

E-text prepared by Roger Frank and the Project Gutenberg Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)



Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
      file which includes the original illustration.
      See 30138-h.htm or 30138-h.zip:
      (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/30138/30138-h/30138-h.htm)
      or
      (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/30138/30138-h.zip)





THE SEINERS

by

JAMES B. CONNOLLY

Author of "Out of Gloucester," "Jeb Hutton," Etc.







[Illustration: IT WAS THE FINEST KIND OF EXCITEMENT, OUR RUNNING TO
HARBOR]



Charles Scribner's Sons
New York 1910

Copyright, 1904, by
Charles Scribner's Sons

Published, May, 1904




CONTENTS

        I. THE NEW VESSEL OF WITHROW'S                               1
       II. A LITTLE JOG ALONG THE DOCKS                              8
      III. MINNIE ARKELL                                            16
       IV. LITTLE JOHNNIE DUNCAN STANDS EXAMINATION                 27
        V. FROM OUT OF CROW'S NEST                                  35
       VI. MAURICE BLAKE GETS A VESSEL                              43
      VII. CLANCY CROSSES MINNIE ARKELL                             51
     VIII. THE SEINING FLEET PUTS OUT TO SEA                        61
       IX. MACKEREL                                                 70
        X. WE LOSE OUR SEINE                                        82
       XI. AN OVER-NIGHT BREEZE                                     87
      XII. THE FLEET RUNS TO HARBOR                                 99
     XIII. WESLEY MARRS BRINGS A MESSAGE                           119
      XIV. A PROSPECT OF NIGHT-SEINING                             123
       XV. CLANCY TO THE MAST-HEAD                                 129
      XVI. WE GET A FINE SCHOOL                                    137
     XVII. A DRIVE FOR MARKET                                      144
    XVIII. A BRUSH WITH THE YACHTING FLEET                         153
      XIX. MINNIE ARKELL AGAIN                                     159
       XX. THE SKIPPER PUTS FOR HOME                               172
      XXI. SEINERS' WORK                                           175
     XXII. ON THE CAPE SHORE                                       184
    XXIII. DRESSING DOWN                                           193
     XXIV. THE WITHROW OUTSAILS THE DUNCAN                         202
      XXV. TROUBLE WITH THE DOMINION CUTTERS                       206
     XXVI. THE GOSSIP IN GLOUCESTER                                211
    XXVII. IN CLANCY'S BOARDING-HOUSE                              217
   XXVIII. IN THE ARKELL KITCHEN                                   220
     XXIX. MAURICE BLAKE COMES HOME                                230
      XXX. THE MORNING OF THE RACE                                 235
     XXXI. THE START OF THE RACE                                   243
    XXXII. O'DONNELL CARRIES AWAY BOTH MASTS                       250
   XXXIII. THE ABLE JOHNNIE DUNCAN                                 257
    XXXIV. MINNIE ARKELL ONCE MORE                                 265
     XXXV. CLANCY LAYS DOWN THE LAW                                271
    XXXVI. MAURICE BLAKE IS RECALLED                               281
   XXXVII. THE GIRL IN CANSO                                       289
  XXXVIII. THE DUNCAN GOES TO THE WEST'ARD                         297
    XXXIX. THE HEART OF CLANCY                                     309




THE SEINERS




THE SEINERS

I

THE NEW VESSEL OF WITHROW'S


It was only a few days before this that the new vessel of Mr.
Withrow's, built by him, as everybody supposed, for Maurice Blake, had
been towed around from Essex, and I remember how Maurice stood on the
dock that afternoon and looked her over.

There was not a bolt or a plank or a seam in her whole hull, not a
square inch inside or out, that he had not been over half a dozen
times while she was on the stocks; but now he had to look her over
again, and as he looked his eyes took on a shine. She had been
designed by a man famous the world over, and was intended to beat
anything that ever sailed past Eastern Point.

She certainly was a great-looking model of a vessel, and "If she only
sails and handles half so well as she looks, she'll do for me," said
Maurice. "Yes, sir, and if she's up to what I think she ought to be, I
wouldn't be afraid to bet my share of what we make out South that
she'll hold her own with anything out of Gloucester--give her a few
weeks to loosen up, of course."

That was a good deal to say, for it was a great fleet of vessels
sailing out of Gloucester; but even so, even allowing for a young
skipper's pride in his first crack vessel, it meant a whole lot coming
like that from Maurice Blake.

And on top of all that Maurice and Withrow had to quarrel, though what
about I never found out. I only know that I was ready to believe that
Withrow was to blame, for I liked Maurice and did not like Withrow,
even though Withrow was the man from whom I drew my pay every week.
And yet I could not understand it, for Maurice Blake had been far and
away the most successful skipper sailing for Withrow, and Withrow
always had a good eye for the dollar.

No more came of it until this particular morning, some days after
Maurice and Withrow had quarrelled. Wesley Marrs and Tommie Clancy,
two men that I never tired of listening to, were on the dock and
sizing up the new vessel. Wesley Marrs was himself a great fisherman,
and master at this time of the wonderful Lucy Foster.

    When she swings the main boom over
      And she feels the wind abaft,

    The way she'll walk to Gloucester'll
      Make a steamer look a raft.

    For she's the Lucy Foster,
    She's a seiner out of Gloucester,--

was the way the fishermen of the port used to sing about the Lucy;
while Tommie Clancy was Maurice Blake's closest friend.

With ballast stored, masts stepped, rigging set up, and sails bent,
setting as sweet as could be to her lines and the lumpers beginning to
get her ready for the mackerel season, the Fred Withrow was certainly
a picture.

After a couple of extra long pulls, blowing the smoke into the air,
and another look above and below, "That one--she'll sail some or I
don't know," said Wesley.

"She sure will," said Tommie; "and it's a jeesly shame Maurice isn't
to have her." Then turning to me, "What in the devil's name ails that
man you work for, Joey?"

I said I didn't know.

"No, nor nobody else knows. I'd like to work in that store for him for
about ten minutes. I think I'd make him say something in that ten
minutes that would give me a good excuse for heaving him out the
window. He had an argument with Maurice, Wesley, and Maurice don't
know what it was half about, but he knows he came near to punching
Withrow."

And Wesley and Tommie had to talk that out; and between the pair of
them, thinking of what they said, I thought I ought to walk back to
the store with barely a civil look for my employer, who didn't like
that at all, for he generally wanted to hand out the black looks
himself.

Then the girls--my cousin Nellie and her particular chum, Alice
Foster--came in to weigh themselves, and also to remind me, they said,
that I was to take them over to Essex the next day for the launching
of the new vessel for the Duncan firm, which had been designed by a
friend of Nell's, a young fellow named Will Somers, who was just
beginning to get a name in Gloucester for fast and able models of
vessels. Withrow, who was not over-liberal with his holidays, said I
might go--mostly, I suspect, because Alice Foster had said she would
not make the trip without Nell, and Nell would not go unless I went
too.

Then Nell and Miss Foster went on with the business of weighing
themselves. That was in line with the latest fad. It was always
something or other, and physical culture was in the air at this time
with every other girl in Gloucester, so far as I could see--either
Indian-club swinging or dumb-bell drilling, long walks, and things of
that kind, and telling how much better they felt after it. My cousin
Nell, who went in for anything that anybody ever told her about, was
trying to reduce her weight. According to some perfect-form charts, or
something or other on printed sheets, she weighed seven pounds more
than she should for her height. I thought she was about the right
weight myself, and told her so, but she said no--she was positively
fat. "Look at Alice," she said, "she's just the thing."

I looked at Alice--Miss Foster I always called her myself--and
certainly she was a lovely girl, though perhaps a little too conscious
of it. She was one of the few that weren't going in for anything that
I could see. She wasn't even weighing herself, or at least she didn't
until Mr. Withrow, with his company manners in fine working order,
asked her if she wouldn't allow him to weigh her.

There were people in town who said it was not for nothing that
Alice Foster was so chummy with my cousin Nell. They meant, of
course, that being chummy with Nell, who came down regularly to see
me, gave herself a good excuse to come along and so have a word with
Withrow. Fred Withrow himself was a big, well-built, handsome
man--an unusually good-looking man, I'd call him--and a great
heart-breaker, according to report--some of it his own. And he was
wealthy, too. I did not know, but somehow or other I did not believe
it, or maybe it was that I hoped rather than believed that Miss
Foster did not care particularly for him; for I did not like him
myself, although I worked for him and was taking his money. Being day
in and day out with him in the store, you see I saw him pretty much
as he really was, and I hated to think of a fine girl--for with
all her cool ways I knew Miss Foster was that--marrying him. Just
how Withrow thought he stood with Miss Foster I did not know--he
was a pretty close-mouthed man when he wanted to be. Miss Foster
herself was that reserved kind of a girl that you cannot always
place. She struck me as being a girl that would die before she would
confess a weakness or a troublesome feeling. And yet, without
knowing how it came there, there was always a notion in the back of
my head that made me half-believe that she did not come to the
store with my cousin out of pure companionship. There was something
besides--and what could it be but Withrow?

After the weighing was done Nell asked me all at once, "I hear, Joe,
that Captain Hollis is going to have your new vessel? How is that?
We--I thought that Captain Blake was going master of her--and such a
pretty vessel!"

I answered that I didn't know how it was, and looked over at my
employer, as much as to say, "Maybe he can tell you."

I think now that I must have been a pretty impudent lad, letting my
employer know what I thought of him as I did in those days. I think,
too, he had a pretty shrewd notion of what I thought of himself and
Maurice Blake. At any rate, after the girls had gone, he worked
himself into a fine bit of temper, and I talked back at him, and the
end of it was that he discharged me--or 1 quit--I'm not sure which. I
do know that it was rapid-fire talk while it lasted.

It was some satisfaction to me to tell Withrow just about what I did
think of him before I went. He didn't quite throw me out of the door,
although he was big enough for that; but he looked as if he wanted to.
And maybe he would have, too, or tried it, only I said, "Mind I don't
give you what Tommie Clancy threatened to give you once," and his
nerve went flat. I couldn't have handled him as Clancy had any more
than I could have hove a barrel of salt mackerel over my head, which
was what the strong fishermen of the port were doing about that time
to prove their strength; but the bluff went, and I couldn't help
throwing out my chest as I went out the door and thinking that I was
getting to be a great judge of human nature.




II

A LITTLE JOG ALONG THE DOCKS


I was sorry to lose my job. I was twenty years old, without a trade or
special knowledge of any kind, and beyond the outfitting of fishing
vessels, knowing nothing of any business, and with no more than a high
school education--and that two years behind me--and I knew of no place
in Gloucester where I could begin all over and right away get as much
pay as I had left behind me. I might go to Boston, of course, and try
for something there--I was not ten minutes out of Withrow's before I
thought of doing that. But a little further thought and I knew there
were more capable men than I walking the streets of Boston looking for
work. However, a lot could happen before I would have to worry, and so
I decided to take the air and think it over.

I might go fishing certainly--I had had a little experience in my
school vacations--if my mother would only stand for it. As to that I
did not know. If it came to fishing or starving--one or the
other--then of course she would have to let me go fishing. But my
father had been lost on the Grand Banks with his vessel and all
hands--and then one brother was already fishing. So I hardly thought
she would allow me, and anyway I knew she would never have a good
night's rest while I was out.

However, I kept thinking it over. To get away by myself I took a ride
over to Essex. There I knew I would find half a dozen vessels on the
stocks, and there they were--the latest vessel for the Duncan firm and
three more for other firms. I knew one of the ship-carpenters in
Elwell's yard, Levi Woodbury, and he was telling me about some of the
vessels that had been launched lately. "Of course," he said, "you saw
the one launched a few days ago from here--that one built for Mr.
Withrow?"

I said I had, and that she was a wonder to look at and that I wished
Maurice Blake, and not Sam Hollis, was to have her.

