The Silver Darlings

by Neil M. Gunn

  Finn sat down on the rudder. He would wait till Roddie and the others awoke of themselves. Some gulls had settled on the water round the tail-end of the drift. One or two of them, with querulous cries, moved in short, restless flights of a yard or so. For all the world as if they were seeing herring! Then Finn did notice a slight bobbing movement of the last two or three buoys. There was no doubt of it! All his fine feeling of endurance vanished in a single heart-beat. He turned round. Roddie was coming towards him. “We’re in them at the tail-end,” he said as quietly as he could. Roddie looked and nodded.

  “Well, it’s heartening, anyway,” cried Callum, as they began to haul. A few crans to break their bad luck would be something, even if it only showed that they knew how to land herring without the help of a Lewis-man!

  Empty nets and then the silver glisten here and there. “Come in, my darlings!” cried Rob to the first-comers. But one was bitten clean away from the head. Others were slashed. A hole in the net that Rob could put his head through. They all stopped as Roddie stopped. Finn looked over the side and saw the dark swirls, the dark-swirling bodies of dogfish. The sea by the nets was alive with them, alive, and evil, and abominable.

  A wild rage swept the crew and came out in grunts of hatred and loathing. When a dogfish, entangled beyond tearing free, came over the gunnel, Callum seized the tiller and smashed its head to a pulp.

  They hauled the end nets in a frenzy. The last net of all, which had been very heavy with fish, was torn to ribbons, torn beyond any hope of mending. It was Roddie’s. The next net to it, also Roddie’s, was not much better. Finn’s nets, placed early in the drift, were undamaged. The others had plenty of mending before them. The last sinker was dropped into a hold that did not contain a cran of decent herring.

  *

  That afternoon, as Roddie, Henry, and Finn sat in the Seafoam mending hurriedly-dried nets, while Callum and Rob were away arranging about getting the drift barked, Bain, who had been talking down over the wall to Roddie, was joined by a curer named Duncan, from Fraserburgh, a middle-sized, grizzled, stocky man with small but keen humorous eyes and a complete lack of movement or gesture when speaking.

  “It’s a one-eyed hole over the week-end is this damned spot,” said Bain.

  “Nearly as bad as Wick,” replied Duncan, “only wi’ better scenery.”

  “Well, there’s always some comfort, thank God: it might have been Fraserburgh.”

  “Ye can leave God oot o’t.”

  “Out of Fraserburgh? He was never in it. And Stornoway, religious enough on the Sabbath, at all events, has gone to the bloody dogs.”

  Duncan gave a small chuckle.

  “Ay, begod, they were pretty bad,” he said (dogfish were usually referred to as “the dogs”).

  After further pleasantries, Duncan admitted, “Ay, I’m beginning to wonder what I cam’ here for——”

  “Hullo, there’s Maciver,” interrupted Bain. “You ask him.” There was a shout and presently Maciver joined them.

  The men in the boat, had they cared to look up, would have seen little more than an occasional head and shoulders as the three curers talked, but they heard their voices clearly enough, particularly when the argument got properly joined.

  “No, it’s a mistake, an’ ye mark my words,” said Duncan. “This is playing wi’ the foreign market as the dogs played wi’ the herring this morning—an’ if it gaes on, the market will get torn like the nets.”

  “Well, your remedy is easy,” declared Maciver. “Keep out of Stornoway.”

  “Ay, ay, that’s a’ very fine. But we’re no’ dogs in the net. Ye can come to Fraserburgh ony time ye like. That’s no’ the point. It’s we who made the market. And we made it in twa ways. We made it by getting the Crown brand on oor barrels. Where the German sees that brand he kens exactly what he’s getting, kens whether the herring is full or spent, an’ he buys an’ sells on that brand wi’ complete confidence. Now wi’ this kin’ o’ stuff we’re catching, we’re no’ using the brand. We couldn’t onyway, because we’re afore the time. Weel, it may be a’ richt at the moment, but ye mark my words——”

  “You’re an old Tory, Duncan, who doesn’t know——”

  “I’m a Liberal, thank God. But that by the way. This is business, an’ common-sense, so we can leave yer politics oot o’t. As I was saying——”

  “Look here,” interrupted Maciver, “what’s the sense in talking like that? You know that the Germans are anxious to buy these herrings. They’ll take as much of this early catch as we can send. Our trouble, as far as I can see, is that we may not be able to get the herring for them. We’re not going to be able to meet our on-costs. If the fishing goes on like this, we’re each going to be some hundred pounds down. That’s what’s worrying me. Not your fancy notions.”

