by Neil M. Gunn
“He’s a fine man,” said Rob with his serious air.
“He’s all that,” said Roddie.
“Mary Ann and ourselves for Bain, Sulaire and Iolaire for Maciver. It’s level going,” said Henry.
“It looks as if the boats from the north are blank again,” called Finn. They had been making but little progress in the light wind and had seen the bulk of the fleet heading in past the Chicken Rock but now they were near enough for Finn’s keen eyes to see that the last boat or two sat lightly in the water.
As they passed Goat Island, Callum said, “Will you look?”
Convoyed by the gulls, low in the water, they slowly approached a quay that seemed to be thronged by all Stornoway.
Finn felt the excitement surging in him, and did his best to look indifferent. Rob scratched his beard. “There seems to be a few folk about,” he said casually. After that, none of them spoke, but each sat in his place with calm countenance.
Roddie, the terrible East-coaster, the mad Viking, the spiller of blood, the curse on Stornoway, brought the Seafoam to her berth, silver-scaled to his thighs, with a quiet gesture of the lowering of the sails and no word spoken. Glancing up the quay wall, Finn saw hundreds of eyes on them in silence. It was a moment of great triumph.
Bain’s voice rose in a shout.
Roddie lifted his face and answered with a quiet smile. Yes, they had a few crans.
“What about the Sulaire?” asked Maciver.
“She won’t be for an hour or more yet. He’ll have to come carefully,” said Roddie with a glimmer of humour.
“Good for Macleod!” cried Maciver.
“And the Iolaire has a good shot,” Roddie added.
Maciver slapped Bain on the back. One up!
“The only other boat that was with us was the Mary Ann and she’ll be in next,” said Roddie. “She was in them, too.”
“Hah-ha!” laughed Bain, jerking his head back. Both Maciver and himself had seen the quality of the herring. They were in high feather.
“Kebock Head will be black with boats to-night,” prophesied Maciver.
“So long as you have a Caithness man to lead the way,” agreed Bain. “I’ll stand you a good one to-day, skipper, even if we don’t go to Donald George’s,” he shouted.
The whole quay laughed. Roddie turned away, his face darkening.
“That’s him,” said a girl’s voice. “Throw him a kiss.”
Finn, glancing up, saw the gutting crew of three girls with whom he had already had a slight passage at arms. He blushed deeply and looked down. They shrieked with laughter.
As they were unloading their herring, Finn saw people coming up to have a look at Roddie, a discreet wondering look. The story of the Sloop Inn was already growing fabulous. The mass of the Lewis fishermen were glad that Big Angus had got it where he deserved it—in the jaw. But this man’s mythical strength, his defiance of superstition, his touchiness over what now was retailed as an incredible feat of seamanship in the Western Ocean, and—confronting them here—his triumph over the fish of the sea itself! …
“You mind your step,” cried the high-spirited fair girl, as Finn staggered sideways a little in tipping the fish into the gutting-box.
“I didn’t mean to touch you,” said Finn.
“We’ve had your touchings before,” said she.
“I’m sorry if you didn’t like them,” said Finn.
She mimicked his East-coast accent. “Mama’s pretty boy!”
He stood a moment looking at her, his eyes gleaming over the flush on his face.
“Here!” she called to the foreman. “Watch him!”
“What now?” said the foreman heartily, busy scooping salt. “Going to throw her into the box, my boy?” Swish! went the salt. “She may yet find a harder bed”—swish!—“and not notice it.”
Finn retreated. The girls retreated, too, knowing better than to engage the hairy foreman in verbal combat. “He’s a nasty old man,” said the high-spirited one. “You asked for it,” said her companion, a dark merry girl.
“I did nothing of the sort,” said the fair one, riding high.
“I think you’re getting fond of him,” said the dark girl.
“Who? Me?” The blue eyes opened in scorn.
“Hsh, he’s coming,” said the dark one.
But Fair-face did not even deign to glance at Finn, this time or for several times. Her voice, however, continued to exhibit a considerable gift of mimicry.
“That’s the last of them,” said Finn, smiling pleasantly to the dark girl. Then in a simple confidential manner, he asked, “Where does she stay?”
