When we arrived at our house on the windy hilltop, a light was burning in the window, where my aunt, brave little body, was preparing supper. Something in the suggestion of that light caused me to turn about and look down to where the harbor stretched like some unquiet giant, breathing ominously in the shadows.
Whilst I still tarried, gazing seaward, my uncle called:
“What keeps ye, Johnnie Angus?”
“Oh, I was jus’ thinkin’.”
CHAPTER XV
Rival Queens
Four years had passed since the tragic occurrences in Chedabucto Bay and the loss of my father. I was walking down the Gloucester foreshore with brooding memories which this day invariably recalled. Somehow we all laid blame to Black Dan. But somehow settlement was provokingly delayed.
It was natural for a MacPhee to mix it up with a Campbell. In the Highlands our clansmen had it out with them in many a border foray. After the defeat of Bonnie Prince Charlie, as loyal Jacobites, we were kicked out of the Highlands for the sake of the peace at home. But even across the water, we kept the fightin’ pups goin’, and many were the tales of bonnie scraps that passed between us.
I had often heard how a kinsman of mine walked four hundred miles to a lumber camp on the Mirimichi, just to “knock the daylights” out of a Campbell who claimed to be the boss bully of the river.
With all this tradition of battling Highland blood, I could not understand my Uncle Jock; he had many good chances for a set-to with Black Dan, and yet he always held his hand. Of course, I was too young to take up the quarrel on my own account, and was therefore like a bull-pup straining at the leash.
Passing along the foreshore, this day, with moody memories, I came at last to the Eastern Fish Corporation, where, by strange coincidence, I beheld on opposite sides of the wharf the Airlie of my Uncle Jock and the Dundee, the able two-sticker with which Black Dan Campell promised “to clean up everything from Georges to the Virgin.” These vessels had been out of the Essex yards for less than a year. They represented the last word in design and equipment, the darlings of the Gloucester fleet. According to rumor, conflict was born with them.
While I was standing at the end of the wharf, gazing at the two schooners, Rannie MacDon- ald approached me, a shipwright with the air of a field marshal, tall, gray, dour, instinct with Highland pride.
Even though a mere youngster, I had it in me to feast my eye on the beauty of ships; accordingly Rannie accepted me forthwith.
“Do ye know what I’m thinkin’, lad?”
“What?”
“That ye ought to be thankin’ God that ye live to have a part in sailin’ o’ such schooners, just as I thank Him that I live to have a part in makin’ of them.”
“You seem to think a lot of our fleet,” I replied.
As though he were looking at a pair of bred race horses, Rannie’s eyes glowed with pride.
“Aye, I’m tellin’ ye, lad, ye’ll never see their like again. Take the Airlie, there’s an able lady for ye, ready for anything, whatever happens. I’ve seen her iced up, with topmasts housed steppin’ wary; an’ then, I’ve seen her racin’ under piled up canvas, dancin’ in an’ out o’ places where the clipper never would ‘ave ventured. Pointin’ high for a thrash to windward, ghosting in the lightest breezes, sensitive to the merest cat’s-paw; goose-winged, ridin’ out the fiercest onslaught, that there schooner is a creature for extremes. Men don’t make anything better than her for the salt roadways, an’ it’s proud I am to have been one of her builders. D’ye remember, lad, what Mr. Conrad, the great writer, said, when he was comin’ over to America?”
“No.”
“Well, off the bridge o’ the Tuscania, he pointed to one o’ them there dainty trippin’ schooners, an’ says he, ‘There goes the last touch of romance remainin’ on the sea to-day.’
“But that last touch of romance won’t be here much longer. Hideous, foul-smellin’ gas trawlers will soon replace the tall white schooners. When they pass, our last real sailors will have gone to keep company with the clipper captains and the packet rats. When the liners no longer hail her from the ocean lanes, folks will doubtless pause in art galleries and museums to marvel at this loveliness which while here was barely heeded. Everyone raves about the clipper now, because the clipper has passed out. It won’t be long until the story will be repeated in the schooner.”
