by Neil M. Gunn
“It was a case of hanging on. I’m vexed over the loss of the nets, but they were solid with dead herring. We took a turn on the back-rope. As her stern rose the net tore away. We cut away then.”
“Never mind about the nets. I’ll provide you with new ones, and they won’t cost you much more than they cost me! This very gig will take them back with you on Monday morning.”
Roddie was grateful. “We could sail up for them.”
“Keep your sailing for the herring! Why didn’t you make for shore, like the other boats, “when you saw it coming?”
This had been Roddie’s torture question in the long hours. “For that matter,” he replied quietly, “it came on us very quickly, and if I had been with the bulk of the boats, I might have followed them. The usual fishing bank is out to about three miles and runs between the Ord and Loth Bay. I’m friendly with the skipper of the Esperance. He knows the coast to Peterhead like the back of his hand and has had many a shot on the Guilliam off Cromarty. Well, anyway, he believed the shoals were working south, and I followed him, some miles to the south’ard of the last boat of the fleet, and would have followed him farther, but we came on good signs, as I thought, and we shot. The wind struck us like the side of a house. We hung on for a bit. I didn’t like it. ‘We’ll haul and run, boys,’ I said. But we found herring in the nets. We strove away. Soon it was nothing but white drift and hauling on the back-rope was like hauling on iron. We could make no more of it. We’d give the squall a chance to take off, if squall it was, and lie to the nets. The sea began to rise. We had either to cut and run now or hang on and chance it. The loss of the nets would wipe out the season. I put it to the lads. We decided to hang on.”
“By God, that was a decision to take!”
“One thing helped us or we would certainly have been swamped. The nets, of course, acted as a solid anchor; but the boat was well found in rope, and we swung to the nets on a long cable, which gave as the sea took us, and then slacked off for the next one. It made riding easier, if you understand me.”
“Yes, yes. I’m glad she was well found. Hup! I said I would have no old rotten gear; nothing but the best. I saw to that.”
Roddie smiled. “We rigged up the sail to throw off the lighter seas, but in one gust it blew over on us with a slap that knocked Daun senseless. He was bailing at the time. We thought he was dead. Some time in the morning there was a terrific lump. I thought we were away with it. But, O Lord,” murmured Roddie fondly, “she rose to the seas, she took them like a bird.”
“A fine boat, what! Hup, there! Gee up! And it was like that all through the night? When did you haul?”
“We started well before midday. The wind had taken off a little, but it was slow, tough work. The near nets were lightly fished, but the outer nets were solid. Herring—they have a queer effect upon you.”
“Have they now? What!”
“But in these last nets the herring were drowned and heavy as lead.”
“Cheer up! A good shot will buy more nets. So then you made for home?”
“Ay, with a peak of the sail, while the lads lay dead among the herring. But I got them up before we crossed the bar. They have their pride.”
“I should say they have! Here, man, take a swig of this.”
“I think I will. Your health!”
“And health to yourself,” responded Hendry. “Now, now then, dammit, here, curl up.”
“I believe I will,” said Roddie, letting himseh fall sideways. For the last few minutes he had been growing lightheaded. Within the restricted floor space his knees drew up to his chin in the slow motion of one dealt a deadly blow, and his head slumped. Open-mouthed, his breath came from him in noisy gusts.
Nor did Hendry attempt to waken him until some miles from Dunster he saw two lads coming on the road—scouts from the headquarters of suspense. “Roddie!” he cried, shaking the sleeper’s shoulder, but without receiving even a grunt. Then he caught the reins firmly. “You’ll do your best, Meg,” he said, and he took the whip in his right hand.
The lads drew to the roadside. One was Duncan, Roddie’s younger brother, and the other David, brother to Don Sutherland. “Any word?” they shouted at the inn-keeper’s menacing figure.
“They’re all right,” bellowed Hendry, galloping past. At once the lads broke into a sprint in order to get a supporting hand on the body-work of the gig which hid Roddie from view. But Hendry swung round, lifting his whip. “Leave go there!” he yelled so fiercely that the lads stopped as if they had been hit.
