CHAPTER XXVIII
Trawling
After dinner, all dories put off again and rowed or sailed back to the end of their respective trawls, guided thither by highflyers attached to the outer buoys. These were easy to pick up in fair weather, but it was a baffling task in fog.
In underrunning the trawls, Louis stood up in the bows and commenced hauling away. At last, after an endless amount of pulling, the anchor hove in sight, followed by the baited trawl.
“Hullo, here’s luck,” he exclaimed, as a good sized cod appeared on the first hook. “All right, me lad, come right aboard here and shake hands wi’ yer Uncle Louis, an’ it’s right glad we are to see ye lookin’ so fat.”
Silence for a moment, then, “Don’t see no more cornin’...Yes, here’s a haddock.
That’s right, haddocks a ways tumble aboard easy, ain’t got the kick that some of’em has. . . Hi, what hae we here? A rock, eh, right up from the bottom. Well, back ye go to the bottom again, and worse luck to ye fer cloggin’ up
me trawl. . . . But stop, I feel a halibut tug- gin’ away. There he blows !”
“All right,” I yelled, at the same instant, picking up a gaff, I secured the halibut by the head, and then with a flap he was in the dory, a big flat fish weighing nearly fifty pounds.
Halibut are always a terrifically lively fish; as he kicked up a great fuss, I seized a maul and clubbed him into insensibility.
“Fits right into the bottom as if he was made fer it,” said Louis, opening up again on his monologue, as continuous as the trawl he was pulling in. “I see one, two, three cod comin’ along next. . . . Just look how lazy that there big feller rolls up alongside. Yea, I can hear him sayin* Whip out yer gaff, there, Louis, an’ help me over the gunnel. Sure I’m homesick fer the taters an’ the gravy.’ Well, aboard wi’ ye, me lad, an’ ye’ll soon have a cook a-servin’ ye up in state.. . . Now, look at that snapper! Just like ye, Johnnie Angus, never quiet a minute. Kickin’ up a racket all over the bottom. Yea, snappers is the braw young lads o’ the sea; ye can’t keep ‘em from kickin’ their heels so long as there’s a breath left in ‘em.”
Passing over numerous codfish, and an occasional halibut, Louis hauled on at the trawl until he came to a fish that was no stranger on the Middle Ground.
“A dogfish, so help me! A thousand curses on ye, an’ yer clan, ye dirty green-eyed varmint! Take that!—ugh—and that! fer meddlin’ with an honest trawl.” With cruelest vehemence, Louis nigh wrenched the jaw out of this hated wretch, and flung him back into the water. To show how much respect he had for rough- house and abuse, the dogfish swam lazily around, turning up his nose in fine contempt for Black Louis and all his kind.
“Save us, here’s a queer lookin’ critter comin’. What ha we here? A fish skeleton! A cod wi’ nothin’ but the skin and bones left on him. He’s been eaten since he got on the hook, eaten by the sand flies. Sure an’ they done a mighty good job on ye, Mister Cod, polished ye right down as clean as a whistle. Nothin’ left fer yer fishin’ friends but yer teeth an’ tail.”
So Louis kept up with his endless talk following the endless line.
All the while, I was seated amidships, baiting up the hooks as they came back to me, and passing the freshly baited end of the trawl over again into the sea, on the opposite side from which it was coming aboard.
Hauling the vast weight of a trawl line, running inboard at one side, and outboard at the other, requires no little skill to prevent the tiny craft from capsizing. Here the long experience I had had with Louis in boatmanship came into play, as we both swung into it with
the ease and rhythm of trained dory-mates.
“Well, there goes the last hook, and we got a fine load aboard, eh?”
“Hope MacEacherens won’t beat us,” I remarked.
“Beat us,” snorted Louis, “no fear, with your luck, we’ll show ‘em.” Louis was very superstitious and had an infallible faith in my good luck.