"Yes," said Levi, "and a pity. Maurice Blake could have sailed her
right, though for that matter Sam Hollis is a clever hand to sail a
vessel, too. And she ought to sail some, that vessel. But look
here at this one for the Duncans and to be launched to-morrow.
Designed by Will Somers--know him? Yes? A nice young fellow. Ain't she
able-looking?"

She certainly was, and handsome, and Levi went on to tell me about
her. He showed me where she was like and where she differed from the
Lucy Foster, the Fred Withrow, the Nannie O, the Colleen Bawn, and the
others which were then causing trouble in Gloucester with crews
fighting over their good qualities. I did not know a whole lot about
vessels, but having been born in Gloucester and having soaked in the
atmosphere all my life and loving vessels besides, I had a lot of
notions about them. And I liked this last Duncan vessel. By the wind
and in a sea-way, it struck me she would be a wonder. There was
something more than just the fine lines of her. There is that about
vessels. You can take two vessels, model them alike, rig them alike,
handle them alike, and still one will sail rings around the other. And
why is it? I've heard a hundred fishermen at different times say that
and then ask, Why is it? This one was awfully sharp forward, too sharp
some might have said, with little more forefoot than most of the
late-built flyers; but she was deep and had a quarter that I knew
would stand up under her sail. I liked the after-part of her. Racing
machines are all right for a few months or a year or two and in smooth
water, but give me a vessel that can stand up under sail. I thought I
could see where, if they gave her sail enough, especially aft, and a
skipper that would drive her, she might do great things. And
certainly she ought to be a comfort in a blow and bring a fellow
home--and there's a whole lot in that--being in a vessel that you feel
will bring you home again.

I looked over the others, but none of them held me like the Duncan
vessel, and I soon came back to Gloucester and took a walk along the
waterfront.

It was well into March at this time--the third week in March, I
remember--and there was a great business doing along the docks. The
salt bankers were almost ready to leave--twenty-eight or thirty sail
fitting out for the Grand Banks. And then there were the seiners--the
mackerel catchers--seventy or eighty sail of them making ready for the
Southern cruise. All that meant that things would be humming for a
while. So I took a walk along the docks to see it.

Most of the vessels that had been fishing during the winter had been
stripped of their winter sails, and now aboard these they were bending
on the summer suits and slinging up what top spars had not already
been sent up. For the vessels that had been laid up all winter and
stripped of everything, they were getting out the gear from the lofts.
Everywhere it was topmasts being sent up, sails being dragged out,
stays swayed taut, halyards and sheets rove--an overhauling
generally. On the railways--Burnham's, Parkhurst's, and Tarr's--were
vessels having their bottoms scrubbed and painted and their topsides
lined out. And they all looked so handsome and smelt so fine with
their riggings being tarred, not with the smoky tar that people ashore
put on house-roofs, but the fine rich-smelling tar that goes into
vessels' rigging; and there was the black and dark sea-green paint for
the sides, with the gold or yellow or sometimes red stripe to mark the
run, and main and quarter rails being varnished.

And the seine-boats! If there is anything afloat that sets more
easily on the water than a seine-boat I never saw it, unless it
might be a birch-bark canoe--and who'd want to be caught out in a
blow in a canoe? The seine-boats all looked as natural as so many
sea-gulls--thirty-six or thirty-eight feet long, green or blue
bottoms to just above the waterline so that it would show, and above
that all clear white except for the blue or red or yellow or green
decorations that some skippers liked. And the seines that went
with them were coming in wagons from the net and twine factory,
tanned brown or tarred black and all ready to be hauled on to the
vessels' decks or stowed in the holds below, until the fleet
should be in among the mackerel to the south'ard--off Hatteras or
Cape May or somewhere down that way.

To feel all that and the rest of it--to walk to the tops of your shoes
in pine chips in the spar yards, to measure the lengths of booms and
gaffs for yourself if you weren't sure who were going to spread the
big mainsails, to go up in the sail-lofts and see the sailmakers,
bench after bench of them, making their needles and the long waxed
threads fly through the canvas that it seemed a pity wasn't to stay so
white forever--to see them spread the canvas out along the chalk lines
on the varnished floor, fixing leach and luff ropes to them and
putting the leather-bound cringles in, and putting them in too so
they'd stay, for by and by men's lives would depend on the way they
hung on--all that, railways, sail-lofts, vessels, boats, docks alive
with men jumping to their work--skippers, crews, carpenters, riggers,
lumpers, all thinking, talking, and, I suppose, dreaming of the
season's work ahead--m-m--there was life for a man! Who'd want to work
in a store after that?

I stopped at Duncan's wharf and looked at Wesley Marrs's vessel, the
Lucy Foster, and then the Colleen Bawn.

    And O'Donnell drove the Colleen like a ghost through all that
        gale,
    And around 'twas roaring mountains and above 'twas blinding hail,

and so on. And the Nannie O, another vessel that fishermen sang songs
about.

    Oh, the lovely Nannie O,
    The able Nannie O,
    The Nannie O a-drivin' through the gale.

They were lying there, tied to the docks. They were all dreams, so
long and clean, with the beautiful sheer fore and aft, and the
overhang of the racers they were meant to be--the gold run, with the
grain of the varnished oak rails shining above the night-black of
their topsides, and varnished spars. They had the look of vessels that
could sail--and they could, and live out a gale--nothing like them
afloat I'd heard people say that ought to know.

I walked along another stretch and at Withrow's dock I saw again the
new one that had been built for Maurice Blake but given to Sam Hollis,
who was a boon companion of Withrow's ashore, as I may have said
already. Hollis's gang were bragging even now that she'd trim anything
that ever sailed--the Lucy Foster, the Nannie O, the Colleen Bawn, and
all the rest of them. And there were some old sharks, too, upon the
docks who said they didn't know but she looked as if she could. But a
lot of other people didn't think it--she was all right as a vessel,
but Sam Hollis wasn't a Wesley Marrs, nor a Tom O'Donnell, nor a
Tommie Ohlsen, nor even a Maurice Blake, who was a much younger man
and a less experienced fisherman than any of the others.

All that, with the vessels anchored in the stream and the little
dories running up and down and in and out--it all brought back again
the trips I'd made with my father, clear back to the time when I was a
little boy, so small that in heavy weather he wouldn't trust me to go
forward or aft myself, but would carry me in his arms himself--it all
made me so long for the sea that my head went round and I found myself
staggering like a drunken man as I tried to walk away from it.




III

MINNIE ARKELL


There was nothing for it. For a thousand dollars a month I could not
stay ashore. Somebody or other would give me a chance to go seining,
some good skipper I knew; and if none of the killers would give me a
chance, then I'd try some old pod of a skipper. My mother would just
have to let me go. It was only summer fishing after all--seining
wasn't like winter trawling--and in the end she would see it as I
did.

I walked along, and as the last man in my mind was Maurice Blake, of
course he was the first I had to run into. He was not looking well; I
mean he was not looking as he should have looked. There was a reckless
manner about him that no more belonged to him than a regularly quiet
manner belonged to his friend Tommie Clancy. And I guessed why--he had
been drinking. I had heard it already. Generally when a man starts to
drink for the first time everybody talks about it. I was surprised,
and I wished he hadn't. But we are always finding out new things about
men. In my heart I was not blaming Maurice so much maybe as I should.
I'd always been taught that drinking in excess was an awful habit, but
some otherwise fine men I knew drank at times, and I wasn't going to
blame Maurice till I knew more about it.

And we can forgive a lot, too, in those we like. Maurice had no family
to think of, and it must have been a blow to him not to get so fine a
vessel as the Fred Withrow after he had been promised and had set his
heart on it. And then to see her go to a man like Sam Hollis! and with
the prospect of not getting another until a man like Withrow felt like
saying you could. Everybody in Gloucester seemed to know that Withrow
was doing all he could to keep Maurice from getting a vessel, and as
the owners had banded together just before this for protection, as
they called it, "against outside interference," and as Withrow was one
of the largest owners and a man of influence beyond his vessel
holdings, he was quite a power at this time.

Maurice Blake was far from being drunk, however, when I met him this
day. Indeed, I do not believe that in his most reckless hour up to
this time he had ever lost control of himself so far as not to know
pretty nearly what he was doing all the time; but certainly he had
been drinking this day, and the drinking manner did not set well on
him.

Maurice was standing on the front steps of Mrs. Arkell's boarding-house
when I saw him. It was Mrs. Arkell's granddaughter Minnie that married
the wealthy Mr. Miner--a rather loud sort of man, who had been reported
as saying that he would give her a good time and show her life. He may
have given her a good time--I don't know--but he was dead in two
years. He was supposed to be very rich--three or four millions--but on
settling up there was less than half a million. Of course that wasn't
bad--enough for Minnie to buy a big house next her grandmother's for
a summer home, and enough to go off travelling whenever she pleased.

When she came back to Gloucester she was still a very handsome girl,
spoken of as the "Miner widow" among people who had known her only
since her marriage, but still called Minnie Arkell by most of those
who had known her when she was a child. In Gloucester she bought the
first house just around the corner from her grandmother's. A handy
passage between their two back yards allowed her to visit her
grandmother whenever she pleased. She wanted to be near her own
people, she said, and was more in her grandmother's house than her
own.

Maurice came down the steps of Mrs. Arkell's boarding-house as I came
along, and joined me on the sidewalk. He asked me the first thing if
I wouldn't have a drink, and I said no.

"Oh, I forgot," he said, "you don't drink. Have a cigar," and he
pulled one out of his pocket, and I took and lit it. Generally I
smoked a pipe, but I liked good cigars, though I couldn't afford them
myself. This was not a good one--more like the kind they hand out in
bar-rooms when men get tired of drinking and say they guess they'll
have a smoke.

"How does it happen, Joe, you're not at the store? I always thought
Withrow held his men pretty close to hours."

"Well, so he does, but I'm not working for him now." And then I told
him that I had had an argument with Withrow, been discharged, and was
thinking of going fishing. I didn't tell him at first how it all came
about, but I think he guessed it, for all at once, after a searching
look, he reached out and shook hands with me.

"If ever I get a vessel again, Joe, and you still want to go fishing
and care for a chance with me, you can have it--if you can't go with a
better man, I mean. I'll take you and be glad to have you."

That meant a good berth, of course, for Maurice was a killer.

I looked at Maurice when he wasn't watching me, and felt sorry for
him. He was a man that anybody would like the looks of. It wasn't
that he was a handsome man--I never could get to like pretty men
myself--but there was something about him that made you feel you could
trust him. The heavy tan of his face and the grip of his jaw would
spoil almost anybody for a beauty man, I suppose, but he had fine eyes
and his mouth was all right, and he had a head that you'd like to
stand off one side and look at, with hair that seemed to lift and wave
with every breath of wind, and when he smiled you felt somehow that
he'd saved that particular smile for you. He was no better built than
a hundred other men I knew who were going fishing, and he was no
bigger than a thousand others sailing out of Gloucester, and not near
so big as a lot of others--five feet ten or eleven, maybe, he was,
with level shoulders, and very light on his feet--but looking at him
you knew he was all there.

After smoking a while and watching him between puffs, it flashed on me
all at once that I was pretty thick. A word or two my cousin Nell had
let slip--not so much what she said as the way she said it--gave me a
hint of a whole lot of things. Looking at Maurice now I asked him if
he had seen my cousin or Miss Foster lately.

He flushed up as he looked at me, and I saw that whatever he was
thinking of it had not been far away from what I had been thinking
of. "No, I haven't seen them"--slowly. "How is your cousin?"

"Oh, she seems to be all right. They were both in to the store this
morning."

"What doing?" I thought he was beginning to worry, but I tried not to
let on that I noticed it. I was beginning to feel like a sleuth, or a
detective, or a diplomat, or something.

"Well, I don't know. Nell said they came in to see me, but all that
happened that I had any hand in was to weigh her. She gained another
pound last week, and it's worrying her. The more exercise she takes
the heavier she gets, she says. She's a hundred and thirty-one now. Of
course, while they're there Withrow had to help out and make himself
agreeable, especially to Miss Foster, but I can't see that she warms
up to him."

