying was finished, the sailors laugh as they lowered Tom back to the deck.
A lighter rope was attached to the other end of the heavy rope and Tom rowed this over to the Loch Maree where two of her crew scampered up the rigging before hauling the light rope and then the heavier walking rope up to its securing point. Tom again ‘risked death’ in his mind, by being hoisted up in another bosun’s chair to again supervise the work.
In addition to the main rope, two pairs of ropes led from a quarter way along the walking rope back to each ship. These were tightened and fixed to act as stablisers to reduce swaying of the main rope. This was Tom’s idea as he anticipated the increased distance magnifying sideways movement of the rope.
Later, as they stood on the deck of the Jane Woodburn Tom turned to Henry. 'Are you ready for a trial walk? I have to warn you that I experienced some movement when I was up the mast, so you will need to account for that.'
Dressed with thin leather pumps on his feet, silk stocking for ease of movement and loose linen shirt, Henry shook his head and chuckled. ‘From what I hear the main movement you felt was in your guts while you were up there!’ joked Henry as he started the climb. Unlike his normal ladder with wooden rungs between the rope stringers, the rigging was all-rope and it twisted and flexed under his feet as he climbed. After navigating his way through the mass of ropes at the crows nest lookout halfway up the mast, he rested and gazed about.
The sunlight reflected off the water like the shards of a thousand mirrors. To the southwest, past Fort Denison, a fortified sandstone fort that clings to the small rocky outcrop in the centre of the harbour, he could just make out the masts of ships moored inside Sydney Cove and the impressive buildings of Sydney, now a thriving commercial center, less than 100 years since the arrival of the First Fleet.
He continued his dizzying climb till he reached the top gallant spar where he was met by one of the ship’s crew, a thin sinewy man, taller than Henry and perhaps a few years older, though it was hard to tell as his face was weathered and lined and perhaps making him look older than his really was. ‘Welcome sir,’ the sailor beamed. ‘My name is Smythe an’ the Capn’ has told me to offer you all assistance, being as this is unfamiliar territory for you an’ all. There is man at t’other end as well I see.’
‘Good to meet you Smythe,’ Henry replied. I will just need your help to lift the balance pole off the cradle and hand it to me. Henry steadied himself, placing his right foot on the rope and the other on the horizontal spar. Unlike his regular starting point, where he had a small level platform, here he will start slightly off-balance.
Smythe lifted the balance pole from the cradle that Tom had designed to be tied to the mast above head height, and placed the strap of the support harness that allow Henry’s shoulders to take the majority of the weight of the 60 pound pole, behind Henry’s neck. Henry leaned back against the mast while he closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. Emptying his mind of all thoughts he focused on the sounds of the breeze in the rigging, the feel of the air on his face, every muscle in his arms and legs, the weight of the balance pole. He placed himself in his surroundings, a pinpoint of existence on the surface of the planet. Then he was ready.
He stepped forward, putting his weight on his right foot, and felt a deep vibration coming through the rope. It was almost like a deep bass song and the feel of it filled his body as he brought his left foot forward onto the rope. Wind, he concluded; the wind was playing a tune on the rope as it stretched through the air over 400 feet to the other ship.
Walking at a steady rhythm of 40 steps a minute he covered the first 100 feet in less than two minutes. The rope, despite Tom’s efforts at tensioning, was looser than in his usual performances, but with careful use of the balancing pole he managed to keep the wobbles to a minimum. Six minutes later and sweating profusely, he reached the Loch Maree.
‘Take my waist!’ he urged the sailor as he placed one foot on the spar and brought his other onto the knotted rope circling the mast.
With the sailor holding his waist securely, Henry lifted the balance pole and thrust it into its mast-mounted rack then grasped the rigging in his hands. He engaged the sailor in casual banter while he rested before descending the rigging back to the deck of the Loch Maree.
*
‘It’s a long way and more taxing than I thought, Henry told Tom that night back in their lodgings. ‘There was a change in the rope tension at times, probably from slight movements of the ships. I’m working hard just to maintain my balance as the rope moves sideways.’
‘I’ll have the captain put crew on the winches to ensure those anchor cables are kept tight,’ responded Tom. ‘We are all set for tomorrow. There Is a lot of interest and I believe premium tickets for the ships have sold out, which bodes well for ticket sales for the spectators on the ferries.’
*
Saturday was bright and sunny and the steady southeasterly breeze and Henry could see the raised wavelets on the water as he stood on the topgallant spar in readiness for the performance.
Below, the well-to-do had finished their sit-down lunches provided by each of the captains, and around each ship was flotilla of a dozen ferries packed with eager spectators. If nothing else the event would prove a financial success. Henry thought it was a shame about the non-paying ‘dead heads’ in the flotilla of other small craft, including skiffs, small sailing boats and even larger boats, some with crowds who he suspected had paid money for the privilege.
