Part 17 (2/2)

It is morning, just before the dawn. The ”Polly J.,” her new paint all silver in the early light, rides proudly at her anchor in the centre of the tideway. The nip of winter lingers in the air, but the snow is gone and the rigging is no longer stiff to the touch.

It is just daylight when the last dory is hoisted aboard into its nest.

Three or four figures on the wharves, outlined against the purple sky and hills, stand waving G.o.dspeed to their fisher-folk. Women's voices ring out between the creakings of the blocks, ”Good luck! Good luck! 'Polly J.'; wet your salt first, 'Polly J.'” It is the well-wis.h.i.+ng from the hearts of women, who go back to weep in silence. Which one of them is to make her sacrifice to the G.o.d of winds and storms?

There is a cheerful answer from the ”Polly,” drowned in the flapping of the sails and creaking of the windla.s.s. The anchor, rusty and weed-hung, is broken out and comes to the surface with a rush, while sheets are hauled aft, and, catching the morning breeze, the head of the schooner pays off towards Norman's Woe, the water rippling merrily along her sides.

The figures on the wharves are mere gray patches in the ma.s.s of town and hills. The big sails, looming dark in the gray mists of the morning, round out to the freshening wind, and push the light fabric through the opal waves with ever-increasing speed. By the time the first rays of the rising sun have gilded the quivering gaff of the main, Eastern Point is left far astern, and the nose of the vessel ploughs boldly out to sea, rising with her empty bins light as a feather to the big, heavy swell that comes rolling in, to break in a steady roar on the brown rocks to leeward.

There is man's work and plenty of it during those sailing days past ”George's,” Sable Island, and the St. Lawrence. The provisions and salt are to be stowed and restowed, ballast is to be s.h.i.+fted, sails to be made stronger and more strong, fish-bins to be prepared, old dories to be made seaworthy, rigging to be tautened, and reels and lines to be cleared and hooked. Buoy-lines and dory-roding are to be spliced, and miscellaneous carpenter work takes up the time about the decks. For a skipper unprepared to take advantage of all that luck may throw in his way does an injustice to his owner and his crew. But, busy as the time is, the skipper has his weather-eye open for the ”signs.” The feel of the air, the look and color of the cold, gray Bank Sea, tell him in so many words how and where the fish will be running. At last a hand takes the heavy sea-lead and moves forward where the line may run free. Deliberately the line is coiled in great turns around the left hand, and then, like a big pendulum, the weight begins to swing with the strong right arm.

IN THE EXCITEMENT OF THE FIRST CATCH

There is a swirl of the line as the lead goes all the way over, a splash forward, and, as the skipper luffs her up into it, the line comes upright, and gets a depth of thirty fathoms. As she comes up into the wind, the noisy jib flaps down with a run, and the anchor drops to the sandy bottom.

Now the buckets of bait are tossed up from below, and the skipper leaves his helm to take to the lines. Over the sides and stern they go, dragging down to leeward.

There is quiet for a moment, and then a line runs out. There is a tug as the strong arm checks it and hauls it in quickly, hand over hand. There is a gleam of light, a swish at the surface, and the fish flies over the rail, flopping helplessly on to the deck, the first catch of the season,--a big one.

Another tug, and another, and soon the work is fast and furious. It takes honest elbow-muscle, too, to haul ten pounds of floundering cod up five feet of freeboard to the rail and deck. Soon the deck is covered with the long, slim, gleaming bodies, and the boys of the schooner have man's work in tossing them into the gurry-pen amids.h.i.+ps. Before the pen is filled, the fishes stop biting as suddenly as they struck on, and there is a rest for a while to bait-up and clean down.

If the signs hold good, the skipper will order the men out to set trawls, for the smell of the dead fish sometimes drives the school away.

HANDLING THE TRAWLS

The ”trawls” are only an elaboration of the hand-lines. They are single lines, several hundred feet in length, with short lines and baited hooks at intervals. They are taken out by members of the crew in their dories, buoyed and anch.o.r.ed. It is the work of tending these trawls that takes the greatest skill and fearlessness. It is in the work of hauling and baiting the lines in all weathers that the greatest losses of life occur. There is no room on the decks of the schooners for heavy boats, and as many such craft are needed, five or six are piled together amids.h.i.+ps. A block and purchase from aloft are their hoisting-tackle.

They are handy boats, though light, and two men and a load of fish can weather the rough seas, if your fisherman is an adept with his oars. But they are mere c.o.c.kle-sh.e.l.ls at the best, and are tossed like feathers.

The ”codders” are reckless fellows, and they will put out to the trawls day after day in any kind of weather, fog or clear, wind or calm, with not even a beaker of water or a piece of pilot-bread.

A LONELY NIGHT ON THE BROAD ATLANTIC

A night alone on the broad Atlantic in an open dory seems to have no terrors for them. Each year adds its lists of casualties to those that have gone before. Fogs have shut in, seas have risen, and morning has dawned again and again with no sign of the missing men. Sometimes an upturned dory is found, with her name--the ”Molly S.,” or the ”Betty T.,”

in honor of the owner's sh.o.r.e-mate--on her pointed bow, but only the gray ocean can tell the story of the missing men.

When the ”Polly's” day's luck is run, all hands take stations for dressing down. It is the dirty part of the business; but so quickly is it done that the crew seems part of a mechanism, working like clockwork. Two men stand at the gurry-pen, their long knives gleaming red in the sunset. The fish is slit from throat to tail with one cut, and again on both sides of the neck. It then pa.s.ses to the next man, who with a scoop of his hand drops the cod's liver in a basket and sends the head and offal flying. The fish slides across the dressing-table, where the backbone is torn out by the third man, who throws it, finally, headless, cleaned, and open, into the was.h.i.+ng-tub.

The moment the tub is filled, the fish are pitched down the open hatch to the fifth man, who packs them with salt snugly in the bins. So quickly is the work done that the fish seem to travel from one hand to another as though they were alive, and a large gurry-pen is emptied and the bin packed and salted in less than an hour.

WHEN THE DAY'S WORK IS DONE

The head of the black cook appears above the hatch-combing, and his mouth opens wide as he gives the welcome supper call. Down the ladder into the cuddy they tumble, one and all, and lay-to with an appet.i.te and vigor which speaks of good digestive organs. Conversation is omitted. Coffee, pork-and-beans, biscuit,--nectar and ambrosia,--vanish from the tin dishes, until the cook comes in with the sixth pot of steaming coffee.

At last, when the cook vows the day's allowance is eaten and the last drop of coffee is poured, the benches are pushed back, tobacco and pipes are produced from the sacred recesses of the bunks, and six men are puffing out the blue smoke as though their lives depended on it.

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