"Ha? No? You don't think so?"

"Not much, but maybe it's her way. She's pretty frosty generally
anyway, different from my cousin--she's something like."

"Yes, your cousin is all right," said Maurice.

"You bet," I said. "She don't stand around and chill the air."

"Why--does Miss Foster always? Is that her way? I--don't--know--much
about her."

"Well, I don't know so very much myself--mostly what my cousin tells
me. Still, I guess she's all right; but she strikes me as one of the
kind that might make an awful lot of a man and never let on until she
was dead sure of him."

"H-m--That means she could think a whole lot of Withrow and not let
on, Joe?"

I tried to look at Maurice like my oldest brother used to look at me
sometimes when he tried to make me feel that I was a very green kid
indeed, and said, "Well, if she's the kind to care for a man like
Withrow, all I've got to say is that she'll deserve all she'll get.
He's no good."

"That may be, but how's she to know? I know, you know, and half the
men in Gloucester know that he's rotten; but take a woman who only
sees him at his best and when he's watching out--how's she to know?"

"I don't know, but being a woman she ought to," was all I could say to
that. It came into my mind just then that when I next saw my cousin
Nell I'd tell her what I really knew, and more than that--what I
really thought of my old employer. Perhaps she'd carry it to Miss
Foster. If it was to be Maurice or Withrow, I knew on which side I was
going to be.

Both of us were quiet then, neither of us quite knowing what to say
perhaps. Then together we started to walk to the corner of the side
street. We were past the side-door of the boarding-house when a voice
called out, "Oh, Maurice," and then, maybe noticing me, I suppose,
"Oh, Captain Blake," and Maurice turned. Minnie Arkell--Mrs. Miner
rather--was there at the kitchen window. I didn't know she was in town
at all--thought she hadn't got back from Florida, or North Carolina,
or wherever it was she had been for the winter.

"Won't you come in a minute, Captain, and your friend? He doesn't
remember me--do you, Joe?--and yet we were playmates once," which was
true. I was often taken to Mrs. Arkell's when a little fellow by
skippers who were friends of my father's. They used to tell me about
him, and I liked to listen.

"I thought I'd run over and see granny," she went on. "I'm back to the
old house for a while. Won't you come in?"

My mind had long been set against Minnie Arkell. I knew about her
throwing over a fine young fellow, a promising skipper, to marry
Miner. I may have been too young at the time to judge anybody, but
after that I had small use for her. My ideas in the matter were of
course pretty much what older men had put into me.

I had listened to them--skippers and others--and yet now, when she
held out her hand to me and smiled, I didn't feel nearly so set
against her. She certainly was a handsome girl, and yet I hoped that
Maurice wouldn't fall in love with her, as most everybody did that
came to the Arkell house.

I said that I did not have time to come in, and started to make off.
Maurice asked me where I was bound. I told him that I thought of
taking a look in at Crow's Nest and getting the news.

"Yes, you'll get it there, sure enough. When they can't tell you
anything else up there they can tell you what everybody's doing." He
smiled at that, turned slowly toward the side-door, as if he would
rather go with me to Crow's Nest, and I went off.

Just outside the gate I saw Sam Hollis, a man I never did like. Tommie
Clancy, the man that could size up a person quicker than anybody I'd
ever met, used to say that deep down, if you could get at Hollis,
you'd find a quitter, but that nobody had ever got into him. I'd been
meeting Hollis after every trip in for two years in Withrow's store.
He was a successful fisherman, and a sharp, keen man ashore, but he
was a man I never quite took to. One of his ambitions, I felt
satisfied, was to be reckoned a devil of a fellow. He'd have given a
year's earnings, I knew, to have people point him out on the street
and say, "There's Sam Hollis--there's the boy to carry sail--nobody
ever made him take his mains'l in," the same as they used to say of a
half dozen or so that really would carry sail--that would drive a
vessel under before they would be the first to reef. But the people
didn't do that, although, let him tell it, he did wonderful things out
to sea, and he had such a way of telling it, too, that he'd almost
make you believe him. But as Clancy used to say, after he'd left you,
and you had time to think it over, you'd see where here and there his
story wasn't well-calked. My own idea was that he wanted a reputation
so that he could pose as a devil of a fellow with certain people
ashore. It is easy enough to see that even a more careful man than Sam
Hollis might take a chance for a smile from a woman like Minnie
Arkell.

Anyhow, I never felt at home with Hollis, and so was willing to take
Clancy's judgment straight. Hollis was a man about forty, and had been
one of Minnie Arkell's admirers ever since I could remember--ever
since she was old enough to have any, I mean, and she wasn't any late
bloomer, as Clancy used to say.

Hollis went into the Arkell house by the door that had only just
closed behind Maurice and Minnie Arkell. I didn't like that very much,
and was thinking of turning back and going in, too; but on second
thought it occurred to me that perhaps only Maurice would have a
welcome for me. So I didn't enter, but kept on to Crow's Nest
instead.




IV

LITTLE JOHNNIE DUNCAN STANDS EXAMINATION


By this time I should have gone home, I suppose, and had something to
eat--it was getting on into the afternoon--but I didn't want to have a
talk with my mother yet awhile, and so kept on to Crow's Nest, where I
found half a dozen good-natured loafers. Not all were loafers
exactly--three or four were simply waiting around before shipping on
some seiner for the mackerel season. It promised to shower at the
time, too, and of course the gentlemen who formed old Peter's staff
could not think of venturing out in threatening weather.

And there they were, with Peter Hines, the paid man in charge of
Crow's Nest, keeping a benevolent eye on them. Yarning, arguing,
skylarking, advising Peter, and having fun with little Johnnie Duncan
they were when I entered. Johnnie was the grandson of the head of the
Duncan firm, a fine, clear-eyed boy, that nobody could help liking. He
thought fishermen were the greatest people in the world. Whatever a
fisherman did was all right to Johnnie.

I had got all the news at Crow's Nest and was just thinking of moving
along toward home when Tommie Clancy popped in. Of course that made a
difference. I wasn't going to move while Clancy was around.

"My soul, but here's where the real gentlemen are," he had to say
first, and then, "Anybody seen Maurice to-day?"

I told him I had, and where.

"Anybody with him?"

"Well, not with him exactly." I shook my head, and said nothing of
Minnie Arkell, nor of Sam Hollis, although Clancy, looking at me, I
could see, guessed that there was something else; and he might have
asked me something more only for the crowd and little Johnnie Duncan.

Johnnie was trying to climb up onto Clancy, and so Clancy, turning
from me, took Johnnie up and gave him a toss that all but hit his head
against the roof. "And how's she heading, Johnnie-boy?" and taking a
seat stood Johnnie up beside him.

"East-s'uth-east, and a fair, fair wind," answered Johnnie.

"East-s'uth-east--my, but you said that fine. And a fair wind? Must be
bound Georges Bank way. And how long will you hold that course?"

"From Eastern Point--a hundred and thirty-five mile."

"Yes--and then?"

"Then you throw her up and heave the lead."

"And heave the lead--sure enough. And then?"

"And then, if you find you're clear of the North Shoal, you put her to
the s'uth'ard and west'ard till you're in onto the Bank."

"S'uth'ard and west'ard--that's the boy. Man, but I'll live to see you
going to the Custom House and taking out your master's papers yet."

"And can I join the Master Mariners then?"

"That's what you can, and walk down Main Street with a swing to your
shoulders, too. And now you're up on the Bank and twenty-five fathom
of water and the right bottom--and you're a hand-liner, say, after
cod--what then?"

"Let go her chain and begin fishing."

"And would you give her a short or a long string of cable?"

"M-m--I'm not sure. A long string you'd hang on better, but a short
scope and you could get out faster in case you were dragging and going
onto the shoals. What would you do, Captain Clancy? You never told me
that, did you?"

"Well, it would depend, too, though handliners generally calculate on
hanging on, blow how it will. But never mind that; suppose your
anchor dragged or parted and into the shoal water you went in a gale,
an easterly, say--and the bank right under your lee--wind sixty or
seventy or eighty mile an hour--what would you do?"

"Anchor not hold? M-m--Then I'd--give her the second one."

"And if that dragged, too--or parted?"

"Both of 'em? M-m"--Johnnie was taking deep breaths now--"why, then
I'd have to put sail to her----"

"What sail?"

"Why, jib, jumbo, fore and main."

"And the wind blowing eighty mile an hour?"

"Why, yes, if she'd stand it."

"My, but she'd have to be an able vessel that--all four lowers and the
wind blowing eighty mile an hour. Man, but you're a dog! Suppose she
couldn't stand it?"

"Then I'd reef the mains'l."

"And if that was too much--what then?"

"Reef it again."

"And too much yet?"

"Balance-reef it--maybe take it in altogether--and the jib with it,
and get out the riding-sail."

"And would you do nothing to the fores'l?"

"M-m--I dunno--with some vessels maybe I'd reef that, too--maybe take
it in altogether."

"My, but you're cert'nly a dog. And what then?"

"Why, then I'd try to work her out."

"And would you be doing anything with the lead?"

"Oh, we'd be keeping the lead going all the time, for banging her
across and back like that you wouldn't know where you were just."

"And would you come clear, d'y' think?"

"Yes, sir--if the gear held and with an able vessel we ought to."

"If the gear held--that's it. Be sure, Johnnie-boy, you see that the
gear is all right before ever you leave port. And with an able vessel,
you say? With that new one of your gran'pa's--would you come clear
with her?"

"Oh, she'd come clear--built to go fresh halibuting next winter, that
one."

"Yes--and seining this spring. But suppose now you were
haddocking--trawling--eight or ten dories, and you just arrived on the
grounds, picked out a good spot, and there you are--you're all baited
up and ready?"

"Winter time?"

"Winter time, yes."

"First I'd single-reef the mains'l. Then I'd hold her up a little--not
too much--me being skipper would be to the wheel myself--and then I'd
give the order, 'Dories to the rail!' and then, when everything was
all right--when I'd be satisfied we wouldn't foul the next vessel's
trawls--I'd call out, 'Over with your wind'ard dory!'"

"Loud and clear you'd holler, because the wind might be high."

"Loud and clear, yes--'Let go your wind'ard dory!'--like that. And
'Set to the west'ard,' or the east'ard, whatever it was--according to
the tide, you know. I'd call that out to the dory as it went sliding
by the quarter--the vessel, of course, 'd be sailing all the time--and
next, 'Wind'ard dory to the rail!' And then, when we'd gone ahead
enough, again, 'Let go your looard dory!' and then, 'Looard dory to
the rail! Let go your wind'ard dory! Let go your looard dory!' and so
till they were all over the side."

"And supposing, they being all out, it came on thick, or snowing, and
some of them went astray, and it was time to go home, having filled
her with eighty or ninety or a hundred thousand of fresh fish, a fair
wind, and every prospect of a good market--what then?"

"Oh, I'd have to wait, of course--cruise around and stand by."

"And suppose you couldn't find them again?"

"Why, after waiting until I was sure they were gone, I'd come home."

"And your flag?"

"Half-mast."

"Half-mast--that's it. I hope you'll never have to fly a half-masted
flag, Johnnie. But suppose you did see them, and they were in shoal
water, say--and the shoals to looard, of course, and it blowing----"

"I'd stand in and get them."

"And it blowing hard--blowing hard, Johnnie?--and shoal--shoal
water?"

"Why"--Johnnie was looking troubled--"why, I'd have to stand in just
the same, wouldn't I?"

"Your own men and you ask me, Johnnie-boy?"

"Why, of course I'd have to stand in and get them."

"And if you got in so far you couldn't get out--you got smothered,
say?"

"Why, then--then we'd be lost--all hands would be lost."

Poor Johnnie! he was all but crying.

"That's it. And that's where some would say you showed yourself a man,
and some a fool, Johnnie-boy. Some would say, 'Use judgment--think of
the other eighteen or twenty men safe aboard the vessel.' Would you
use judgment, or what, Johnnie?"

"M-m--I don't know. What would you do, Captain Clancy?"