He had dressed flamboyantly for the occasion, with a green cap with a long red feather, a loose fitting red silk shirt with ruffles at the collar and sleeve cuffs and black silk leggings. The sound of the crowd as they chatted, no doubt discussing the chances of witnessing a spectacular fall, or making a few wagers on the same wafted up. Above the din Tom’s voice suddenly boomed out through the speaking tube he had acquired to carry his voice further.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your attendance today to witness not only a first for the antipodes, but also a world first, the walking of a tightrope between two ships! What you will witness is not just another tightrope walk, but one that differs from all others before it.
‘First is the difficulty. This is not so much the distance, which in itself is far longer than almost any other regularly performed in Europe or America and certainly longer than any other seen anywhere in Australia, but because the fixing points are not secured into solid ground. This in itself creates variations in the tension of the rope because we cannot keep the ships perfectly stationary.
‘Today, the Australian Blondin, Mr Henry Giles, will demonstrate daring, courage and balance as he travels not just once between the ships, but also a return journey. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Australian Blondin!’ shouted Tom with a flourish of his arm upward.
All eyes turned towards Henry and a hush fell over the crowds.
Henry waved, and then leaning back against the mast, raised his arms behind his head and with Smythe’s assistance, lifted the balance pole from its cradle and took the weight on the strap behind his neck.
‘See you on my return Smythe,’ he said then pauses as he once again took the few minutes to clear his mind and narrow his focus to the task at hand. He heard the murmur of the crowd, the warmth of the sun and the air moving on his face. He slowed his breathing. His mind cleared and focused, he stepped out onto the rope.
Now his total attention was on the rope. Step, step, step, step at his preferred rate of 40 steps a minute. Fifty yards travelled and the midway point was almost reached, but with that came the problem of the rope wobbling sideways. Breaking through his focus he heard Tom’s voice as he instructed the crew on the two winches to make sure all slack was taken up.
Midway point reached and now the walk up the gradual incline to the Loch Maree. He paused, allowing his muscles to steady. With a self-assured confidence he started the first of the tricks he was to perform. First he bent his legs so his rear kneecap resting inside the bend of the other leg in a move not unlike a curtsy.
‘I hope they appreciate how hard this is’ he thought as he straightened and took several more paces. He stopped and balanced on his right leg and extended his left out and away from the rope. The rope swayed beneath his foot and he shifted the pole from side to side to counter the movement. The crowd roared its appreciation.
‘That’s more like it, do moves they can clearly see’. Another dozen steps and he repeated the maneuver balancing on his left leg and extended his right.
Step, step, step up the slight incline to the safety of the mast and spar the Loch Maree. The sailor grabbed the balance pole and held it steady while Henry shifted his grip to the mast and rigging.
‘That was mighty impressive sir,’ enthused the crewman.
‘Thank you. I’ll rest he for a few minutes,’ replied Henry. ‘Did you bring that water flask I requested?’
‘Aye sir, here it is.’
Henry swallowed several draughts of water and handed the flask back to the sailor before performing some knee bends and other stretches to get the blood circulating through his limbs. He turned and with his back to the mast he gave each foot a quick shake then reached back and with the crewman’s help, set the balance pole once again.
The crowd below stopped their conversations as they spotted him step out on his return journey. Step, step, step in a steady rhythm, pausing near the middle to lift one hand from the pole and wave to one side and swap hands to repeat the exercise. Step, step, step on his leather pumps up the incline and to the safety of the mast and spar of the Jane Woodburn.
He placed the pole in its cradle and asked Smythe to lash it in place ready for tomorrow’s performance and after a few moments rest, clambered down the rigging to meet the enthusiastic audience.
The crowd gathered around and there was much slapping of back and shaking of his hand to mark his progression to a hatch cover where, from his elevated position, he could address the crowd. Tom approached him with the speaking tube.
‘Thank you all for witnessing today a world first ropewalk,’ boomed Henry. ‘For those wishing to see something a bit more dramatic, such as me plunging to a sudden stop on wood or water, I am sorry to have disappointed you [chuckles from the crowd] but for those wishing to see, from even my own perspective, a difficult feat, then I trust you have been satisfied. Thank you!
He gestured Tom to follow him and walked briskly through the smiling crowds to the side of the ship where they climbed down the ladder into a waiting boat that would take him to repeat his speech several more times for those on the chartered ferries and on the Loch Maree.
‘I think that went rather well,’ he remarked to Tom later as they made their way back to shore in the longboat. ‘That will give Elson something to chew on.’