There were men and women and children along the road now at short intervals. “They’re all right! All safe!” bellowed Hendry. When folk got the news their eyes brightened, they smiled, and then, in their delight, they laughed to one another, crying, “Old Special’s as full as a fiddler!” The wild flourish of his whip made them rock with mirth. But the bumping of the iron-shod wheels under springs stiff as boards shook Roddie’s teeth and bones, and a final thump on the ear opened his eyes. He slowly pulled himself up and when the young sprinters behind saw his head appear, they missed a step and a breath.
Two stops, and on each occasion a mother with her hands on Roddie’s arm and tears in her eyes and a ring of neighbours.
For rumour had it that the boat was lost with all hands. It was the solitary and for ever enigmatic passenger on the stage-coach who had said it to someone never identified. And by way of confirmation Williamson himself “had all but said it” to one of the strappers in the stable. “You could see it on him,” was the strapper’s sad comment.
Roddie was not embarrassed by the press of folk or by the silence that hung on his few words of description, for he was part of the warmth of kinship, the natural love of life, that moved them all. His father was there, a tall viking of a man, with a sandy beard, and Roddie moved over to them, for they had looked on, “You’ve got back, Roddie,” said the old man with Roddie’s own quiet smile. “Yes,” said Roddie with a nod. Then Shiela, who was twenty and vivid, came against her brother, caught his wrist in both hands and murmured, “Oh, Roddie!” His young brother, Duncan, moved away, but the old man called to him. Duncan pretended not to hear and, sliding out of the company, began to trot up the river-side until, out of sight, he broke for home like a hare. His mother was waiting, all alone.
Roddie refused Hendry’s invitation to the inn, but thanked him for what he had done.
When at last they had crossed the burn above the Steep Wood and were, as a family, heading for home, Roddie, turning casually round, saw Catrine, who had been coming at a little distance behind them. “Oh, I clean forgot,” he said, “to speak to Catrine McHamish. I have a message from her mother for her.” He turned on his heel. “I won’t be a minute.” After going a little distance he hailed Catrine. She looked over her shoulder and went down towards the burn to meet him. The father thought it was a natural and kindly thing for his son to do, and kept on his way, followed by his silent, quick-glancing daughters.
“Hullo, Catrine,” said Roddie. “I couldn’t get a word with you in that crowd.”
She smiled. “We were all glad to see you.”
Her eyes were so bright, with such a warmth in her face, that his tiredness went over him in a soft wave.
“I may look in to-morrow night and give you the news. Your mother and all the rest are fine, and everyone in Dale asking for you.”
“Were they?”
“Yes. And tell Kirsty that I have some special messages for her.”
“Won’t she be delighted!”
“Tell her they are from an old admirer of hers. Tell her that’s what I said—no more.”
Catrine laughed, and behind the red of her generous mouth her teeth were milk-white. So deep-red and soft were her lips sometimes that it was as if she blushed there.
“And now I’m off,” said Roddie, and he turned and left her.
CHAPTER VII
FINN BLOWS HIS TRUMPET
There were no fewer than five marriages that autumn. Ind
eed the autumns now were becoming the merry and marrying time of the year, for young men with money in their pockets from the fishing could approach young women with a few pounds of their own from the gutting and contemplate setting up house even if not backed by much land. The year before, Daun had at last got married to a girl who had found difficulty in making up her mind about him, he had wanted her so much and she was so sure of him. Don was two years married and had two of a family. Amongst the men of his age Roddie alone seemed unaffected.
That autumn he gave a curious reply to one who probed him on this. The reply was freely quoted and hung in the minds of men and women with a strange wild sanction. It was the evening of the eventful settling-up day, when curers paid fishermen, and fishermen paid everyone, from shopkeeper to creel-maker. It was the evening of the flowing of money—and of talk rising through liquid refreshment into song. Even geography was enlarged. Names that had never been heard before took on a rich significance. The Helmsdale-Dunster catch was already becoming known as a Baltic cure. Soon high-canvassed schooners would come, ship the barrels, and sail out into seas where for days on end no land would be seen. The Baltic. In itself, what a roaring, staggering barrel of a name!