“Who?”
“Her,” said Finn, with a sideways movement of the head.
“Why?”
“So that I might keep out of her way.”
“In that case, don’t go near Swordale.”
“Thank you very much,” said Finn, and off he went.
“You had no right to tell him,” said Fair-face, unable, however, to suppress a certain excitement.
The dark girl, bending over the herring, smiled, for though Finn had spoken about her companion, he had spoken with his eyes to herself.
If one lives long enough, thought Finn, as he followed Henry, one learns many a thing.
Bain was talking to Roddie. “Come on!” he said. “No,” replied Roddie, “you’ll please excuse me. Thank you all the same.” Bain looked at him, his eyes sharpened in humour. “Very well,” he nodded. “But come on over to the office. I have something to say to you. Come away.” “We’ll go over,” said Roddie to Henry, and they both followed Bain through the crowd.
“That’s done us out of one,” remarked Finn to Callum.
“Has it, faith?” asked Callum.
“We’ll run the nets out first,” said Rob.
“I have a thirst on me,” declared Callum, “that would astonish two pints of beer. Are you game?”
“Why not?” said Finn.
“You can’t say but I asked you not to go,” remarked Rob, pulling down his jersey. “There’s a widow woman who has a place round the corner, just short of the Custom House. She’s a decent woman; and her husband, who came from Swordale, learned his trade in the Wick Arms, when Danny Sinclair…”
Finn began to laugh and waved to Seumas, who cried, “Won’t you wait for me?” The four large shots had fairly stirred up Stornoway. There was life everywhere and a buzz of expectation. What one boat got to-day, another might get to-morrow. That the four boats had stolen a day’s march on the rest of the fleet was a good joke, for no-one grudged anyone anything so long as herring were about. A man’s time was coming! “Boys, will you look at him?” murmured Callum. They went to the edge of the wall and Callum cried, “A few scales on you to-day, Skipper!” The Sulaire glittered from stem to stern and her skipper beamed upon them. It lightened the heart to look on that wise, good-natured, radiant countenance, and after a few chaffing words, they followed Rob.
“We’ll have three glasses of beer,” said Rob to the widow, a buxom heavy-breasted woman, fresh-faced, and forty. She complimented Rob on his shot, and Rob said it wasn’t bad, and as they got on the talk, Callum gave Finn a wink. “We’ll have the same, again, Mistress, if you please.” “God bless me, boy,” said Rob, astonished, “you’re quick with it.” “Cold iron to you, Rob—or you’re sunk,” cried Callum solemnly. Three men came in and the widow moved up to attend to their order. “You’re a dark dog,” said Callum. “Fancy having all that up your sleeve.” “Will you be quiet,” muttered Rob, with decent care. “Have you no manners at all?” “Besides,” murmured Finn, “he could hardly have it up his sleeve.” Callum, caught in the middle of his drink, barked abruptly, spluttered the mouthful mostly up his right arm and went on coughing, Finn taking the glass from him.
“I’m very sorry,” he gasped to the lady of the house; “it went down the wrong way.”
“You’ll have to excuse him,” said Rob sarcastically; “he’s not used to it.”
“Inde
ed,” said the lady, “it’s a sore thing.” She picked up a mopping cloth. “It’s on your sleeve.” When he had overcome a second bout of coughing, she wiped his sleeve. He thanked her, pulled his sleeve down, and looked up it.
. . . . .
When at last they left the inn, Finn rolled away laughing, with Rob heavily talking at Callum.
“I didn’t mean anything,” explained Callum. “If you ask me, I think she is a very nice woman. I don’t mean to imply that there is anything between you. There may be for all I know—but I’m not saying it.”
“No. But you think I don’t follow you. Well, let me tell you——”
Callum stopped. “I don’t want you to tell me anything. Don’t put any sin on your conscience for my sake.”
Finn could see Rob’s anger was evaporating, though he still pretended to be hurt. “It’s the manners of the thing,” he protested.
“Ay, ay,” said Callum.