Racing toward the vessel under a tiny sail, we encountered our rivals rowing up from the opposite quarter. As we drew nearer, they sang out:
“Here’s where we’ll show ye how to do it Got to get up early in the mornin’ to beat the MacEacherens.”
“Aw, quit yer blowin’,” answered Louis.
From the deck, Cap’n Jock eyed our two dories with apparent satisfaction.
“Well done, me lads, it ‘ud take a fine gauge to tell which o’ ye’s high-line this time.”
Coming alongside, I passed our painter to the attending cook, and seizing the forks we began to pitch our load on deck. After which, we clambered aboard and went below for a mug up from the shack locker. This snack was wolfed in speediest manner and then we were off again for another underhauling of the trawls.
It was toward dusk when the last dories came back, at the completion of the day’s fishing.
Stiff and sore in every muscle, we pulled against a rising sea in the gathering gloom. After clearing our load, as usual the dories were paid astern, and all hands went below to supper, af ter which, in the darkness, by the light of kerosene flares, we set ourselves to the task of dressing down the day’s catch.
When the last fish had been headed, gutted, split and salted, Allan MacEacheren bellowed from the hold:
“Not much more room, here, Skip.”
“Well, that’s the way it should be. Give us another day or two like this an’ there ain’t goin’ to be room enough down there fer a louse.”
With the “dressing down” completed, the mess was cleared away, everything was made ship-shape, the decks were soused with buckets of salt water, the dories were paid up from astern, swung inboard and nested in the waist. After that, there was a rush for foc’sle and cabin, as everyone was dog-weary from the exactions of the long hard day.
It was ten o’clock at night. All of us had been at it since three o’clock that morning. But for me there was still another two hours on deck as it was my turn to stand watch till midnight.
The stars were shining brightly. It was the season that I loved to spend alone on deck. But this night I saw no beauty in the stars; every
sense within was dulled by sheer exhaustion.
In a sort of stupor, I marched around the decks inspecting the riding hawser, at regular intervals, and keeping as bright a lookout as glazed eyes would permit
At last, the longed-for hour of midnight sounded from the cabin clock. After due warning, Allan MacEacheren, pulling on his reefer, came up from below as my relief.
Allan said something to me about a “nine fathom slumber,” but I heard nothing: I was already on my way for’ard. In another minute I had rolled in, as fishermen say, “all standing,” and in a twinkling was fast asleep in oilskins and sea boots with the strap of my sou’wester still fast beneath my chin.
CHAPTER XXIX
A Flying Set
What’s the matter? I only just went to sleep.”
“Three o’clock, shake a leg, ye drowsy body.”
The friendly hand of Louis was shaking me back into consciousness, a task none too easily accomplished.
“Believe me, Louis, this here fishin’ is no holiday,” I said, rising languidly.
“No, there ain’t any easy times a-sailin’ wi’ yer Uncle Jock. It’s drive her, drive her, drive her, wi’ him so long as there’s a pinch o’ salt in his hold that ain’t been wetted,”
“Well, I feel as if I could sleep for a week and never wake up. But the best o’ this drivin’ is that we’re that much nearer to beating the fleet with a high-line catch.”
“Now ye’re talkin’.”
This morning the trawls were already set, so we pushed off almost as soon as we came on deck.
As the tiny dories vanished into the gloom of a starlit ocean, Louis was moved to exclaim: “Aye, it’s a grand business is this deep
-sea fishin’, two pairs o’ wee hands and a wee boat alone against the giant night and the giant sea.”
That day, under our tireless, slave-driving master, we made four underhaulings.
On the last trip, the aggregate was falling off. We had been at it ceaselessly for fourteen hours, but the merciless Jock sent us off again with the admonition:
“Guess they’ve moved on, so hustle out and make yer last haul, and bring yer gear in wi’ ye.”
When the dories had returned with their trawls, the Airlie broke ground and got under way once more.