"What d'y' think I'd do, Johnnie?" Clancy drew the boy up and tucked
the little face to his own broad breast. The rest of us knew well
enough what Clancy would do. "Judgment hell!" Clancy would say, and go
in and get lost--or maybe get away with it where a more careful man
would be lost--but we waited to hear what Johnnie--such a little
boy--would say. He said it at last, after looking long into Clancy's
face.

"I think you'd go in, Captain Clancy."

Clancy laughed at that. "Lord, Johnnie-boy, no wonder everybody loves
you. No matter what a man does, all you see is the best that's in
him."

It was time to clean up then, and Johnnie of course was bound to
help.




V

FROM OUT OF CROW'S NEST


"What'll I do with this?" asked Johnnie, in the middle of the cleaning
up, holding up a pan of sweepings.

"Oh, that"--Clancy naturally took charge--"heave it overboard. Ebb
tide'll carry it away. Heave it into the slip. Wait--maybe you'll have
to hoist the hatches. 'Tisn't raining much now, anyway, and it will
soon stop altogether. Might as well go aloft and make a good job of
the hatches, hadn't he, Peter?"

"Wait a minute." Peter was squinting through the porthole. "I
shouldn't wonder but this is one of our fellows coming in. I know
she's a banker. The Enchantress, I think. Look, Tommie, and see what
you make of her."

Clancy looked. "That's who it is, Peter. Hi, Johnnie, here'll be a
chance for you to hoist the flag. Hurry aloft and tend to the hatches,
as Peter says, and you can hoist the flag for the Enchantress home
from the Banks."

In bad weather, like it was that day, the little balcony of Crow's
Nest was shut in by little hatches, arranged so that they could be run
up and down, the same as hatches are slid over the companionway of a
fisherman's cabin or forec's'le. Johnnie was a pretty active boy, and
he was up the rope ladder and onto the roof in a few seconds. We could
hear him walking above, and soon the hatches slid away and we all
could look freely out to sea again.

"All right below?" called out Johnnie.

"Not yet," answered Peter. He was standing by the rail of the balcony
and untwisting the halyards that served to hoist the signal-flags to
the mast-head. Peter seemed slow at it, and Clancy called out again,
"Wait a bit, and we'll overhaul the halyards." Then, looking up and
noticing that Johnnie was standing on the edge of the roof, he added,
"And be careful and not slip on those wet planks."

"Aye, aye!" Johnnie was in high glee. "And then I can run up the flag
for the Enchantress?"

"Sure, you've been such a good boy to-day."

"M-m--but that'll be fine. I can catch the halyards from here if
you'll swing them in a little."

"All right--be careful. Here you go now."

"Let 'em come--I got----"

The first thing we knew of what had happened was when we saw Johnnie's
body come pitching down. He struck old Peter first, staggering him,
and from there he shot down out of sight.

Clancy jumped to the rail in time to save Peter from toppling over it
and just in time, as he said afterward, to see the boy splash in the
slip below. He yanked Peter to his feet, and then, without turning
around, he called out, "A couple of you run to the head of the
dock--there'll be a dory there somewhere--row 'round to the slip with
it. He'll be carried under the south side--look for him there if I'm
not there before you. Drive her now!"

"Here, Joe, wake up!" Clancy had untied the ends of the halyards after
whirling them through the block above, and now had the whole line
piled up on the balcony. He took a couple of turns around his waist,
took another turn around a cleat under the balcony rail, passed the
bight of the line to me, and said, "Here, Joe, lower me. Take hold
you, too, Peter. Pay out and not too careful. Oh, faster, man! If he
ain't dead he'll drown, maybe--if he gets sucked in and caught under
those piles it's all off."

He was sliding over the rail, the line tautening to his weight in no
time, and he talking all the time. "Lower away--lower, lower!
Faster--faster than that--he's rising again--second time--and drifting
under the wharf, sure's fate! Faster--faster--what's wrong?--what's
caught there?--let her run!"

The halyards had become fouled, and Peter was trying to clear them,
calling to Clancy to wait.

"Fouled?" roared Clancy. "Cast it off altogether. Let go altogether
and let me drop."

"We can't--the bight of it's caught around Peter's legs!" I called to
him.

"Oh, hell! take a couple of half-hitches around the cleat then--look
out now!" He gripped the halyards high above his head with both hands,
gave a jumping pull, and let himself drop. The line parted and down he
shot.

He must have been shaken by the shock of his fall, but I guess he had
his senses with him when he came up again, for in no time he was
striking toward where Johnnie had come up last. Then I ran downstairs,
down to the dock, and was just in time to see Parsons and Moore rowing
a dory desperately up the slip, and Clancy with Johnnie chest-up, and
a hand under his neck, kicking from under the stringers, and calling
out, "This way with the dory--drive her, fellows, drive her!"

I did not wait for any more--I knew Johnnie was safe with Clancy--but
ran to the office of the Duncans and told them that Johnnie had fallen
into the dock and got wet, and that it might be well to telephone for
a doctor. His grandfather knew it was serious without my saying any
more, and rang up at once.

That had hardly been done when Clancy came in the door with Johnnie in
his arms. The boy was limp and unconscious and water was dripping from
him. Old Mr. Duncan was worried enough, but composed in his manner for
all that. He met Clancy at the door. "This way, Captain; lay him on
this couch. The doctor will be here in a very few minutes now. Perhaps
we can do something while he is on the way. Just how did it happen?
and we'll know better what to do, perhaps."

Clancy told his story in forty words. "He's probably shook up and his
lungs must be full of water. But he may come out all right--his
eyelids quivered coming up the dock. Better strip his shirt and waist
off. He's got a lot of water in him--roll him over and we'll get some
of it out."

He worked away on Johnnie, and had the water pretty well out of him by
the time the uncle and the doctor came. It was hard work for a time,
but it came at last to when the doctor stood up, rested his arms for a
breath, said, "Ah--he's all right now," and went on again. It was not
so very long after that that Johnnie opened his eyes--for about a
second. But pretty soon he opened them to stay. His first look was for
his grandfather, but his first word was for Clancy. "I could see you
when you jumped, Captain Clancy--it was great."

Then they bundled Johnnie into a carriage and his uncle took him
home.

"Lord, but I thought he was gone, Joe. But let's get out of this,"
said Clancy, and we were making for the door, with Clancy's clothes
still wringing wet, when we were stopped by the elder Mr. Duncan, who
shook hands with both of us and then went on to speak to Clancy.

"Captain Clancy----"

"Captain once, but----"

"I know, I know, but not from lack of ability, at any rate. Let me
thank you. His mother will thank you herself later, and make you feel,
I know, her sense of what she owes to you. And his cousin Alice--she
thinks the world of him. There, I know you don't want to hear any
more, but you shall--maybe later--though it may come up in another
way. But tell me--wait, come inside a minute. Come in you, too, Joe,"
he said, turning to me, but I said I'd rather wait outside. I wanted
to have a smoke to get my nerves steady again, I guess.

So Clancy and Mr. Duncan went inside, and through the window, whenever
I looked up, I could see them. As their talk went on I could see that
they were getting very much interested about something or other.
Clancy particularly was laying down the law with a clenched fist and
an arm that swung through the air like a jibing boom. Somebody, I
knew, was getting it.

When they came out Mr. Duncan stopped at the door, and said, as if by
way of a parting word, "And so you think that's the cause of Withrow's
picking a quarrel with Maurice? Well, I never thought of that before,
but maybe you're right. And now, what do you say to a vessel for
yourself?"

"Me take a vessel? No, sir--not for me. But when you've got vessels to
hand around, Mr. Duncan, bear Maurice in mind--he's a fisherman."

We left Mr. Duncan then, he making ready to telephone to learn how
Johnnie was getting along. Clancy said his clothes were beginning to
feel so dry that he did not know as he would go to his boarding-house.
"I think we'd better go up to the Anchorage and have a little touch.
But I forgot--you don't drink, Joe? No? So I thought, but don't you
care--you're young yet. Come along, anyway, and have a smoke."

And so we went along to the Anchorage, and while we were there, I
smoking one of those barroom cigars and Clancy nursing the after-taste
of his drink and declaring that a touch of good liquor was equal to a
warm stove for drying wet clothes, I told him what I would have told
him in Crow's Nest if there had not been so many around--about Minnie
Arkell calling Maurice back into her grandmother's house, and then Sam
Hollis coming along and going in after him.

"What!" and stopped dead. Suddenly he brought his fist through the
air. "I'll"--and as suddenly stopped it midway. "No, I won't, either.
But I'll put Maurice wise to them. What should he know at his age and
with his up-bringing of what's in the heads of people like them. And
if I don't have something further to say to old Mr. Duncan! But now
let's go back to Arkell's--come on, Joe."

But I didn't go back with him. I didn't think that I could do Maurice
any good then, and I might be in the way if Clancy wanted to speak his
mind out to anybody. I went home instead, where I expected to have
troubles of my own, for I knew that my mother wouldn't like the idea
of my going seining.




VI

MAURICE BLAKE GETS A VESSEL


Three days after Johnnie Duncan fell out of Crow's Nest the new
Duncan vessel designed by Will Somers was towed around from Essex.
She had been named the Johnnie Duncan. I spent the best part of the
next three days watching the sparmakers and riggers at work on her.
And when they had done with her and she fit to go to sea, she did look
handsome. She had not quite the length of the new vessel of Sam
Hollis's, which lay at Withrow's dock just below her, and that
probably helped to give her a more powerful look to people that
compared them. Too able-looking altogether to be real fast, some
thought, to hold the Withrow vessel in anything short of a gale, but
I didn't feel so sure she wouldn't sail in a moderate breeze, too.
I had seen her on the stocks, and knew the beautiful lines below the
water-mark. And she was going to carry the sail to drive her. I took
particular pains to get the measurements of her mainmast while it
lay on the dock under the shears. It was eighty-seven feet--and
she only a hundred and ten feet over all--and it stepped plumb in
the middle of her, further forward than a mainmast was generally put
in a fisherman. To that was shackled a seventy-five foot boom, and
eighty-odd tons of pig-iron were cemented close down to her keel, and
that floored over and stanchioned snug. For the rest, she was very
narrow forward, as I think I said--everybody said she'd never stand
the strain of her fore-rigging when they got to driving her on a
long passage. And she carried an ungodly bowsprit--thirty-seven feet
outboard--easily the longest bowsprit out of Gloucester. Topmasts to
match, and there was some sail to drive a vessel. But she had the
hull for it, full and yet easy, with the greatest beam pretty well
aft of the mainmast, and she drew fifteen and a half feet of water.

I was still looking her over, her third day in the riggers' and
sailmakers' hands, when Clancy came along.

"Handsome, ain't she, and only needing a skipper and crew to be off on
the Southern cruise, eh, Joe?"

"That's all. And according to the talk, you're to be the skipper."

"Well, talk has another according coming to it."

"I'm sorry to hear that. But what happened at Mrs. Arkell's the other
day?"

"What happened? Joe, but I was glad you didn't come with me. You'd
have felt as I did about it, I know. There they were--the two of
them--Hollis and Withrow--yes, Withrow there--when I broke in on them,
and Maurice between them--drunk. Yes, sir, drunk and helpless. They
called it a wine-party, as though a man couldn't get as good and drunk
on wine in a private residence as ever he could on whiskey or rum in
the back room of a saloon. Well, sir, I asked a question or two, and
they tried to face me out, but out they went--first Hollis, and then
Withrow, one after the other, and both good and lively. And then
Minnie Arkell popped in from her own house by way of the backyard. She
didn't expect to see me--I know she didn't. Had gone over to her house
when the men began to drink, she said, and had just come over to see
granny.