Rob hunched his shoulders and Finn saw a faint new gleam of self-importance come into his eyes. “I was going to tell you,” he said, “about Swordale, and how a foreign crew landed there not many years ago, and buried cartloads of silver dollars in the sand, and how the Customs officers got them and found out they had murdered their captain on the high seas, and what happened to the dollars and the crew, but damn me if I now tell you a thing,” and he stalked on.
“Man, that’s a poor spirit, Rob,” replied Callum, winking at Finn, who could have shouted out, for no earthly reason than that he was happy.
But he answered thoughtfully, “I don’t agree with you there. After all, anyone could see that the woman of the house had an eye for him, and you can hardly blame him for that. For all we know, he may be innocent. Tell me, Rob, where is Swordale?”
“Do you think you might find some of the dollars?” asked Rob sarcastically.
“I wasn’t exactly thinking of the dollars,” said Finn.
Callum whistled. “Her husband came from Swordale! Dollars! Not only the woman herself, but her dollars! Finn, this is no company for poor country lads. Let him go on alone.” And they stopped, leaning against each other while Rob walked on.
When they reached the Seafoam, Roddie and Henry were running out the nets. Rob was explaining to them that he had gone to look after these two, but catch him if he would go again. Callum started a broadside of dark hints. Finn saw that Roddie and Henry, though easy in their manner, were quiet.
And on the way home, after spreading their nets, as Roddie stopped to talk to the skipper of the Mary Ann, Henry said: “Listen, boys. There’s to be no case. Bain is a decent fellow. He told Donald George that not one member of his crews would darken his doors if he went on with it. But he wants ten pounds. Bain pointed out that the damage done wasn’t three pounds, taking the bottle of whisky at a shilling, and it’s dear at that. But he wouldn’t move. He said it gave his place a bad name and he wanted to make an example. He’s just a greedy devil. Bain says he might have got Maciver to talk to him, for he’s frightened of Maciver, but, after all, it’s our affair, and Maciver saved us already. So there it is.”
“I’m glad it’s settled,” said Rob.
“What are you thinking of?” asked Finn.
“Well,” said Henry, “it’s a job. You know Roddie. If he insists on paying the ten pounds himself—and he will—then what with expenses and the price of two new nets, he may well go home in debt. For you know as well as I do that the herring is spotty. In any case, we were all in it. The first thing Roddie did when he got his ten pound bounty from Bain was to give two pounds to each of us. And that’s more than we should have got. What do you say, Rob?”
“We maybe had a few shillings when we came away,” replied Rob thoughtfully. “And we don’t settle our accounts until we leave. You can have my two pounds back and welcome.”
“Good for you, Rob!” said Callum.
Finn now felt happier than ever.
When they had had their couple of hours’ sleep, Henry gave his signal, and waited behind with Roddie.
They were busy lifting the nets when Roddie and Henry came up. In a quick glance, Finn saw the flush in Roddie’s skin. As they all came together, Roddie paused, a hesitant smile on his face, and said simply, “Thank you, boys.”
The words went straight to Finn’s heart. None of them looked at Roddie. Rob scratched his whiskers noisily. Callum’s eyes gleamed. They went on, walking up the nets on their bare feet, as if nothing had happened.
And so they settled down to three weeks’ fishing. After small shots for a day or two, with the boats going as far south as they could, there was a blank period. By Wednesday, Callum could sleep on his feet, and when he went to bed on Saturday afternoon, he slept round the clock. It was hard work, but Finn liked it, and would have liked it more if there hadn’t settled down on the crew a half-drugged lethargy. Finn saw that though mostly due to toil and an absence of the excitements that had hitherto dogged them, this mood was in some degree due to Roddie’s quietism. His pleasantness was a mask, the sort of mask one did not try to penetrate. It came and went as required, leaving him with an impenetrably normal expression. Finn felt that he had lost taste for the trip; and though his secret pride might be touched by the way people looked at him, this also undoubtedly irritated him. Instead of soothing, it raised an inward defiance and challenge. Once he had overheard him say, with his dangerous smile, to a fool of a young fellow who gaped at him, “Yes?” The fool had turned away so blindly that he tripped over his own feet. Two other fools had laughed. But Roddie took no more notice.