“Why is that?” I inquired.
Rannie looked wistfully at the wondrous lines of a vanishing type. Under his jeans, this shipwright was a mystic and a dreamer. It was the Gael in him that answered:
“We never miss the beauty, until the beauty’s gone.”
In company with this rare master, I started to make the rounds, listening while he explained the fine points of design and rig. Driving home his lesson, he admonished:
“Find out all ye can now, lad, fer when ye get to be a Captain, ye won’t have anyone to be asking questions of.”
The first thing that struck me about the Airlie was her rugged strength, quite unlike the Dundee, belonging to Black Dan Campbell.
I spoke of this to Rannie, who told me that schooners varied just like people. Said he: “The Airlie here’s made to stand the rough stuff, she’s got a good beam, x-braced at the break, wi’ nine sets o’ iron knees, and the best kind o’ iron at that. When it comes to her sail plan, yer Uncle Jock favors a long low rig, he’s got a ninety-one foot mainmast and a seventy- five foot boom.
“Now then, looking over there at Black Dan’s vessel, ye’ll see that she’s not so broad in the beam, but she’s got a deep heel. Black Dan, o’ course, has to have the lof tiest spars in port, his mainmast is over a hundred feet high, and he carries an eighty-five foot main boom.
“Dan’s vessel has a clipper bow on her, an’ yer Uncle’s here is a semi-knockabout.” “Which rig is the best?” “That’s a question. Dan may be able to eat up a little higher into the wind, but the flying jib o’ his is a regular man-killer, it ‘ud be a far safer job takin’ in yer headsails in dirty weather aboard the Airlie”
“Wouldn’t you sooner have our vessel than Black Dan’s?”
“That depends. The Airlie is better at running, the Dundee would have it over her on a reach. Racin’ fer market in tolerable weather, I’d take the Dundee. But if I was ridin’ out a gale on Grand Bank, I’d take the Airlie” “Which one has done the best up to date?”
“Can’t tell ye,” answered the canny shipwright “They ain’t really been proven yet I worked on both o’ them vessels while they was on the ways, and I ought to know something about ‘em, but the longer a man works as a shipwright, the less cocky he gets in his own opinion. Makin’ schooners is like makin’ violins, there’s somethin’ in ‘em that ye can’t fathom. Only the sea can tell ye the secret o’ ships. Ye look over the bow and stern, ye see a streak o’ water straight and bright under her keel, and ye say ‘ She’s a good sea-goer, and a good sailor.’
“But that’s as far as a man can venture. When ye want to know what’s the real heart and soul of a vessel, ye’ve got to have a storm fer the provin’.”
“But I’ve seen the Airlie out in a storm,” I persisted.
“Ye ain’t seen her tested in no storm yet, Johnnie Angus. She’s just been played with, and humored, like a china doll. But this here gentle stuff won’t last forever.”
“How’s that?”
“Because, yer Uncle ain’t just as soft as he appears. To see Cap’n Jock MacPhee walkin’ down the streets o’ Gloucester on a Sabbath mornin’, ye’d never dream o’ the leapin’ light- nin’ that was in his heels. Since that bad night on Sable Island when he says God saved his soul, he’s been a changed man. He’s cut out boozin’, fightin’ and sail-draggin’. But don’t make no mistake about it, under that black meetin’-house coat o’ his, there’s a regular rampin’, stampin’, hard-drivin’ skipper.
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br /> “Some day, Black Dan Campbell, who’s always boastin’ about what he does when the gulls can’t fly to win’ard, is goin’ to start splittin’ tacks wi’ Foul Weather Jock, then, by the Powers, ye’ll see who’s kissin’ Polly.”
CHAPTER XVI
The “Dundee”
The Airlie and the Dundee were both due to sail on the same tide. On account of the newness of the vessels, and also on account of the antipathy of their skippers, it was freely rumored at the Master Mariners’ Association that their departure would witness an inevitable contest.
