The next morning was fine and calm, but cool. We had our breakfast before daylight, and just as the day was breaking an “ice glint” was noticed on the southern board, and when it grew lighter, an immense field of ice could
be seen, drifting toward us with the current.
Here was the finishing touch!
Here, as last, the “Old Enemy,” the Sea, was mustering forces against which all striving would be vain.
A man could fight against storms, against torn sails, against smashed gear—such obstacles in the path might be overcome with resolution and resource ; but what could one do when the pack-ice was closing down upon his vessel?
Flight was the only course, flight, immediate and unhesitating.
The Dundee was the first in the path of the oncoming floe, and even as we looked, someone called:
“There she goes!”
Not waiting a second longer than he had to, we beheld Black Dan cut his cable. He left his gear behind and proceeded to put the utmost distance between himself and the field of menace.
Others started to follow suit, but Foul Weather Jock held fast.
With the ice coming down upon us, the mate sang out:
“My God, Skipper, ain’t ye goin’ to cut yer ridin’ hawser?”
“Nay, I ain’t runnin’ frae ony ice,” he answered stolidly.
“But it’s suicide!” “It’s murder!”
“It’s temptin’ Providence too far!”
In a sudden panic, one of the hands went so far as to raise an ax to sever the manila cable. But even while his ax was in mid-air, Cap’n Jock was upon him, sending him sprawling, whilst he growled out like an unyielding bulldog.
“We’re on to the fish at last, and it’s here we’re goin’ to stay.”
CHAPTER X
A Walloping Come-Back
Standing there, like some inscrutable god, Cap’n Jock held his crowd at bay, until with a grinding, crashing sound, the ice field was upon us.
Soon we were jammed in fast, and thought of flight was out of question, with an ever increasing mass of field ice extending about us to a southern and eastern direction.
All the forenoon, the ice kept drifting past, carried along by the current. But our anchors held, though the strain was terrific on our cable, as the heavy masses of ice came up against our bows and went grinding, gritting and groaning along the vessel’s side.
Early in the afternoon, when all the rest of the fleet were out of sight, a moderate breeze sprang up, and with a clear space gradually opening up around us, we hove short on our cable and broke ground. We stood back and forth along the weather edge of the ice, watching for our trawl buoys to make their appear-
ance, and as fast as they did, the Skipper sent a dory to underhaul them.
We kept under sail during the night, and anchored on the following morning.
Foggy weather closed in thick after this, which made trawling extremely dangerous, for although the main floe had passed by, detached pieces kept coming along, and oftentimes when the dories were caught to leeward of these, the men had great difficulty in working their way through or over them.
Frequently the boats had to be hauled over the ice for a distance of one or two hundred yards.
It took courage to go out in a wee dory when a fog hung like a pall over the face of the sea, rendering the fisherman’s task more perilous and uncertain than ever before.
On the first day, when the Skipper ordered the men over the side, the mate, leader of the feeble-hearts, hung back.
“Are ye goin’ out?” cried the Skipper.
The mate glanced with terror at the glistening wall of gloom, and shivered in the chill air.
“How d’ye know but what a vast floe is hidin’ somewhere inside that fog?”
“And what of it?”
“Well, d’ye suppose I want to get carried away to drift helplessly until I’m a starved and frozen corp? I’ve heard o’ dories caught in the ice afore now, Skipper.”
Not waiting to argue, Cap’n Jock said:
“Ye take my place at the wheel.”
And then, in his monkey jacket, bare-headed, just as he stood, he jumped into the mate’s dory and sang out to his dory mate to cast off. An hour later, they were back with a grand catch.
After that, none of the rest of the crew hesitated to brave the unknown perils, feeling as they did that the Skipper was always ready to go one better than the rest.
Halibut fishing in the ice may have been a nervy business, but we certainly found it to be incredibly remunerative. In the next few days, Foul Weather Jock made a record haul, as though the sea, that had so long rebuffed him, had at last given in before the persistence of his brave attack.