All through the night we sailed in a southerly direction, toward the edge of the bank, and on the following morning Cap’n Jock sang out: “All right, we’ll try a few flyin’ sets along here.”
In making a flying set, the vessel is kept under way during the process of fishing, while in the other method she comes to anchor.
Soundings having been taken, and a place decided upon for setting the gear, Cap’n Jock called out: “All right, then, get out your dories!” Each dory with trawls and crew was paid astern, and belayed, until the whole string was towing merrily from the after rail. With the foam and spray soaring over us, tobogganing across the waves, we were indeed a headlong, joyous gang.
When the proper time had arrived, the Skipper sang out to the first boat:
“Heave out yer buoy!”
The buoy marking the position of one end of the trawl was shot overboard, and as the buoy line was running out, there came the order:
“Number one dory set nor’ nor’east,” which was to leeward, at right angles to the course of the vessel.
“Let her go!” With that, number one crew were cast adrift.
Further on, the same order was given for the setting of the second trawl at a suitable distance from the first. This was repeated at intervals until the whole fleet of dories had been dropped astern at their respective positions. Spread out in this way, the gang of trawls dropped from the Airlie covered an area of about three square miles.
Louis and I, in number one boat, had completed the setting of our gear by the time the Airlie let go her last crew, so Cap’n Jock returned, and, starting with us, picked up the string of dories in succession as he sailed back again down the line.
This done, the schooner lay to long enough to give the fish a chance to bite, when she ran along from buoy to buoy dropping each crew near their own gear.
As usual, Louis stood at the roller, hauling in the catch, while I attended to the gear, coiling the trawls up neatly in tubs as they came back to me.
Finally, with over half a ton of fish aboard, and the last of our gear in, I held up an oar as a signal to the schooner to run down and pick us up.
Lying on our oars, Louis and I fell to discussing what we would do with our share of the catch. Louis said he expected it would amount to a hundred dollars a man. This sounded like a fortune to me, and I was determined that the first thing I would buy with it would be a fine present for my Mother.
We were talking about the stores in Gloucester, when our discussion was cut short by the sight of the schooner bearing down upon us.
“Here she comes, look sharp now, Johnnie Angus.”
The art of picking up a dory while under sail is a maneuver requiring considerable skill.
On this occasion, Cap’n Jock had turned over the wheel for a short spell to the Cook, while he went below to consult his chart, preparatory to running off the bank.
The Skipper had no sooner gone below than
various dories began signaling to be picked up.
The Cook negotiated all the others successfully, and now came bearing down in our direction. Running the vessel to leeward of us, he put down the wheel intending to tack short of us and lay to, to windward, while we came up.
The schooner, however, ranged farther ahead than calculated for and struck our dory a glancing blow, smashing the frail craft like matchwood, and plunging both of us into the water.
Feeling myself going, I made a flying jump, and catching the vessel’s rail came in over the fore chains.
On deck, everything was in confusion. The jib had been caught aback at the time of the collision, and the Skipper running to the wheel rolled it down hard, shouting:
“Man the lee dory, there.”
As a dory was being paid astern, to leeward, two of us jumped into it and started out in search of the unfortunate Louis.
We found him clinging to an oar, with his teeth chattering from the cold water. Coming from Martinique, one of the West Indie Islands, Louis did not have the endurance of our northern breed.
When we got the poor fellow aboard, he was thoroughly chilled, but the idea of letting a man knock off for a mere wetting was not according to the iron code of Cap’n Jock, and so the poor fellow remained on deck, wet clothes and all, assisting at the dressing down.
I noticed when at last we all went below that he had contracted a sort of chill, and heard him tossing about feverishly in his bunk, but was too dead tired myself to attend to him, and was soon fast asleep.
CHAPTER XXX
A Wicked Dawn
A board a Banks fisherman there is scant chance for let up on account of accident or sickness. No matter how a man feels, he generally keeps at it as long as his legs will sustain him. This was specially true under Cap’n Jock, who made short shrift with a hanger-back.