Said Captain MacKinnon, the greatest racing authority of the port:
“Foul Weather Jock’s been holdin’ in his horns fer quite some time. But I’ll lay dollars to doughnuts that he’ll give that blow-hard of a Dan Campbell a danged good dressin’ down tomorrow.”
The idea of a contest was heightened by the fact that at the last minute we had shipped among our crew on the Airlie the two Mac- Eacherens, Wild Archie and Allan, who were spoiling for a fight with Black Dan.
Wild Archie was reputed to be the champion fighter of the North Atlantic. He weighed two hundred and eighty pounds, and in spite of his terrific size was quick as a cat, and hard as a hydrant.
According to Louis, “That there Wild Archie is just about the worst fightin’ machine that ever happened. He can kick the plaster out o’ a nine-foot ceilin’, an’ everyone who runs into him will think that they’ve met a hurricane right in the spot where they breed.
“On account o’ the foolhardiness o’ Black Dan, one o’ the MacEacherens was lost at sea off the Dundee. The MacEacherens, like the MacPhees, would walk round the world to square off a debt, so in Judique fashion, they come down here lookin’ fer Black Dan. Wild Archie got a hold of him las’ night in Mc- Glory’s dance hall, and with half a chance he’d ‘ave polished him off till there was nothin’ left o’ him but the piece of an ear and a shin bone.”
“What happened?”
“Why, your Uncle butted in just as the fracas was startin’, an’ that was the end o’ it. Lucky fer Black Dan, though. Next thing, we heard was that the MacEacherens was shippin’ with us, which, of course, made everybody think that something is goin’ to happen to-morrow.”
It was with a feeling of feverish expectancy, that I came down the hill from my Uncle’s house to the Gloucester water front on the following morning. Here was the day where we would have our settlement. Here, at last, we would end Dan Campbell’s bragging.
The flags beating straight out into the breeze, and whitecaps dancing down the harbor told of glorious sailing weather. Everyone along the way remarked: “Couldn’t ask for a better racin’ day.”
On one side of the Eastern Fish Wharf lay the Dundee, on the other side lay the Airlie, while the wharf itself was thronged with an excited crowd.
Even the ordinary sailing of a salt fisherman was an event of interest. This time it was almost a public function, as so many of the sports up the street had started betting to settle longstanding arguments as to the relative merits of these two vessels.
The Master Mariners were putting up their money on the Airlie, while the Fish Corporation and their ilk were ready to go the limit to back Dan Campbell’s vessel.
With her sky-stabbing main truck, the Dundee certainly looked like an inevitable champion. Her lofty spars queened it over the water front, so that the city folk could point to her from afar.
Long before they reached the wharf, I heard sightseers bursting out: “There she is! There she is!” “Look at her flags, all dressed for the occasion.” “She sure has got some topmasts on her, ain’t she?”
Her hull was painted black, her soaring clipper bow jutted out beyond the pierhead, tossing lightly as though impatient to be trampling down the crested seas.
Visitors could find no fault in her, except one, who exclaimed :
“Those ugly looking dories all jammed up in the waist kind o’ spoil her appearance. Pity they couldn’t put those hideous looking things somewhere out o’ sight.”
“That sounds like you stay-ashore folk,” replied our mate, who happened to be handy. “But lemme tell ye, if that vessel didn’t have them there dories nested in her waist, she’s be as good fer nothin’ as you gawkin’ tourists.”
“But you’ve got to admit she’s a beauty.”
“P’raps she’s too darn much o’ a beauty.”
“Why, what in the world could you ever say against her?”
“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’, I’m just tellin’ ye that there’s such a thing as a vessel bein’ too keen and clean fer a salt fisherman. Looks to me more like a yacht than a Banker. When I’m choosin’ fer real fishin’, I’ll take our own boat on t’other side o’ the wharf there.”
“What, that pot-bellied thing! I like ‘em lean in the waist.”
“Aye, our broad-beamed beggar can stand the gaff, let me tell ye.”