After the settling-up, Hendry stood rounds on the house straight from the bottle’s gushing neck. Special! “Give us a toast, Roddie.” And Roddie, amused, his six feet of sure manhood balancing lightly, looked around. What could he toast? He could toast the inn-keeper. He could toast the hope of seeing curing yards in Dunster that would rival those in Helmsdale. And something like this was in his mind as he raised his glass. There was a pause, a complete silence. He looked at his glass. His smile deepened. “Boys,” he said softly, fondly: “To the silver darlings!”
There was a roar of acceptance. Above the hubbub a droll voice cried, “And here’s a darling to yourself!”
They all turned on Roddie, eyes gleaming. “High time, Roddie; high time, boy!”
They hushed as they saw he was going to speak. Simply he said, “I have married the sea.” His smile was detached and friendly and mocking. And the sea roared up in them.
*
One of the marriages lasted five days. In truth, there were such dancings and goings-on that the catechist and evangelical preacher, Sandy Ware, stirred up the embers of hell and damnation and carried them around with him. Not that he blamed the folk so much, for folk were simple and sinful everywhere. They were due to be damned: it was his duty to tell them that, and he believed in doing his duty, and did it. But the real fault lay, the source and fountainhead of the fault, with the Established Church of Scotland, that in its Laodicean moderation, consequent upon its enslavement to temporal power and privilege, was selling God’s kingdom for the comforts of a manse.
But the folk, in the flush of joyful living and the assurance that money brings, did not listen to him as earnestly as they might have listened.
The hill market in November was the biggest in living memory. Crofters were thrawn to a degree rare in the experience of the dealers and haggled uncompromisingly through a dozen advances and retreats to the splitting of a final sixpence. Money! They wanted the last farthing they could get.
Even in folk who could have no possible connection with the sea, the bargaining spirit was unusually strong. Some of the more cunning dealers intercepted crofters before they reached the Market Hill, in the hope of spotting good beasts and tempting their owners with a direct cash offer.
“Well, Mistress, and what’s this you have?”
“It’s a cow,” said Kirsty.
“So it is,” agreed the dealer. “At least,” he corrected himself, “she was in her day. Where are you going with her?”
“I’m taking her to the market,” said Kirsty, “and if you have no more to say you’ll oblige me by getting out of my way.”
“To the market? Bless me, woman, do you expect to sell her?”
“I do.”
“Do you now? And what do you expect to get for her?”
“Five pounds.”
“Five pounds, did you say?” He went up to Bel and, pulling down her lip, had a look at her teeth. Bel threw her head away, her soft eyes glancing with fear. The dealer laughed, not unpleasantly, for he was a big, bushy man. “What do you feed her on?” he asked. “Saps?”
“Come,” said Kirsty, with a jerk of her head to Catrine. “I thought this fellow was a dealer.”
The man chuckled. “So this is your stirk, too?” he said, giving Catrine at the same time a humoured glance, and dropping his eyes for a moment to the dark, round-eyed slim little boy at her side. “I suppose you’ll be wanting five pounds for this, too?”
“Seven,” said Kirsty.
“Well, I’ll offer you four; and to save it from dying on your hands I’ll give you two for the old rickle of bones. How’s that?”
“It’s wasting time,” said Kirsty. “Come!” And she began hauling on Bel.
Further interchanges proved equally fruitless, and in a few hundred yards the great concourse on the Market Hill came full upon Finn’s distended gaze.
He forgot his mother; his hazel switch trailed by his side. His mind could not take in the scene, for the upward slope, far as the eye could see, was a mass of human beings. Bellowing cattle, bleating sheep, barking dogs, a continuous uproar of voices; and the whole hillside moving. It was incredible and terrifying. A young horse curveted and whinnied at his back, a dog brushed past him, a man yelled in an angry voice. The horse came dancing round. “Finn!” screamed Catrine. He dashed for her. She caught his hand and shook his arm angrily, telling him he was not to wander but to stay by her. He looked back at the horse. A small boy was blowing a trumpet with lines of the most beautiful colour upon it. “Stop that, curse you!” yelled the man with the horse at the boy. The boy ran away a little distance and blew harder than ever. There were many boys dashing about with complete fearlessness. One or two of them, seeing Finn’s solemn face, paused to laugh. They knew at a glance that he came from the hills, was outlandish, ignorant of the ways of the civilized world, Mama’s pet and soft, all dressed up in a little stiff doublet and round bonnet with a feather in its side.