Finn’s own relation to Roddie changed insensibly, too, changed just enough for him to see again the occasional dogfish swirl deep in his own mind. But any man, Finn was now beginning to realize, will feel like that at an odd irritated moment. It was the sort of thing one paid no attention to. More and more he realized that the eagerness and vanities that had beset him belonged to a youth which manhood, thickening its texture, kept in their place. He became one of the crew, seeing Roddie as an objective body and presence with which it was no business of his to interfere. Roddie wanted no more trouble. Neither did he.
But in proportion to this growing knowledge or understanding, he found in himself a freedom that now and then realized itself in moments of intense pleasure. The exhaustion following long and heavy toil normally induced stupor and sleep but it could, in wakeful or half-dream states, arouse a sensual imagery of sometimes delicious power. There was one sunrise on a calm morning, of red and gold and amethyst on a wide sea, that had not merely, as usual, drawn a smiling glance from his eyes, but had held them until the smile had gone. It was at this hour in the morning, when expectancy troubled rest, that the images came most clearly. And they did not come in loneliness or austerity, they came with the girl Una. They were in the core of his body, secretive, but always human. Yet, whether from lack of physical experience or other cause, they were never turgid. The sunrise came about him, into his eyes, drenched his mind, went about the other boats, where life was stirring, gulls floating and wheeling, in the calm of a morning possessed and not possessed. Even when it induced an uneasiness, a dissatisfaction, something at the back of it sang. For to Finn, life lay in front of him—and he never doubted but that he would live long enough!
Then towards the end of the second week, a cold nor’-easter came blowing down the Minch and on Friday night Finn ran into the dark girl in Stornoway. She was with another girl and it was Callum who stopped and spoke to her. But presently she was smiling at Finn. “Not been to Swordale yet?”
“I went out there on Sunday,” said Finn, “but it seems everyone stays indoors on Sunday in this part of the world.”
“Why, don’t they in your part of the world?”
“Perhaps they do,” said Finn, “but I’m not there now.”
“Didn’t you go to church?”
“Surely,” said Finn. “I went there afterwards, for consolation.”
She laughed, sensitive but merry. She looked quite differen
t now, neatly dressed, warm in her attraction, with shy dark eyes.
“Hullo!” And down on Finn’s shoulder came Seumas’s hand. “Well, well, Catrine! And yourself, Finn! It’s a fine night!” He laughed lightly.
“You have your share of it,” replied Catrine, flushing.
“Do you think so?” asked Seumas. “Where?”
“That’s your concern,” said Finn. “We were just discussing the fishing.”
“And saying what a pity it is you aren’t on the sea tonight! Aren’t you afraid of these East-coast fellows, Catrine?”
“I’d be less afraid of them than of many a one I know,” replied Catrine, with spirit, for she was annoyed with herself for having blushed.
“Is that a compliment or what, Finn?”
“If you had any sense in you you would see that she is being kind to the stranger,” answered Finn.
Seumas went lightly away, laughing. He was back in a moment with others. “We’re all going to Laxdale,” he said.
“I’m going to my bed,” said Callum, and off he went.
There was a knot of eight of them and they kept together going along the road, talking and laughing, and shoving sometimes, for they were all pretty much of an age. The evening was falling and presently they began to sing. Suddenly they all stopped singing and explosions of laughter were badly smothered. The man approached and paused.
“It’s a fine night,” said Seumas calmly.
“Do you think this is a way to behave in the sight of the Lord on the public road?”
A girl, who had not quite got over her giggles, moaned “Oh-h-h” as if in pain. They all shoved past the man and went on quickly, running against laughter, but it overtook some of them, and though Catrine’s eyes were glancing she looked scared, too.
“I know you,” the voice called back to them. “I know who you are.”
“Ay, ay,” said one of the lads drolly, but not very loud.
Soon they stood and chattered like birds, and went on, and stood and every now and then doubled over with laughter.
Finn felt himself the stranger, but not very much, for if they accepted him without any attention, now and then in a glance, a sudden movement, a politeness, they showed they were aware of him in a friendly, inviting way.