With that, the tourist suddenly turned away, attention attracted by the sight of Black Dan taking his place at the wheel, just as the Dundee’s crowd were singling out her lines. Dan had timed things to a hair. His appearance caused a mighty cheer to go up from the crowded wharf.
A little after eleven, with the tide serving, both vessels cast off, and stood out into the stream, the Dundee leading.
Much to my disappointment, Uncle Jock did not even put in an appearance on deck. Seeing the crowd, he went below into the cabin, and left the work of getting to sea entirely in the hands of the mate, a person more stolid than speedy.
Black Dan had been loud in the declarations of what he intended to do. To give him credit, he now proved himself no slouch when it came to handling sail. Having served his time as skipper of a racing yacht, he had acquired all the fine points of the game.
In a manner characteristic of fishermen, our mate lugged on everything he could carry, while Black Dan, realizing that his staysail was a hindrance on the wind, gave the order to take it in.
With the result that the Dundee gained steadily to weather, leading the way to sea by a long advantage.
For us, aboard the Airlie, this caused a feeling of deep disgust. We had started out fully determined to give the Dundee a proper drubbing. We were spurred on by all sorts of honest well-wishers on the shore, and then, even before the race started, our Skipper had gone below, as if wiping his hands of the whole affair.
I was sure myself that I could have handled sail better than that thick-head of a mate. Indeed, at my suggestion, he finally took in his staysail, but there was something missing aboard the Airlie, that something was the master, who, strange to say, did not put in an appearance until we were well out past Eastern Point. Wild Archie was the first to greet him, as he emerged from the companion.
“Hey, why didn’t ye start mixin’ it up wi’ him, Skipper?”
Cap’n Jock walked over to leeward, and spat with vehemence. “I ain’t staging no grandstand shows for a Campbell braggart.”
“And what was that ye promised me?” Wild Archie persisted, while members of the crew exchanged significant glances.
“Don’t you fear, I won’t forget,” replied the Skipper. “But when the time comes fer me to mix it up wi’ Black Dan Campbell, it’ll be my choosin’ and not his.”
CHAPTER XVII
An Interrupted Fight
Macnairs Cove, down in the Gut of Canso, was often referred to as the “Battle Ground in the East,” because there the feuds of the fishing fleets were settled.
Often as many as a hundred odd sail were anchored in that narrow estuary, and at such times MacNairs was “painted pink.”
There were thirty-one wharves in the town, and thirty-one rum shops to boot. Fights were so frequent, that, as Louis expressed it, “If ye stopped to watch ‘em all ye’d never get yer day’s work done.”
When our schooner the Airlie and Black Dan
Campbell’s vessel the Dundee arrived in this port together, it was naturally inferred that there would be a mix-up between us somewhere in the roarin’ town.
I took it as a matter of course that Wild Archie would here get the chance for which he had been pining. Great was my chagrin, when, just before going ashore, Uncle Jock called me aside with the warning:
“I’ll take ye—!” roared Wild Archie
“Now look at here, Johnnie Angus, I’m trustin’ Wild Archie in your care, don’t let him start boozin’, and don’t let him get into a fracas.”
“But what can I do?” I protested.
“If ye’re ever goin’ to be a skipper, ye can take care o’ yer men,” my Uncle retorted, turning on his heel.
An hour after our vessel came to anchor in the stream, Louis and I and the two MacEacherens sat together in Tom Moore’s Tavern, before a steaming rasher of ham and eggs.
In the front of the tavern was an open bar, frequented by an uproarious mob, in the back was an eating place whose windows opened on a long wharf, which the enterprising proprietor had rigged up as a bowling alley.
As we sat there over our supper, the establishment was in full swing. From the bar in front and from the alley behind there came a ceaseless babble of roistering shouts and laughter.
Once or twice Wild Archie started up, lured by occasional outbursts, but on account of the appetizing meal, I prevailed upon him to remain.
“Make her coffee, an’ make her good and able,” sang out Allan, as the waiter asked, “What drinks?”
Wild Archie tried to get something stronger,
but remembering what Uncle Jock had said, I remonstrated:
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