When our last salt was wetted, with pens full, we pointed our nose for Gloucester. The mate exclaimed:
“Well, I guess our luck changed at last, eh, Skipper?”
“Ain’t nae such thing as luck,” was his rejoinder.
“What is it, then?”
“Plain guts, that’s all. If a mon’s nae quitter, he’s bound to take a trip o’ fish. Trouble wi’ some is that they get cold feet too easy.”
The Airlie stole into Gloucester Harbor with topmasts housed, reefed-down, and stepping warily—almost apologetic was the manner of her coming. As usual, there were dashing vessels there to show up one who entered port so meekly. But somehow, I had changed my mind about the Airlie’s Skipper. I was beginning to see a spark undreamed of in that quiet man beside her wheel.
When we had made fast at Chisholm’s wharf, great was my surprise to see our rival, the Dundee, discharging coal at a berth on the opposite side.
“What in the world happened to Black Dan?” I inquired of Rannie MacDonald, who came down to bid us welcome.
“What happened to him?” quoth Rannie. “Why, he had to cut his cable and lose his gear to escape the ice. That finished him fer the fishin’, an’ so, just to save expense, he put into North Sydney on the way home and brought along a load o’ Cape Breton coal.”
“And he’s the brave skipper that was crowin’ so loud over my Uncle Jock.”
“Aye, but men ain’t always what they seem, Johnnie Angus. It takes foul weather an’ the big outside to show ye just what kind of stuff is in ‘em.”
CHAPTER XI
Off For The Banks
Back in Gloucester, after this enforced trip, Uncle Jock made preparations to send me and Louis home in a schooner bound to the eastward. But when the sailing day arrived, we were not on hand, having missed the boat “accidentally on purpose.”
“What ever made ye skip out an’ hide the way ye did at the last minute?”
“Because I wanted to go out with you again.”
“D’ye mean to tell me, Johnnie Angus, that ye’d choose the dangers o’ the Banks, rather than the safe life o’ the farm?”
“I’d sooner go to the fisheries with you than anything,” I replied earnestly.
“Ugh, I guess all the fools in our family ain’t dead yet.”
Of course I carried the argument no further, but from that time it was taken as a matter of course that Louis and I should be numbered
among the crew of the Airlie on her next voyage, which was to be a handline trip to Georges Bank.
On the day appointed for our departure, Uncle Jock and I were up at five in the morning, while the stars were still shining. Up there on the high and windy hill of Gloucester, where my Uncle lived, everything was wrapped in gloom.
As we passed out, I saw my aunt peering through the window, as though striving to catch the last glimpse of us. While he was still fumbling with the gate latch, Uncle Jock did one of those little things which seemed utterly foreign to his nature. Putting his hand to his lips, he threw a kiss back toward the gleaming window, then t
urning a grim face seaward, he scowled ominously at the harbor stretching out below.
All the town of Gloucester was asleep as we came down the high hill. Only the dim street lamps were burning, which made me feel as if I owned the town. I pitied the boys that had nothing else to do but to lie abed, while I was just about to embark upon the finest spree that ever happened. Out there beyond the blinking lights was the ocean, the pathway to adventure. Something in my heart that morning was rushing out to meet the sea’s deep call. I was sixteen, outward bound, and supremely happy.
When we arrived aboard the Airlie, lying at
Chisholm’s wharf, the cook already had the galley fire going, and in the foc’sle things looked wonderfully warm and snug. As we sat together over hot coffee, the rest of the crew began to drift in by twos and threes.
Before dawn all hands were accounted for. Two of the crew were then sent off to the “baiter,” a vessel lying at anchor in the stream with flag flying. Soon they returned with five thousand stiffly frozen herring, which were hastily stowed in the hold under straw to prevent their thawing.
Shortly after sun-up, with the tide serving, we got under way, and worked out of the harbor with a moderate southwest wind.
At the wheel, studying the weather prospects, the Skipper announced, “Goin’ to be lots o’ wind to-day.”