"Well, I told her what I thought. 'It means nothing to you,' I
said, 'to see a man make a fool of himself--that's been a good
part of your business in life for some time, now--to see men make
fools of themselves for you. Withrow had reasons for wanting him
disgraced--never mind why. Sam Hollis, maybe, has his reasons too. And
the two of them are being helped along by you. You could have stopped
this thing here to-day, but you didn't.' 'No, no, Tommie,' she says.
'Yes, yes,' I went on, 'and don't try to tell me different. If I
didn't know you since you were a little girl you might be able to
convince me, but I know you. Maurice, when he was himself, passed
you by. You were bound to have him. You know a real man, more's the
pity, when you see one, and you know that Maurice, young and green
and soft as he is, has more life and dash than a dozen of the kind
you've been mixing with lately.'

"Oh, but I laid it on, Joe. Yes. A shame to have to talk like that to
a woman, but I just had to. I didn't stop there. 'You're handsome, and
you're rich, Minnie Arkell; got a lot of life left in you yet, and go
off travelling with people who get their names regularly in the Boston
papers; but just the same, Minnie Arkell, there are women in jail not
half so bad as you--women doing time who've done less mischief in the
world than you have.'"

"Wasn't that pretty rough, Tommie?"

"Rough? Lord, yes--but true, Joe, true. And if you'd only see poor
Maurice lying there! Cried? I could've cried, Joe--not since my mother
died did I come so near to it. But it was done.

"Well, I made Minnie go and get her grandmother. And, Joe, if you'd
seen that fine old lady--oh, but she's got a heart in her--stoop and
put Maurice's head on her bosom as if he was a little child. 'The
poor, poor boy. No mother here,' she said, 'and the best man on earth
might come to it. Leave him to me, Tommie.' Lord, I could have knelt
down at her feet--the heart in her, Joe."

"And how has Maurice been since?"

"All right. That was the first time in his life that he was drunk. I
think it will be his last. But let's go aboard the Johnnie."

After looking over the Johnnie Duncan and admiring her to our hearts'
content, we sat down in her cabin and began to talk of the seining
season to come. Others came down and joined in--George Moore, Eddie
Parsons among others--and they asked Clancy what he was going to do.
Was he going to see about a chance to go seining, or what? Moore said
he's been waiting to see what Maurice Blake was going to do; but as it
was beginning to look as though Maurice was done for, he guessed he'd
take a look around. He asked Clancy what he thought, and Clancy said
he didn't know--time enough yet.

Maurice Blake himself dropped down then. He was looking better, and
everybody was glad to see it. He'd quit drinking--that was certain;
and now he was a picture of a man--not pretty, but strong-looking,
with his eyes glowing and his skin flushing with the good blood inside
him. He took a seat on the lockers and began to whittle a block of
soft pine into a model of a hull, and after a while, with a squint
along the sheer of his little model, he asked if anybody had seen Tom
O'Donnell or Wesley Marrs. Several said yes, they had, and he asked
where, and when they told him he got up and said he guessed he'd go
along--as he couldn't get a vessel himself, he might as well see about
a chance to go hand. "And as we've been together so much in times gone
by, Tommie, and you, Eddie and George, what do you say if we go
together now?"

"All right," said Clancy, "but wait a minute--who's that in the
gangway?"

It turned out to be Johnnie Duncan. He had a fat bundle under his arm,
and bundle and all Clancy took him up, tossed him into the air, said
"All right again, Johnnie-boy?" and kissed him when he caught him
down.

Johnnie started to undo his bundle. "I tell you it's great to be out
again--the way they kept me cooped up the last few days," and then,
cutting the string to hurry matters, opened the bundle and spread a
handsome set of colors on the lockers. "The Johnnie Duncan's," said
he. "I picked out the kind they were to be, but mummer worked the
monograms herself. See, red and blue. And see that for an ensign! and
the firm's flag--and the highs--look!--the J. A. D. twisted up the
same as on the handkerchiefs we strained the coffee through last week.
And the burgee--the letters on the burgee--my cousin Alice worked
them. And these stars--see, on the ensign--mummer and my cousin both
worked them. Gran'pa said the vessel ought to be sure a lucky one, and
all she needs is an able master, he says, and if Captain Blake will
take her he'll be proud to have him sail the Johnnie Duncan----"

Maurice Blake stood up. "Me?"

"Yes," said Johnnie. "Gran'pa says that you can have her just as soon
as you go to the Custom House and get your papers. There, I think I
remembered it all, except of course that the colors are from me and
mummer and my cousin Alice, and will you fly them for us?"

Maurice laid down his model and picked up the colors. Then he looked
at Johnnie and said, "Thank you, Johnnie; and tell your mother,
Johnnie, and your cousin, that I'll fly the Johnnie Duncan's
colors--and stand by them--if ever it comes to standing by--till she
goes under. Tell your grandfather that I'll be proud to be master of
his vessel and I'll sail her the best I know how."

"That's you, Maurice," said Clancy.

Maurice drew his hand across his eyes and sat down again. And as soon
as they decently could, Clancy, George Moore, and Eddie Parsons asked
him if they might ship with him for the Southern cruise. Maurice said
they very well knew that he'd be glad to have them. He asked me, too,
he felt so good, and of course I jumped at the chance.




VII

CLANCY CROSSES MINNIE ARKELL


The Johnnie Duncan only needed to have her stores taken aboard to go
to sea. And that was attended to next morning, and she was out for her
trial trip the same afternoon. Everybody said she looked as handsome
as a photograph going out, though all the old sharks, when they saw
her mainsail hoisted for the first time, said she'd certainly have
need of her quarter and draught to stand up under it.

It was a great day for sailing, though--the finest kind of a breeze,
and smooth water. We early carried away our foretopmast, which had a
flaw in it. It was just as well to discover it then. Without topsail
and balloon we had it out with the Eastern Point on her way back from
Boston. She was not much of a steamer for speed, but her schedule
called for twelve knots and she generally made pretty near it--eleven
or eleven and a half, according to how her stokers felt, I guess. We
headed her off after a while, and that was doing pretty well for that
breeze, with a new vessel not yet loosened up.

"But the balloon was too much for her," said Mr. Duncan, as we shot
into the dock after beating the Eastern Point.

"No, the balloon was all right--'twas the topm'st was a bit light,"
answered Maurice.

Old Mr. Duncan smiled at that. "But what do you think of her, Captain
Blake?"

"Oh, she's like all the rest of them when she's alone--sails like the
devil," the skipper answered to that, but he smiled with it and we all
knew he was satisfied with her.

That night was the Master Mariners' Ball, and I waited up till late to
talk with my cousin Nell, who had gone there with Will Somers. Finally
they came along past my house and I hailed them.

Nell broke right in as usual with what was uppermost in her mind. "I
don't suppose you saw me and Alice, but we were in Mr. Duncan's office
when you and Mr. Clancy and Captain Blake were coming up the dock
to-day after the trial trip. Mr. Duncan told us what Captain Blake
said of the Johnnie Duncan, but now tell me, what did the rest of you
think of her? What does your friend Clancy say? He knows a vessel."

"Clancy," I answered, "thought what we all thought, I guess--that
she's a fast vessel any way you take her, but he won't say she's the
fastest vessel out of Gloucester, even after she's put in trim and
loosened up. But in a sea-going way and with wind enough--with wind
enough, mind--he thinks she'll do pretty well."

"With wind enough and in a sea-way?" repeated Nell. "Then I hope that
when the fishermen's race is sailed next fall it's a howling gale and
seas clear to your mast-head. Yes, and you needn't laugh--don't you
know what it means to Will?"

And I did realize. Somers, a fine fellow, was just then beginning to
get a chance at designing fishermen. So far he had done pretty well,
but it was on the Johnnie Duncan, I knew, he had pinned his faith. For
his own sake, I hoped that the Johnnie would do great things, but for
Nell's sake I prayed she would. Nell thought a lot of Will and wasn't
ashamed to show her liking, and thinking of that set me to thinking of
other things.

"Was Miss Foster to the ball?" I asked her.

"She was," said Nell.

"And with whom?"

"Mr. Withrow."

"Oh-h, Lord!"

"Oh-h!--and why Oh-h-h?"

"I wish she'd gone with Maurice."

"H-m--that was drunk the other day?"

"Yes, I suppose that queers him forever. And the other fellow does
ten times as bad, only under cover. Who told you?"

"Never mind. Wasn't he?"

"Was Maurice to the ball?"

"He was."

"And who with?"

"With nobody."

"Good. Was Mrs. Miner there?"

"Mrs. Miner?"--and such a sniff!--"yes, she was there."

"With Sam Hollis?"

"Yes, and flirted with half the men in the hall and with your Maurice
Blake outrageously."

"That so? Could Maurice help that much? But I wish, just the same,
that Miss Foster had gone with Maurice."

"Well, there was one very good reason."

"What?"

"He didn't ask her. And Mr. Withrow made a handsome cavalier anyway."

"A handsome"--I was going to say lobster, but I didn't. Instead I told
her why Maurice didn't ask Miss Foster--that he didn't think enough of
himself, probably. And that led up to a talk about Maurice Blake and
Clancy. Before I got through I had Nell won over. Indeed, I think she
was won over before I began at all.

"There's a whole lot you don't know yet," she said at last. "Get
Captain Blake to make a name for himself seining, and for sailing his
vessel as she ought to be sailed, and I'll get down on my knees to
Alice for him--sail her as she ought to be sailed, remember. And make
a good stock with her, and you'll see."

So, as I walked down the street with Nell and Will Somers a part of
the way, the talk was in that strain, and when I left them, after
passing Sam Hollis bound home, it was with the hope of things coming
out all right. I was feeling happy until I got near Minnie Arkell's
door, where my worrying began again, for there on the steps and in the
glare of the electric light was Minnie Arkell herself, as though she
were waiting for somebody. And not wanting to have her know that I saw
her waiting at her door steps at that time of night, I stepped in the
shadows until she should go in. It was then that Maurice came along,
and she called him up. And he went up and stood on the step below her
and she bent over him as if she wanted to lift him up. And it was less
than five minutes since Sam Hollis left her.

"Come around by way of the side door of grandma's house, Maurice, and
through her yard and into my house, and nobody will see you. And then
no old grannies will talk and we'll have a little supper all to
ourselves. Hurry now." She was talking as if she owned him. I did not
hear what Maurice said, nor I did not want to hear; but making for the
corner, he went by me like a shot, and "O Lord!" I heard him groan as
he passed me, not recognizing me--not even seeing me, I believe.

I did not know what to make of it and let him go by. But after he had
turned the corner and Minnie Arkell had shut her door--and she watched
him till he disappeared around the corner--I ran after him. In my
hurrying after him I heard the voice of Clancy coming down the street.
He was singing. I had heard from Nell of Clancy being at the ball,
where he was as usual in charge of the commissary. I could imagine how
they must have drove things around the punch-bowl with Clancy to the
wheel. He was coming along now and for blocks anybody that was not
dead could hear him. And getting nearer I had to admire him. He was
magnificent, even with a list to port. Not often, I imagined, did men
of Clancy's lace and figure get into evening dress. The height and
breadth of him!--and spreading enough linen on his shirt front to make
a sail for quite a little vessel. He was almost on top of me, with

    "Oh, hove flat down on th' Western Banks
    Was the Bounding Billow, Captain Hanks--
    And----"

when I hailed him.

"Hulloh, if it ain't Joe Buckley. Why, Joey, but aren't you out pretty
late to-night? But maybe you're only standing watch for somebody?
Three o'clock, Joey, and no excuse for you, for you didn't have to
stand by the supplies--" But then I rushed him around the corner, and
down the street to the side door of Mrs. Arkell's and just in time to
head off Maurice, bound as I knew for Minnie Arkell's house across the
yard. I didn't have a chance to say a word to Tommie, but he didn't
have to be told. If I'd been explaining for a week he couldn't have
picked things up any better than he did.