  “Very well,” said Bain, “why not close the May fishing down altogether and start some time in June when the herring are herring?”

  “Why should I? If you want to do so, nobody is stopping you.”

  “That’s no’ the point, Maciver,” said Duncan. “We stand for the herring trade. That’s oor hale business. It’s no’ yer hale business. Ye hae yer hand in a dozen pokes, including the ling an’ cod trade an’ yer ain schooner. Weel, guid luck tae ye! We’re no’ grudging ye onything. But this is oor business. An’ I’ll tell ye something, Maciver. I happen to ken that the Glasgow men are seriously thinking o’ trying to get this early fishing stopped by Act o’ Parliament. An’ if they manage to do that, then God help yer poor crofter-fishermen a’ doon the West.”

  Maciver laughed. “You mean the Government would stop them catching herring even as bait for cod and ling?”

  “Even for their ain use,” declared Duncan (prophetically, as it turned out).

  “It’s no good trying to talk sense into you, I can see,” said Maciver, cheerfully. “I thought you believed in free competition and open markets! You call yourself a Liberal! Well, well!”

  “Ay, I’m a Liberal. An’ in trade I think it does a man nae hairm should he happen to hae the modicum o’ brains that lets him look ahead. My point is that ye’re no’ looking ahead. What are the facts?”

  “Do you think I don’t know them?” asked Maciver derisively.

  “I’m no’ doubting yer knowledge—it’s yer application. Here we hae an industry that’s going ahead by leaps and bounds. Man, every little village on the Moray Firth coast is like a beehive. I was speaking to my banker afore I cam’ ower. He was talking aboot the foreign trade as it affects them in circulation o’ notes, a discount at the highest rate on foreign bills, payable in London an’ running onything up to from thirty to sixty days. He reckoned that in the three shipping months, through the bank agencies from Peterhead roon to Wick, there must be little short o’ ₤150,000——”

  “Well, but isn’t that——”

  “Wait now. Wait a minute. Ye hae yer productive side going on like that. A’ richt. But is yer market increasing at the same rate? What happened four or five years ago? The slaves were emancipated. Ay. An’ what happened then? The whole West Indian trade was cut off—slash! Not a barrel.”

  “The slaves preferred English hams,” said Bain, “once they had wages of their own! Do you blame them?”

  “By God, this is no joke,” said Duncan. “I’m only wanting to see some order. So long as we work through the brand an’ the commission merchant, we ken where we are and we can open oot an’ expand the Baltic market an’ perhaps get a real grip on Russia, which the Norwegians at present hold, mostly wi’ spent herring.”

  “But how can we get a hold on the Russian market, if the Russians let the Norwegian herrings in at a tax of one-and-sixpence on a barrel while they charge us over four shillings?” inquired Maciver sarcastically.

  “We can do mony a thing,” replied Duncan, “so long as we see what it is we hae to do. That’s all I want—to see where we’re going, what we’re heading for. An’ in this business o’ the German market, which is oor market, we�
��re heading for a tumble. We’ll rush the stuff in, not through the commission merchant, who has his orders from his German dealers, as we hae been doing up to the present, but we’ll rush the stuff in on consignment an’ that’s the beginning o’ speculation, an’ there never yet was speculation but in the long run, in the long run, it meant smash. Ye run so hard that ye fall ower yoursel’.”

  “Ah, get away, Duncan! You’re the canny Scot—so frightened of running that you stand still. You haven’t the spirit in you to take a chance. You’re merely frightened. Well, you leave it to men who aren’t. That’s your way out.”

  “But,” said Bain, “what about the 60,000 barrels we used to send to Jamaica? That’s all gone. How are we, with a growing industry——”

  “I don’t send any barrels to Jamaica,” replied Maciver. “I have other markets and they’re good enough for me. If you fellows——”

  “Canny now,” interrupted Duncan.