After passing Eastern Point, our course was shaped E.S.E., and we went ramping away before the breeze leaving Brace’s Cove, Bass Rocks, and Thatcher’s Island with its tall lighthouse on our port hand. Astern, I could see the snow covered shores of Magnolia and the more distant land about Salem and Marblehead. But this soon grew indistinct, and was finally lost to view.
Meantime, we had all been busy getting everything shipshape, coiling ropes, tautening sheets and halliards clearing the decks, and finally pumping out the vessel.
Almost before one realized the morning was gone, and the welcome note of the cook’s bell was sounding. For dinner we had the usual first meal at sea, boiled salt beef and potatoes, white biscuits, pilot bread, butter, strong tea, and fried beefsteak.
After dinner the patent log was put out, and a note made of the bearing and distance from the land. Then, everybody was called aft to “thumb the hat” in order that the watch might be set. All hands stood around an inverted hat, taking hold of it so that the thumbs were on top of the rim. The Skipper then turned away his head, and reaching over touched one of the thumbs, and then counted around to a number previously decided upon. The first one that the count reached had the first watch. This process was repeated until every man knew his watch.
As the first man went to relieve the wheel, the Skipper sang out to the crowd:
“Remember, now, the one ye have to call.”
After a glorious run of twenty-four hours, we sighted the fleet on the Banks—nearly a hundred sail, riding at their anchors, half a mile, and in some instances, a mile apart. It was a pretty sight, and the fine clear weather rendered it highly exhilarating.
I was immensely curious over the hand- lining, and could distinctly see the men at the rail of the various vessels pulling in fish as rapidly as possible.
Soon our position was selected, our anchor was let go, and we all got busy to try our luck.
Even though I was thickly clad, the cold seemed to pierce to the marrow of one’s bones. But this sport of deep-sea fishing was so exciting that I stood at the rail sometimes for a full hour without changing my position, pulling in big codfish, and an occasional halibut.
It was a thrilling moment when I hauled in my first halibut, and saw him floating alongside with the hook securely fastened in his mouth. Louis helped me gaff him over the rail, while all the boys called out,
“Hurrah, the kid’s landed a fifty pounder!” The cook, a very clever fellow, in honor of my first halibut, brought me a mugful of hot coffee and a pancake with plums in it, called by the fishermen a “joe-flogger.”
Pulling in these big fish from so many fathoms down against a strong tide was work to which I was unaccustomed, and glad enough was I after partaking of a hearty supper to turn in to my bunk and be lulled to sleep by the tossing seas.
CHAPTER XII
A Gale
For several days we had glorious weather, and the best of fishing. We changed our berth twice, each time coming nearer to the body of the fleet, and each time found the fish more plentiful.
I began to think that the Georges fishery after all was not as bad as many painted it, and finally made bold to say so. At which an old salt took his pipe out of his mouth and looked on me with pity.
“You got lots to learn yet, young feller. Wait till ye git home before ye start crowin’ over Georges.”
“Nothin’ to worry over,” I replied.
“Ain’t there, though?” Taking the stem of his pipe, he indicated the anchored fleet. “There’s somethin’ I don’t like the look of. When I’m ridin’ to an anchor on Georges, I likes to be there alone. We’re too jammed up here, I’m tellin’ ye, reminds me o’ that Monday night on the twenty-fourth o’ February, seventy sail all bunched up, and caught unawar’s by a gale out o’ the nor’west. Thirteen of ‘em were lost that night. Aye, when a vessel goes down on Georges, me boy, she goes with all hands.”
Seeing that my face was not especially long, the dolorous individual who had spoken first pointed again to the riding fleet, and croaked:
“If any o’ them dragged their anchors, or chafed their cables and went adrift, they might crash right plumb into us on the Airlie, and down to the bottom we’d all go.”
As I knew that fishermen were given to pulling the leg of a greenhorn, I dismissed the rumors lightly.
We now had more than half a fare, and the Skipper said one afternoon as he lit his pipe:
“Well, lads, if luck holds fer three or four more days, we’ll be hauling the killick fer home.”