Kirsty took up her stance by the side of a dry-stone dyke. “We’ll stay here,” she said. She had not been put out in the least by the dealer. On the contrary, the encounter had braced her into a confident commanding mood. For her mind was quite clear. Four pounds ten for the stirk and three for Bel. If she couldn’t get that she would just take them home again. The offer of two pounds had been hopeful. It might even be wise to part with Bel at two pounds fifteen. With that reservation she was now ready. “Well, young man, and what do you think of the market?” she asked Finn, her eyes twinkling through her solemn countenance.
Finn was unable to think. His wits had run away. He pulled restlessly at his mother’s hand. “I told you you shouldn’t have come,” said Catrine.
“Nonsense!” said Kirsty.” What are you frightened of?”
To Catrine’s great astonishment Kirsty had taken Finn’s side against her. Finn had learned all about the market, for he was now nearly five years of age and nimble and tireless on his feet. But Catrine had been very positive against his going. She was sending him over to Widow Grant’s for the day. Finn had stormed and wept. And then Kirsty had appeared with a hazel switch. “The beasts get frightened,” she said. “And it’s no easy work hauling them on the rope. But if you have a clever young man with a stick behind, it’s easy as blowing your nose. Will you come with your Granny, Finn?”
And it was Kirsty now who gave him heart from the masterful confidence in her eye. The trouble lay in getting used to all this tremendous hubbub. He had been afraid of the silent wood when the butterfly had led him on the strange road that goes to the back of the world. But the wood had remained still. This dark forest heaved and rolled with a tumultuous life, with straining ropes, the harsh voices of strange men, the peering faces of mocking boys. He had to be so quick inside himself lest a thing sprang on him that he w
anted to cry, to cry to his mother to take him home, back to the quiet of the house, the braes and the burn, where he was safe. But, standing close by his mother, he did not cry.
Time wore on. He got more used to the rough men who, paying no attention to Kirsty or his mother, handled Bel and the stirk as though they owned them. Bel never failed to make them grin, and then they would accost Kirsty with a sarcastic sally. Finn hated them and was very sorry for Bel. Usually, Kirsty gave as good as she got. “She’s only rising fifteen,” said a stout wit with ponderous gravity. “What do you feed her on?”
“Ginger-bread,” promptly replied Kirsty.
There was a loud laugh all round and the dealer so enjoyed her sally that he offered two pounds ten and, against her four ten, raised his figure to two fifteen.
“I cannot throw her away,” said Kirsty. “Too much good meat has gone into her.”
“Ginger-bread!” cried the dealer, and laughed mightily as if the joke were his own. “I’ll leave the offer with you for a while, Mistress.”
Catrine bent down to catch Finn’s murmur: “Mama, what’s ginger-bread?”
“Do you see the brown cake that boy’s eating? That’s ginger-bread.”
“Is it good?”
She pressed him to her side and smiled. “Wait you.”
Ever more folk were appearing, out for the day’s fun, groups of young men and women, all dressed in their best, full of mirth and anticipation and a readiness to laugh at little or nothing. Finn saw Roddie coming with, three or four other men; saw his eyes brighten, his hand wave. “Hullo!” he cried as they all came up. Out of the banter, Roddie squatted down and spoke to Finn specially. Pride and incoherence so choked Finn’s utterance that he could neither say yes nor no to Roddie’s offer to take him round the market.
When Roddie straightened up, Rob was talking to Catrine in a quiet, earnest way. “I met your sister Isebeal,” he said, “in Helmsdale. It was her first season at the gutting.” Catrine was deeply interested, her face smiling and slightly flushed. “I spent a Saturday night over at your place,” Rob went on. “I got on very well with your mother.”