  “Canny!” echoed Maciver and laughed.

  “You’ll yet laugh oot the other side o’ yer mooth, Maciver, when ye stick in the bog o’ your ain making. Mark my words. The 60,000 barrels to Jamaica were spent fish. The Germans will hae nane o’ that. They’re no’ slaves. They’re an educated business folk wha will only hae the best. An’ they are prepared to pay for it. They are the honestest and straightest people that ever I hae dealt wi’. An’ everyane in the trade says the same. They are prepared to pay for a good herring because they like it. But they are no’ fools. If ye sent 500 barrels on order through a commission merchant, an’ then send another 500 on consignment, what happens? Ye sell the 500 on consignment at a cheaper rate. An’ the German dealer who has paid the bigger price gets sore. Next time he is no’ going to order, he is going to wait, because he sees ye must hae his market at ony cost. When that point is reached, you an’ me will carry on blindly until we smash.”

  “Really! And what do you propose to do about it?”

  “Bring a wee thing order an’ foresicht into oor affairs. An’ the first thing I wad do is cut oot this early fishing. Damn it, man, look at the quality o’ the fish. Unripe trash wi’ a taste like stale loaf-bread. They winna even carry. Do ye think the Germans——”

  “Oh, dry up,” interrupted Maciver. “Look at the facts. You know damn fine that we get three or four times more for early fish than for your finest Crown-fulls in the autumn. I was talking to an agent in Glasgow who had been over in Berlin last year. He said that in the expensive eating-places there you pay half a dollar for one early herring. And if you work that out at about three shillings to the dollar it comes, not to twenty-five shillings a barrel, but to over fifty pounds! They eat them with the early vegetables. Very well. What’s the good of trying to tell me about the German trade? Do you think I can’t see the realities—not your canny policies—but the realities, when they stare me in the face? You may try, Duncan, to frighten me out of a trade you think is your own, but, if so, let me tell you, you have come to the wrong man.”

  “A’ richt, Maciver, hae it yer ain way. If ye think ony o’ us in the trade wants to close up a gold mine ye’re simpler than I thocht ye. It’s nae business o’ mine, of course, an’ I dinna want ony information, so ye can ask yoursel’—how much ye lost last year, an’ by the look o’ things, how much ye’re likely to lose this year. This fishing shouldna start until the beginning o’ June—an’ ye ken it. Take Saxony, Silesia, Moravia …”

  The voices, still disputing, moved away from the harbour wall.

  None of the men in the boat spoke. Roddie finished the last mesh of a bad tear, snipped the twine with his knife, held up the netting for a moment and then let it drop, with the gesture of a man letting an empty net splash back into the sea. Finn saw Henry’s eyes steal a penetrating glance at him.

  “I think we’ve done enough for one day,” remarked Roddie calmly; “fully enough.”

  Henry did not speak.

  “Come on,” said Roddie. “We’ll have a drink.” He got up and stretched himself, not looking at the others.

  “All right,” Henry agreed, with a glance at Finn.

  “I’ll just finish what I’m at,” said Finn, “and catch you up.”

  Roddie paid no attention, and Henry followed him out of the boat.

  Finn made twice to leave the boat and went back. Somehow the conversation on the pier had been very depressing, and he felt the effect it had had on Roddie. It was as if the dogfish were everywhere, all over the world. Things were brewing in Roddie; working to a head. Instead of being proud, as he might well be, at having brought his boat through the storm on the west side, Finn knew perfectly well that he was touchy about it, as if having missed Lewis and gone out round the Butt was a slur on his seamanship. Those black, unfathomable moments between Roddie and himself at the Seven Hunters. Deep down, like a poison. Henry’s glance, before he left, had said plainly: Don’t you come. Then the gifted herring—and not even being able to give them to the Sulaire’s curer. Not catching any herring himself. Blank, blank. And now the dogs, the damaged nets. The curer’s talk—with its gloom over this industry, to which Roddie was committed with the strong and single devotion of the pioneer.

  Finn felt uncomfortable and restless, vaguely uneasy, and this slowly bred in him a hard bitterness of his own.

  Roddie and Henry turned up for supper, with a whiff of whisky on the air. Callum challenged them. Roddie half-laughed, with a gleam of teeth, in apparently fine form, as if the hardness had broken.