This was cheering news, and we finished up the day with another splendid catch. At sundown there came a sudden change in the weather. The western sky betokened wind, while the sea, which had been calm for days, began to rise with a long, uneasy swell. All signs indicated an approaching storm.
When I turned out for my watch at eight o’clock, it was a wild looking night, with the riding fleet tossing up and down there like a bunch of cockleshells.
On coming on deck, I could see plainly that the Skipper was getting uneasy. His wonted calm had forsaken him. With troubled brow he gazed at the vessels anchored to windward of us. He spoke to no one, but kept looking at the sky, and then turning back to regard the anchored fleet.
“Depend upon it, we’re goin’ to have a rip- snorter out o’ this,” remarked the mate. “I been wi’ the auld man fer a dozen year, an’ when I see him walkin’ up an’ down, and lookin’ that way, there’s the surest kind o’ storm signals flyin’.”
By this time the sky had grown inky black. The wind had veered to the northeast, and was increasing in violence. It began to snow moderately at first, then coming down like a vast white blanket. Underneath that blanket of snow I had a sense of dire misgiving. Fog was terrible enough, but a wall of impenetrable snow was even worse.
The Skipper went forward to examine the cable, taking me with him to hold the lantern. The roaring of the waves as they went rushing by, the dismal howling of the wind, added to the darkness of the night, intensified by blinding snow and hurling spray, left no choice but to order out the watch.
“Call ‘em for’ard,” sang out Cap’n Jock.
In an instant I was shouting down the foc’sle
“Come on, rouse out here, we’ve got to give her the whole string.”
With much cussing, the crew soon mustered round the windlass and sufficient cable was veered out for the occasion.
Our lantern in the rigging had been lit since sundown, and in the passing flurries we could discern all about us th
e lights of the riding fleet.
Gazing at these lights dancing so merrily in the night, the Skipper remarked:
“We’ll have a tough time ‘tween now an’ the mornin’. Ye lads on watch, keep a sharp lookout for drifting vessels. If the rest of ye want to take a nap, do so now, fer there won’t be much sleepin’ aboard here in a couple of hours.”
Walking up and down near my Uncle, and watching the look on his face, I began to have a fervent desire to be back home, safe and sound. Seeming to read my thoughts, Uncle Jock turned toward me peremptorily, inquiring:
“Ain’t ye sorry now that ye ever come to sea, me lad?”
Concealing my true feelings I replied:
“No, sir.”
At which he snorted, “Liar!” and turned again to contemplate the wild face of the storm.
As midnight drew near, the gale increased fearfully. I had never experienced anything so terrific before. The wind shrieked through the cordage, like a wild beast raging for destruction.
After a few words one of the watchmates was sent for’ard and I saw him place an ax near the windlass.
“What’s he doin’ that for?” I inquired.
“To be handy if necessary to cut the cable.”
As he came aft again, the mate remarked to me with grim humor, “If we don’t break adrift ourselves, an’ if some other vessels don’t ram us, I think, young feller, that perhaps ye may be able to see yer Ma agin.”
This coarse badinage added much to the misery which I felt, as at that moment, it seemed to me an utter impossibility for any vessel to stand such a gale. But I kept my feelings to myself. Not so Louis, whose teeth were chattering.
“What’s up?” I inquired.
“It’s collision I’m scared of, Johnnie Angus. If anyone parts his cable an’ smashes into us, we’ll both find the bottom waitin’ fer us, as wide open as hell’s honey.”
The thick night was impenetrable. One never knew for an instant what fate was sweeping down upon him. It seemed as though those hours of unseen menace would never pass. At length the east began to brighten. Morning was coming. What a relief when the day dawned. Our danger was not over, for the gale still continued, but there was a comfort in the daylight which brought cheer. The fearful darkness of the night, and that impending uncertainty was relieved, as we could now see our position, and be prepared, at least partially, to guard against threatening danger.
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