"Maurice--hi, Maurice! Oh, 'tis you, isn't it. Well, Maurice-boy, all
the night I waited for a chance to have a word with you, but ne'er a
chance could I get. Early in the evening--when I was fit for ladies'
company--Miss Foster said how proud she was to know me--me, who had
saved her cousin Johnnie's life. And then she asked me about the
vessel, and I told her, Maurice, that nothing like the Duncan ever
pushed salt water from out of her way before. 'Nothing with two sticks
in her,' says I, and I laid it on thick; 'and Maurice Blake,' says
I--and there, Maurice, I only spoke true catechism. 'Maurice Blake,'
says I, 'is the man to sail her.' She was glad, she said, to know
that, because her chum, Miss Buckley--Joe's cousin there--wanted that
particular vessel to be a success. And she herself was interested in
it. Never mind the reasons, she said. And she always did believe--and,
Maurice, listen now--she knew that Captain Blake would do the Johnnie
Duncan justice. And I said to her--well, Maurice, what I said you can
guess well enough. No, come to think, you can't guess, but I won't
tell you to your face. But thinking of it now, I mind, Maurice, the
time when we were dory-mates--you and me, Maurice--and the cold
winter's day our dory was capsized. And dark coming on and nothing in
sight, and I could see you beginning to get tired. But tired as you
were, Maurice, tired as you were and the gray look beginning to creep
over you, you says, 'Tommie, take the plug strap for a while, you.'"

"But you didn't take it, Tommie."

"No, I didn't take it--and why? I didn't take it--and why? Because,
though the mothers that bore us both were great women--all fire and
iron--'twas in me to last longer--you a boy and your first winter
fishing, and me a tough, hard old trawler. And you had all of life
before you, and I'd run through some hard years of mine. If I'd gone
'twould have been no great loss, but you, Maurice, innocent as a
child--how could I? I'd known men and women, good and bad--I'd lived
life and I'd had my chance and thrown it away--but at your age the
things you had to learn! Maybe I didn't think it all out like that,
but that was why I didn't take the plug strap. But, Maurice-boy, I
never forgot it. 'Take the plug strap, you, Tommie,' you says. We were
dory-mates, of course, but, Maurice-boy, I'll never forget it."

Clancy took off his hat and drew his hand across his forehead. "And
where were you bound when we stopped you, Maurice?"

"Oh, I don't know. To take a walk maybe."

"Sure, and why not? Let's all take a walk. Let's take a walk down to
the dock and have a look at the vessel. Too dark? So it is, but we can
see the shadow of her masts rising up to the clouds and we can open up
the cabin and go below and have a smoke. Come, Maurice. Come on,
Joe."

And down to the cabin of the Johnnie Duncan we went, and Clancy never
in such humor. For three hours--from a little after three o'clock
until after six--we sat on the lockers, Clancy talking and we smoking
and roaring at him. Only the sun coming up over Eastern Point,
lighting up the harbor and striking into the cabin of the Johnnie
Duncan, brought Clancy to a halt.

He moved then and we with him. We left Maurice at the door of old Mrs.
Arkell's, the old lady herself in the doorway and asking us if we had
a good time at the ball. Standing on the steps, before he went in,
Maurice said to me: "Tell your cousin, Joe, that when I do race the
Johnnie, I'll take the spars out of her before anything gets by--take
the spars out or send her under. I can't do any more than that."

The Johnnie Duncan was to leave at ten o'clock and so I left Clancy at
his boarding-house. He looked tired when I left him. But he was
chuckling, too. I asked him what it was that made him smile so.

"I'll give you three guesses," he said, but I didn't guess.




VIII

THE SEINING FLEET PUTS OUT TO SEA


The rest of that morning, between leaving Clancy and getting back to
the dock again, I spent in cleaning up and overhauling my home outfit.
My mother couldn't be made to believe that store bedding was of much
use--and she was right, I guess--and so a warranted mattress and
blankets and comforters and a pillow were made into a bundle and
thrown onto a waiting wagon. Then it was good-by to all--good-by to my
cousin Nell, who had come over from her house, good-by and a kiss for
her little sister--late for school she was, but didn't care she
said--and then good-by to my mother. That took longer. Then it was
into the wagon with my bedding and off to the dock.

At Duncan's store I had charged up to me such other stuff as I needed:
Two suits of oilskins, yellow and black, two sou'westers, heavy and
light, two blue-gray flannel shirts, a black sweater, a pair of rubber
boots, two pairs of woollen mitts and four pairs of cotton mitts,
five pounds of smoking tobacco, a new pipe, and so on. When I had all
my stuff tied up, I swung up abreast of Clancy and together we headed
for the end of Duncan's dock, where the Johnnie Duncan lay.

Quite a fleet went out ahead of us that morning. Being a new vessel,
there was a lot of things that were not ready until the last minute.
And then there was the new foretopmast--promised at nine o'clock it
was--not slung and stayed up until after ten. And then our second
seine, which finally we had to leave for Wesley Marrs to take next
morning. And there were the usual two or three men late. Clancy and
Andie Howe went up to have a farewell drink and were gone so long that
the skipper sent me after them. I found them both in the Anchorage,
where Clancy had met a man he hadn't seen for ten years--an old
dory-mate--thought he was lost five years before in the West Indies.
"But here he is, fine and handsome. Another little touch all around
and a cigar for Joe, and we're off for the Southern cruise."

We left then and started for the dock, with Clancy full of poetry.
There happened to be a young woman looking out of a window on the way
down. Clancy did not know her, nor she him, so far as I knew, but
something about him seemed to take her eye. She leaned far out and
waved her handkerchief at him. That was enough. Clancy broke out--

    "The wind blows warm and the wind blows fair,
      Oh, the wind blows westerly--
    Our jibs are up and our anchor's in,
      For the Duncan's going to sea.
    And will you wait for me, sweetheart?
      Oh, will you wait for me?
    And will you be my love again
      When I come back from sea?

    "Oh, sway away and start her sheets
      And point her easterly--
    It's tackle-pennant, boom her out
      And turn the Duncan free.
    You'll see some sailing now, my boys,
      We're off for the Southern cruise--
    They'll try to hold the Johnnie D,
      But they'll find it of no use."

I didn't wait any longer than that for Clancy, but ran ahead to the
Duncan. I found her with jibs up and paying off. I was in time to get
aboard without trouble, but Clancy and Howe coming later had to make a
pier-head jump of it. Clancy, who could leap like a hound--drunk or
sober--made it all right with his feet on the end of the bowsprit and
his fingers on the balloon stay when he landed, but Howe fell short,
and we had the liveliest kind of a time gaffing him in over the bow,
he not being able to swim. They must have heard us yelling clear to
Eastern Point, I guess. Andie didn't mind. "I must be with a lot of
dogs--have to jump overboard to get aboard." He spat out what water he
had to, and started right in to winch up the mainsail with the gang.
He had on a brand-new suit, good cloth and a fine fit.

"You'll soon dry out in the sun, Andie-boy," they all said to him.

"I s'pose so. But will my clothes ever fit me again like they
did?--and my fine new patent-leather shoes!"

Drifting down by the dock next to Duncan's our long bowsprit almost
swept off a row of old fellows from the cap-log. They had to scramble,
but didn't mind. "Good luck, and I hope you fill her up," they called
out.

"Oh, we'll try and get our share of 'em," our fellows called back.

There was a young woman on the next dock--one of the kind that quite
often come down to take snap-shots. A stranger to Gloucester she must
have been, for not only that Gloucester girls don't generally come
down to the docks to see the fishermen off, but she said good-by to
us. She meant all right, but she should never have said good-by to a
fisherman. It's unlucky. Too many of them don't come back, and then
the good-by comes true.

Andie Howe looked a funny sight when we were making sail. Clancy, who,
once he got started, took a lot of stopping, was still going:

    "Oh, the Johnnie Duncan, fast and able--
    Good-by, dear, good-by, my Mabel--
    And will you save a kiss for me
    When I come back from sea?"

"Yes," roared Andie,

    "And don't forget I love you, dear,
    And save a kiss for me,"

with the salt water dripping from his fine new suit of clothes and the
patent-leather shoes he was so fond of.

And Clancy again:

    "Oh, a deep blue sky and a deep blue sea
    And a blue-eyed girl awaiting me,"

and Howe,

    "Oh, too-roo-roo and a too-roo-ree
    And a hi-did-dy ho-did-dy ho-dee-dee,"

and Clancy,

    "Too-roo-roo and a too-roo-ree,
    The Johnnie Duncan's going to sea,"

and Howe--a little shy on the words--

    "Tum-did-dy dum-did-dy dum-did-dy-dum,
    Hoo-roo-roo and a dum by gum."

And by that time the gang were joining in and sheeting flat the
topsails with a great swing.

I don't suppose that Gloucester Harbor will ever again look as
beautiful to me as it did that morning when we sailed out. Forty sail
of seiners leaving within two hours, and to see them going--to see
them one after another loose sails and up with them, break out
anchors, pay off, and away! It was the first day of April and the
first fine day in a week, and those handsome vessels going out one
after the other in their fresh paint and new sails--it was a sight to
make a man's heart thump.

"The Johnnie Duncan, seiner of Gloucester--watch her walk across the
Bay to-day," was George Moore's little speech when he came on deck to
heave his first bucket of scraps over the rail. George was cook.

And she did walk. We squared away with half a dozen others abreast of
us and Eastern Point astern of us all. Among the forty sail of
fishermen that were standing across the Bay that morning we knew we'd
find some that could sail. There was the Ruth Ripley, Pitt Ripley's
vessel. He worked her clear of the bunch that came out of the harbor
and came after us, and we had it with him across to Cape Cod. Forty
miles before we beat him; but Pitt Ripley had a great sailer in the
Ruth, and we would have been satisfied to hold her even. "Only wait
till by and by, when we get her in trim," we kept saying.

"This one'll smother some of them yet," said Eddie Parsons, looking
back at the Ruth. He felt pretty good, because he had the wheel when
we finally crossed the Ruth's bow.

"With good steering--yes," said Clancy.

"Of course," exclaimed Eddie to that, and filled his chest full, and
then, looking around and catching everybody laughing, let his chest
flatten again.

The skipper didn't have much to say right away about her sailing. He
was watching her, though. He'd look at her sails, have an eye on how
they set and drew, take a look over her quarter, another look aloft,
and then back at the Ruth, then a look for the vessels still ahead.
"We'll know more about it after we've tried her out with the Lucy
Foster or the Colleen Bawn or Hollis's new vessel," he said, after a
while.

One thing we soon found out, and that was that she was a stiff vessel.
That was after a squall hit us off Cape Cod. We watched the rest of
them then. Some luffed and others took in sail, and about them we
could not tell. But those that took it full gave us an idea of how we
were behaving. "Let her have it and see how she'll do," said the
skipper, and Howe, who was at the wheel--with his clothes good and dry
again--let her have it full. With everything on and tearing through
the water like a torpedo-boat, one puff rolled her down till she
filled herself chock up between the house and rail, but she kept right
on going. Some vessels can't sail at all with decks under, but the
Johnnie never stopped. "She's all right, this one," said everybody
then. A second later she took a slap of it over her bow, nearly
smothering the cook, who had just come up to dump some potato parings
over the rail. The way he came up coughing and spitting and then his
dive for the companionway--everybody had to roar.

"Did y'see the cook hop?--did y'see him hop?" called Andie, who was
afraid somebody had missed it.

We passed the Marauder, Soudan McLeod, soon after. His mainmast had
broken off eight or ten feet below the head. They were clearing away
the wreckage. "I s'pose I oughter had more sense," he called out as we
went by.

"Oh, I don't know--maybe the spar was rotten," said Maurice, and that
was a nice way to put it, too.

That night it came a flat calm, and with barely steerage way for us.
There was a big four-masted coaster bound south, too, and light, and
for the best part of the night we had a drifting match with her.
Coasters as a rule are not great all-round sailers, but some of them,
with their flat bottoms and shoal draft, in a fair wind and going
light, can run like ghosts, and this was one of that kind. We had our
work cut out to hold this one while the wind was light and astern, but
in the morning, when it hauled and came fresher, we went flying over
the shoals. So far as the looks of it went the big coaster might as
well have been anchored then.

All that day we held on. And it was a lesson in sailing to see the way
some of those seiners were handled. Our skipper spent most of that day
finding out how she sailed best and putting marks on her sheets for
quick trimming by and by.