Once, when a malingerer had tried to put it over him, the Skipper exclaimed:
“I ain’t runnin’ no hospital out here; any man that can’t do his whack will be dumped ashore at the nearest port.”
Louis needed no such urging, but on account of the Skipper’s expressed views, he continued to keep at it when he should have been resting in his bunk. When all hands were called up on the following morning, he was too sick to push out in the dories with the rest.
There was obviously a dirty day ahead of us. I had never seen a more foreboding dawn, the sun rose fiery and red, while the whole sky seemed to be in conflagration.
Gazing at the lurid east, Little Rory muttered :
“Ain’t no day fer underhauling trawls. There’s dory-killin’ squalls behind that sky.”
“Aye,” muttered Allan MacEacheren, “don’t take no wise guys to see that we’ll be gettin’ it before we’re through to-day.”
Hearing this rumor certainly did not throw me into a pleasant frame of mind, as I contemplated pushing off with a partner who was practically helpless on account of his weakened condition.
I wanted to go aft and say so to the Skipper, but at that moment he was wholly absorbed with his own cares and at such times I knew enough not to interfere.
The lives of men upon the Banks often depend upon their Skipper’s ability to read the weather. This morning evidently there was cause for doubt. Throughout the night there had been a most disturbing calm, not a breath of wind, with a long uneasy swell rolling in from the southeast like the advance guard of a hurricane.
In the growing light it became apparent that the gulls had gone, a danger signal for the knowing eye, which spelled: “Look out!”
Our trawls had already been baited the night before, so this morning there was nothing to do but to go out and attend to the gear.
But with such foreboding prospects, why bother about this one last haul?
The answer to this question is that fishermen, like all others, follow an insatiable quest, the more they have, the more they want.
Then again, if we did not make this last underhauling, and pick up our gear before the storm broke, the chances were that we might lose our trawls, a loss which no Skipper would incur if he could possibly avoid it.
Accordingly, Cap’n Jock was faced with no light problem as he paced the poop, torn between a course of safety, and a course of profit.
Everybody aboard grew impatient as
we stamped up and down in the waist, with the dory gripes cast off, waiting for the order to man the dory tackle.
Murdie Chisholm alone was fearful, informing us that it was no day to trust men over the side.
Finally, the old man sang out:
“All right, lads, let her go!”
With this order, almost instantaneously the top dories were in the water. I jumped aboard while Louis started to pay her aft to the quarter. In spite of his efforts to put up a bold front, his painful limp, and his wretched condition were only too apparent. Halting him, as he stood there weakly preparatory to jumping over, the Skipper inquired:
“D’ye think ye’re all right to go out to-day, Louis?”
With a hand to the rail to disguise his weakness, the plucky fellow answered: “Yea, I’m all right”
The Skipper would have let it pass’ at that, but as Louis vaulted over the rail his shaky condition told upon him, and, instead of landing neatly on his feet, he sprawled impotently into the bottom of our tiny craft, almost capsizing her.
This was enough to prove that he was utterly unfit for the strenuous exactions of such a day.
Bending over, the Skipper called: “What ye tryin’ to fool me like that fer?”
Gathering himself together, and picking up an oar, Louis answered: “I’m all right, I just slipped.”
“Slipped nothin’. Ye mean ye ain’t in no condition for a dory. You come back here.”
Still Louis hesitated,
“What ye waitin’ fer?”
“I ain’t goin’ to let Johnnie Angus go out alone on a day like this.”
“Oh, that’s what’s holdin’ ye, eh? Well, I’m not plannin’ to let him go alone, so don’t worry.”
At this, Louis brightened up, and putting out a hand, with the Skipper’s assistance swung inboard.
“Now, what’s the matter, where were ye hurt?”
“It’s the lumbago, Skipper. Gome on bad after this wettin’ I got yesterday.”
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