  But Finn saw it had not broken. It had gone inward in him, a dark rod of iron.

  “Eat up, boys,” said Roddie. “The curers have been telling us the foreign markets are bitched.”

  They all felt Roddie was working up to an outburst, not an outburst of words or spleen, but an outburst of the body, a physical crushing of things between his hands. In their bones they knew it was the only way he could find relief. And they dreaded it.

  He would have to be left to Henry. Henry had no doubt taken him back to supper. But Henry himself, though satiric and often extremely wise, had his own sort of devilry—after a certain point. Instead of guiding Roddie he might, in a quick shift of circumstance, stand back and look on.

  “Well, boys, let us see the sights of the town,” said Roddie, rubbing the strong hair on his jaw. Henry, who had finished clipping his beard, put on his jacket and went after him. Callum, Rob and Finn followed at a little distance.

  Just as Roddie and Henry turned into the Sloop Inn, on the sea-front, a young fisherman named Seumas Maclean greeted Finn, who stopped to talk to him.

  “Where away?” asked Finn.

  “I’m going home,” answered Seumas.

  “What’s your hurry?” Finn had a sudden desire to hang on to Seumas, not so much to be away from the members of his own crew as to be apart from them. They discussed some of the week’s doings and smiled over the havoc wrought by the dogs. “You have had a drink,” declared Finn, “and I haven’t.”

  “No, I must be going,” said Seumas; “it’s nearly ten miles, and I’ll get my head in my hands for being as late as I am.”

  Seumas lived down on Loch Luirbost, where a religious revival had blown up, and Finn rallied him on it, with Seumas smiling, his grey-brown eyes alive. He was a slim fellow like Finn himself, two years older, with high cheek-bones and dark hair.

  “Lord, here’s Big Angus,” said Seumas suddenly, “taking the street to himself!”

  A tall fisherman, fully six feet four, broad shouldered, straight-backed, with a short, curly, brown beard, came along, accompanied by three other fishermen. Seumas stepped off the pavement and Finn was shouldered off.

  “They never saw you,” explained Seumas, with a laugh. “He’s a quiet enough fellow, Angus, until he gets drink. On Saturday night he rules the world, with everyone frightened of him.”

  “I know someone who won’t be frightened of him,” murmured Finn, his eyes following the four men until they turned into the Sloop Inn.

  They argued until the p
rospect of some fun was too much for Seumas, and he agreed to go along for a few minutes.

  The bar was filled with seamen and voices and drink. The voices broke into laughter and sometimes shouted. More than Big Angus were on top of the world! Finn at last got two whiskies from the landlord, who was a small, forceful man, with a tubby body and a sharp, commanding voice. His clients did not object to his occasional cautionary words, rather liked them in fact, and on the whole obeyed them.

  From their stance by the wall, near the door, Finn saw the inception of the trouble. One of the three seamen with Big Angus whispered something to him. “What’s that?” asked Big Angus, and had it repeated. Then he turned his face and looked over towards the corner where Roddie and Henry were talking and drinking. Roddie’s back was to him. Angus took a sideways step, as if to get a better view, and then laughed. “Missed the Butt!” he said, and coming back to the counter hit it with the bottom of his thick glass. “Another round!” he called. “God, fancy a man missing the Butt!” The humour of it broke from him. He shook his laughing head. “Did you hear that one, Donald George?” he asked the landlord, as he scooped up his change. “He missed the Butt!”

  “Now, now, Angus,” said Donald George. “That’s enough.”

  “I should think it was!” said Angus, and threw his head back in a hearty roar at his own wit. “It’s the best joke I have heard in years.”

  However Henry tried to hold Roddie’s attention he could not shut his ears. The whole room was caught, and eyes gleamed on Big Angus and shot to Roddie, who had now turned round.

  His mirth seemed to weaken Big Angus, and he said, “Damn me!” and “Och! och!” Then turning to have another look at the marvel who had missed the Butt, he encountered Roddie’s steady stare.

  That stare shook some of the mirth out of him, for he was not used to opposition. But he held by his expression as he took a step or two towards Roddie and asked, with laughing curiosity, “Tell me, how did you manage it?”