Trying each other out, measuring one vessel against another, the fleet
went down the coast. We passed a few and were passed by none, and that
was something. Ahead of us somewhere were a half-dozen flyers. If we
could have beaten some of them we should have had something to brag
about; but no telling, we might get our chance yet.




IX

MACKEREL


Throughout all that night the lights of the fleet were all about us,
ahead and behind. At breakfast next morning--four o'clock--we were off
Delaware Breakwater, and that afternoon at two we began the mast-head
watch for fish. And on that fine April day it was a handsome
sight--forty sail of seiners in sight, spread out and cruising
lazily.

The skipper was the first to get into his oilskins and heavy sweater,
for with a vessel hopping along at even no more than six or seven
knots by the wind it is pretty chilly aloft, nice and comfortable
though it may be on deck in the sun.

There was a game of seven-up going on in the cabin, and the sun
striking down the companionway was bothering Andie Howe. He began to
complain. "Hi, up there to the wheel! Hi, Eddie--can't you put her on
the other tack?--the sun's in my eyes. How can a man see the cards
with the sun in his eyes?"

Parsons didn't have the chance to talk back when the word came from
aloft to put the seine-boat over the side, and after that to overhaul
the seine and pile it in the boat. Vessels ahead had seen mackerel,
the skipper called out. We got into oilskins and boots and made ready.
Those who were going into the seine-boat had already picked out in
what positions they were going to row, and now there was an
overhauling of oars and putting marks on them so that they could be
picked out in a hurry. Clancy and I were to be dorymen. We made ready
the dory, and then Clancy went to the mast-head with the skipper and
Long Steve, whose watch it was aloft.

Things began to look like business soon. Even from the deck we could
see that one or two vessels ahead had boats out. We began to picture
ourselves setting around a big school and landing the first mackerel
of the year into New York. I think everybody aboard was having that
dream, though everybody pretended not to be in earnest. You could hear
them: "A nice school now--three hundred barrels." "Or two hundred
would be doing pretty well." "Or even a hundred barrels wouldn't be
bad." There were two or three young fellows among the crew, fellows
like myself, who had never seen much seining, and they couldn't keep
still for excitement when from the mast-head came the word that a boat
ahead was out and making a set.

We were going along all the time and when we could see from the deck
for ourselves the boats that were setting, Billie Hurd couldn't stand
it any longer, but had to go aloft, too. The four of them made a fine
picture--the skipper and Steve standing easily on the spreaders, one
leaning against the mast and the other against the back-stay, with
Hurd perched on the jib halyards block and Clancy on the spring-stay,
and all looking as comfortable as if they were in rockers at home. I'd
have given a hundred dollars then to be able to stand up there on one
foot and lean as easily as the skipper against the stay with the
vessel going along as she was. I made up my mind to practise it when
next I went aloft.

I went to the mast-head myself by and by, and, seeing half a dozen
schools almost at once, I became so excited that I could hardly speak.
The skipper was excited, too, but he didn't show it, only by his eyes
and talking more jerkily than usual. He paid no attention to two or
three schools that made me just crazy just to look at, but at last,
when he thought it was time, he began to move. Ten or a dozen
Gloucester vessels were bunched together, and one porgy steamer--that
is, built for porgy or menhaden fishing, but just now trying for
mackerel like the rest of us.

"There'll be plenty of them up soon, don't you think, Tommie?" the
skipper asked.

"Plenty," answered Tommie, "plenty," with his eyes ever on the fish.
"I think Sam Hollis has got his all right, but Pitt Ripley--I don't
know."

It was getting well along toward sunset then, with everybody worried,
the skipper still aloft, and one boat making ready to set about a mile
inside of us. "They'll dive," said our skipper, and they did. "There's
Pitt Ripley's school now," and he pointed to where a raft of mackerel
were rising and rippling the water black, and heading for the north.
"There's another gone down, too--they'll dive that fellow. Who is
it--Al McNeill?--yes. But they'll come up again, and when it does,
it's ours." And they did come up, and when they did the skipper made a
jump and roared, "Into the boat!" There was a scramble. "Stay up here,
you Billie, and watch the school," he said to Hurd, and "Go down,
you," to me. I slid down by the jib halyards. The skipper and Clancy
came down by the back-stay and beat me to the deck. They must have
tumbled down, they were down so quick.

"Hurry--the Aurora's going after it, too." The Aurora was one of
Withrow's fleet and we were bound to beat her. I had hardly time to
leap into the dory after Clancy, and we were off, with nobody left
aboard but Hurd to the mast-head and the cook, who was to stay on deck
and sail the vessel.

In the seine-boat it was double-banked oars, nine long blades and a
monstrous big one steering--good as another oar that--and all driving
for dear life, with Long Steve and a cork-passer standing by the seine
and the skipper on top of it, with his eyes fixed on the school
ahead--his only motions to open his mouth and to wave with his hands
to the steersman behind him. "Drive her--drive her," he called to the
crew. "More yet--more yet," to the steering oar. "There's the porgy
steamer's boat, too, after the same school. Drive her now, fellows!"

The mackerel were wild as could be, great rafts of them, and
travelling faster than the old seiners in the gang said they had ever
seen them travel before, and what was worse, not staying up long.
There were boats out from three or four vessels before we pushed off
with ours. I remember the porgy steamer had cut in ahead and given
their boat a long start for a school. However, that school did not
stay up long enough and they had their row for nothing. But then their
steamer picked them up again and dropped them on the way to the same
school that we were trying for. How some of our gang did swear at
them! And all because they were steam power.

It promised to be a pretty little race, but that school, too, went
down before either of us could head it, and so it was another row for
nothing. We lay on our oars then, both boats ready for another row,
with the skipper and seine-heaver in each standing on top of the seine
and watching for the fish to show again. Of course both gangs were
sizing each other up, too. I think myself that the Duncan's crowd were
a huskier lot of men than the steamer's. Our fellows looked more like
fishermen, as was to be expected, because in Gloucester good fishermen
are so common that naturally, a man hailing from there gets so that he
wants to be a good fisherman, too, and of course the men coming there
are all pretty good to begin with, leaving out the fellows who are
born and brought up around Gloucester and who have it in their blood.
A man doesn't leave Newfoundland or Cape Breton or even Nova Scotia or
Maine and the islands along the coast, or give up any safe, steady
work he may have, to come to Gloucester to fish unless he feels that
he can come pretty near to holding his end up. That's not saying that
a whole lot of fine fishermen do not stay at home, with never any
desire to fish out of Gloucester, in spite of the good money that a
fisherman with a good skipper can make from there, but just the same
they're a pretty smart and able lot that do come. And so, while our
gang was half made up of men that were born far away from Gloucester,
yet they had the Gloucester spirit, which is everything in deep-sea
fishing, when nerve and strength and skill count for so much. And this
other crowd--the porgy steamer's--did not have that look.

"Look at what we're coming to," somebody called. "All steam boys soon,
and on wages--wages!" he repeated, "and going around the deck, with a
blue guernsey with letters on the chest of it--A.D.Q.--or some other
damn company."

"Well, that would not be bad either, with your grub bill sure and your
money counted out at the end of every month," answered somebody else.

I was sizing up the two gangs myself, I being in the dory with Clancy,
and I guess that nearly everyone of us was doing the same thing and
keeping an eye out for fish at the same time, when all at once a
school popped up the other side of the porgyman's boat. Perhaps, half
a mile it was and, for a wonder, not going like a streak.

We saw it first and got to going first, but the Aurora's boat and the
steamer's boat were nearer, and so when we were all under good headway
there were two lengths or so that we had to make up on each. Well,
that was all right. Two lengths weren't so many, and we drove her. It
was something to see the fellows lay out to it then--doubled-banked,
two men to each wide seat and each man with a long oar, which he had
picked out and trimmed to suit himself, and every man in his own
particular place as if in a racing crew.

And now every man was bending to it. A big fellow, named Rory
McKinnon, was setting the stroke. There was a kick and a heave to
every stroke, and the men encouraging each other. "Now--now--give it
to her," was all that I could hear coming out of him. All this time we
in the dory were coming on behind, Clancy and I having to beat their
dory just as our boat had to beat their boat. And we were driving,
too, you may be sure. Clancy was making his oars bend like whips.
"Blast 'em! There's no stiffness to 'em," he was complaining. And
then, "Sock it to her," he would call out to our fellows in the
seine-boat. "We've got the porgy crew licked--that's the stuff," came
from the skipper. From on top of the seine he was watching the fish,
watching the gang, watching the other boats, watching us in the
dory--watching everything. Whoever made a slip then would hear from it
afterwards, we knew. And clip, clip, clip it was, with the swash just
curling nicely under the bow of the other boat, and I suppose our own,
too, if we could have seen.

Our boat was gaining on the Aurora's and the skipper was warming up.
The fish was going the same way we were, still a quarter of a mile
ahead.

"Drive her," said the skipper. "Drive her--drive her--another length
and you got 'em. And, Kenney, it's the best of ash you've got. Don't
be afraid of breaking it. And, Dan Burns, didn't y'ever learn to keep
stroke in the Bay of Islands with nine more men beside you rowing? And
drive her--hit her up now--here's where we got 'em--they can't hold it
on their lives. Now then, another dozen strokes and it's over. One,
two, three--quicker, Lord, quicker--six, seven--oh, now she's fair
flying--look at her leap. You blessed lobster, keep rowing and not
looking over your shoulder. We got to get the fish first."

A quarter mile of that with the foam ripping by us, and every man with
his blood like fire jumping to his oar, when the skipper leaped back
to the steering oar. "Stand by," he called, and then, "Now--over with
the buoy," and over it went, with the dory at hand and Tommie Clancy
right there to pick it up and hold it to windward. And then went the
seine over in huge armfuls. Just to see Long Steve throw that seine
was worth a trip South. And he was vain as a child of his strength
and endurance. "My, but look at him!" Clancy called out--"look at the
back of him!" "He's a horse," somebody else would have to say, and
"H-g-gh," Steve would grunt, and "H-g-gh" he would fill the air full
of tarred netting, "H-g-gh--pass them corks," and over it would go,
"H-g-gh," and the skipper would say, "That's the boy, Steve," and
Steve would heave to break his back right then and there. All the time
they were driving the seine-boat to its limit, and the skipper was
laying to the big steering oar, the longest of them all and taking a
strong man to handle it properly--laying to it, swinging from the
waist like a hammer-thrower, and the boat jumping to it. She came
jumping right for us in the dory in a little while. It doesn't take a
good gang long to put a quarter mile of netting around a school of
mackerel.

It was a pretty set he made. "Pretty, pretty," you could almost hear
the old seiners saying between their teeth, even as they were all
rowing with jaws set and never a let-up until the circle was
completed, when it was oars into the air and Clancy leaping from the
dory into the seine-boat to help purse up. "It's a raft if ever we get
'em," were his first words, and everybody that wasn't too breathless
said yes, it was a jeesly raft of fish.

"Purse in," it was then, and lively. And so we pursed in, hauling on
the running line in the lower edge of the seine, something as the
string around the neck of a tobacco bag is drawn tight. It was heavy
work of course, but everybody made light of it. We could not tell if
the fish were in it or not. The leaders might have dove when they felt
the twine against their noses and so escaped with the whole school
following after, or they might have taken no alarm and stayed in.

So we pursed in, not knowing whether we were to have a good haul with
a hundred or a hundred and fifty dollars apiece at the end of it, or
whether we would have our work for nothing. All hands kept up the
pretence of joking, of course, but everybody was anxious enough. It
was more than the money--it was fisherman's pride. Were we to get into
New York and have it telegraphed on to Gloucester for everybody that
knew us to read and talk about--landing the first mackerel of the
year? We watched while the circle narrowed and the pool inside grew
shallower. Somebody said, "There's one," and we could see the shine of
it, and another--and another--and then the whole mass of them rose
flipping. They lashed the water into foam, rushed around the edges,
nosed the corks of the seine. I don't think myself that mackerel are
particularly intelligent, take them generally; but at times they seem
to know--these fellows, at least, seemed to know they were gone and
they thrashed about in fury. A mackerel is a handsome fish any time,
but to see him right you want to see him fresh-seined. They whipped
the water white now--tens of thousands of them. I don't believe that
the oldest seiner there didn't feel his heart beat faster--the first
mackerel of the year. "And Lord knows, maybe a couple of hundred
barrels," and the skipper's eyes shone--it meant a lot to him. And
some of the men began to talk like children, they were so pleased.




X

WE LOSE OUR SEINE


Two hundred barrels the skipper had said, but long before we were all
pursed up we knew that five hundred barrels would never hold the fish
in that seine. The size of that school filled us with joy and yet it
was the very size of it that caused us our trouble. It was too big for
the seine, and when they began to settle down and take the twine with
them the trouble began for us. No bit of twine ever made to be handled
from a seine-boat was big enough to hold that school of fish when they
began to go down.

The skipper was awake to it early and signalled for the vessel to come
alongside. So the Johnnie stood over to us, and Hurd, pushing the
spare dory over with Moore's help, came jumping with it to the side of
the seine where I was alone in the first dory. He hadn't even stopped
to get into his oilskins, he was in such a hurry. By the skipper's
orders I had made fast some of the corks to the thwarts in the dory
and Billie took some into the spare dory. The whole length of the
seine-boat they were making fast the seine too. In that way the
skipper hoped to buoy up the fish and hold them until we could lighten
the seine up by bailing some of the fish onto the deck of the vessel.
But it was of no use. There must have been a thousand barrels of them,
and dories and seine-boat began to go under. It was over the rail of
my dory and spare dory both, and both Billie and myself to our waists,
when the skipper sung out for us to jump and save ourselves. We hung
on a little longer, but it got to be too much for us and overboard we
went. We were not in danger then. It is true that the sea was making
and we were weighted down with oilskins and rubber boots, but we had
for support the corks that had not yet gone under. And along the corks
we hauled ourselves toward the seine-boat. I was praying that the
sharks that sometimes follow up mackerel would not bother us. It is
probable that they would not even if there were any around, as
mackerel are better eating. And such a fuss as we made hauling
ourselves through the water! We'd have scared away a whole school of
sharks. Before we could get to the seine-boat that, too, was under.
"Jump!" called the skipper, and "Jump everybody!" called Clancy, and
themselves both hanging on to a last handful of twine. The men in the
seine-boat jumped and struck out for the vessel, which was now quite
close, with the cook, the only man left aboard, throwing over
keelers, draw-buckets, the main sheet--anything within his reach that
was loose and would support a man.

The skipper and Clancy hung on to the last. "Jump you, Tommie!" called
the skipper. "Not me till you go," answered Clancy. They couldn't do a
bit of good, but they hung on, each grabbing handfuls of twine in a
last effort to hold up the seine. The seine-boat went under--and they
up to their necks--and then it turned over and in toward the seine.
Some of us hollered--we were afraid that it was all up with both of
them--that they would be thrown toward the inside and tangled up in
the seine. But both of them bobbed up, the skipper saying nothing, but
Clancy sputtering like a crazy man. The dories coming loose gave a few
of us a chance to climb up on the bottom of them, and when the
seine-boat came bobbing up most of the others climbed up on the bottom
of that. And there was some swearing done then, you may be sure! The
gang would have been all right then, waiting to be picked up by the
cook from the vessel, which was then pretty handy; but the seine-boat
started to go under again and then came the slap of a little sea, and
overboard went seven or eight of us. Clancy was one of those thrown
into the water. We all remembered it afterwards because he called out
for Andie Howe.

"Where's Andie?"

"Here," said Andie.

"Where?"

"Hanging onto the bow of the seine-boat."

"Well, hang on a while longer," said Clancy and struck out for the
vessel, and made it too, oilskins, big boots and all. He threw two or
three lines out at once--one especially to Thad Simpson, the other man
of the crew besides Andie Howe who it was known couldn't swim. So
Clancy hauled him in. The third man he hauled in was Billie Hurd.

"Good Lord, Tommie," said Billie, "you hove a line over my head to
Andie Howe."

"You pop-eyed Spanish mackerel!" roared Clancy at him, "you ought to
know by this time that Andie can't swim."

"I know, but he was all oiled up, and look at me----"

"Go to hell," said Clancy.

We all got aboard after a while, but our fine new seine was gone, and
the big school of fish too. After a hard grapple we got the dories and
a little later the seine-boat, and after a lot more work we got them
right side up. The dories we pulled the plugs out of to let them drain
and then took them on deck, but the seine-boat we had to pump out. By
then it was pretty well on in the night and I remember how the moon
rose just as we had it fairly well dried out and dropped astern--rose
as big as a barrel-head and threw a yellow light over it, and then
went out of sight, for a breeze was on us.

And "Oh, Lord! that thousand-barrel school!" groaned everybody.




XI

AN OVER-NIGHT BREEZE


It wasn't bad enough that we came near losing a few men and our boat,
and our seine altogether, but it must come on to breeze up on top of
that and drive us off the grounds. After putting everything to rights,
we were having a mug-up forward and wondering if the skipper would
take sail off her or what, when we heard the call that settled it.

"On deck everybody!" we heard. And when we got there, came from the
skipper, "Take in the balloon, tie it up and put it below. Haul down
your stays'l too--and go aloft a couple of you, fore and aft, and put
the tops'ls in gaskets."

We attended to that--a gang out on the bowsprit, half a dozen aloft
and so on--with the skipper to the wheel while it was being done. When
we had finished it was, "Haul the seine-boat alongside--pump out what
water's left." Then, "Shift that painter and hook on the big painter.
Drop her astern and give her plenty of line. Where's the dorymen?
Where's Tommie and Joe? Haul the dories into the hatch, Tommie, and
make 'em fast. Gripe 'em good while you're at it. Clear the deck of
all loose gear--put it below, all of it--keelers, everything. Maybe
'twon't be much of a blow, but there's no telling--it may. She mayn't
be the kind that washes everything over, but put it all safe anyway."

The skipper watched all this until he had seen everything cleared up
and heard "All fast the dory," from the waist. Then he looked up and
took note of sky and wind. "Don't feel any too good. Maybe 'twill blow
off, but we might's well run in. We'll have to wait for our other
seine anyway and Wesley will be sure to put into the Breakwater for
news on his way down, especially if it comes to blow."

He dropped below then to light his pipe. Seeing me and Parsons, with
me trying to fix up Parsons's leg where it had been gashed--Eddie
never knew how--in the mix-up of the evening, the skipper said,
"There's some liniment in the chest and some linen in one of the
drawers under my bunk. Get it. And some of you might's well turn in
and have a nap. She'll be all right--the watch and myself can look
after her now," and he went on deck again, puffing like an engine to
keep his pipe going.

Most of them did turn in and were soon asleep. Some of the older men
had a smoke and an overhauling of their wet clothes, while a few
joined in a little game of draw before turning in. One or two were
deploring the loss of the seine. The nearness to losing lives didn't
seem to be worrying anybody. For myself, I was somewhat worked up.
There was one time in the water when I thought I was gone. So I went
on deck after the skipper. It was a black night and breezing all the
time and I wanted to see how the vessel behaved. The Johnnie was
close-hauled at this time and swashing under, and I knew without
asking further that the skipper intended to make Delaware Breakwater.

While hurrying forward, after lending a hand to batten down the main
hatch--the Johnnie plunging along all the time--and my head perhaps a
little too high in the air, I stumbled off the break and plump over a
man under the windward rail. I thought I was going to leeward and
maybe overboard, but somebody hooked onto the full in the back of my
oil-jacket, hauled me up the inclined deck again, and in a roaring
whisper said, "Get a hold here, Joey--here's a ring-bolt for you.
Don't let go on your life! Isn't it fine?" It was Clancy. He had
nights, I know, when he couldn't sleep, and like me, I suppose, he
wanted to watch the sea, which just then was firing grandly. Into this
sea the vessel was diving--nose first--bringing her bowsprit down,
down, down, and then up, up, up, until her thirty-seven-foot bowsprit
would be pointing to where the North star should be. Whenever she
heaved like that I could feel her deck swelling under me. I remember
when I used to play foot-ball at the high school at home and it was
getting handy to a touch-down, with perhaps only a few yards to gain
and the other side braced to stop it, that a fellow playing back had
to buck like that from under a line when he had to scatter tons, or
what he thought was tons, of people on top of him. The vessel was that
way now, only with every dive she had hundreds of tons to lift from
under. At a time like that you can feel the ribs of a vessel brace
within her just as if she was human. Now I could almost feel her heart
pumping and her lungs pounding somewhere inside. I could feel her
brace to meet it, feel her shiver, as if she was scared half to death,
and almost hear her screech like a winner every time she cleared it
and threw it over her head.

Now down she went--the Johnnie Duncan--down and forward, for she
wouldn't be held back--shoulders and breast slap into it. Clear to her
waist she went, fighting the sea from her. To either side were
tumbling the broken waves, curling away like beach combers. The hollow
of each was a curved sheet of electric white, and the top--the
crest--was a heavier, hotter white. The crests would rise above our
rail and break, and back into the hollows would fall a shower of
shooting stars that almost sizzled. There wasn't a star above, but
millions on the water!

"Ever see anything like that ashore, Joey-boy?" said Clancy, and I had
to roar a whisper that I never had.

Through this play of fire the Johnnie leaped with great bounds. She
boiled her way, and astern she left a wake in which the seine-boat was
rearing and diving with a fine little independent trail of its own.

Two men forward--the watch--were leaning over the windlass and peering
into the night. They were there for whatever they might see, but
particularly were they looking for the double white light of Five
Fathom Bank lightship. The skipper was at the wheel. When he got in
the way of the cabin light, we could catch the shine from his dripping
oil-clothes, and the spark from his pipe--which he kept going through
it all--marked his position when he stepped back into the darkness.

Clancy noticed him. "There's a man for you, Joey. Think what it meant
to a young skipper with a new vessel--the loss of that school and the
seine on top of it the very first day he struck fish. If we'd got
that, he might have been the first vessel of the year into the New
York market. And think of the price the first fish fetch!--and the
honor of it--and he breaking his heart to make a reputation this year.
And yet not a yip out of him--not a cranky word to one of the gang all
night. A great man I call him--and a fisherman." I thought so, too.

Sometimes I imagined I could see the wink of red and green lights
abreast and astern, which I probably did, for there should have been
fifty sail or so of seiners inside and outside of us--there were sixty
sail of the fleet in sight that afternoon--and I knew that, barring a
possible few that had got fish and were driving for the New York
market, all the others were like ourselves, under lower sails and
boring into it, with extra lookout forward, the skipper at the wheel
or on the quarter and all ears and eyes for the surf and lights
inshore when we should get there.

"Something ahead! dead ahead! sa-ail!" came suddenly from forward.
There was a scraping of boot-heels at the wheel. "What d'y'make of
it?--all right, I see her!" In the shadow we saw the skipper pulling
the wheel down. Ahead I imagined I saw a dark patch, but to make sure
I squirmed up to the fore-rigging. Whoever she was, the light from her
cabin skylight was right there and I realized that we were pretty
close, but not really how close until a boat bobbed up under my jaws
almost. Right from under our bow it heaved. It was a seiner and that
was her seine-boat towing astern, and I could easily have heaved a
line to her helmsman as we swept by her. There was an awfully tall
shadow of sails--half up to the clouds I thought--and the black of the
hull looked as long as a dock. A voice was hurled to us, but we
couldn't quite make it out--but it was the watch, probably, saying a
word or two by way of easing his feelings.

We worked up to the windward of that one and slowly crowded past her
tumbling green light. Then the skipper let the wheel fly up and we
shot ahead and soon we had her directly astern, with her one green and
one red eye looking after us. "That's one fellow we outsail," thought
I to myself, and I knew I was beginning to love the Johnnie Duncan.

All through that night it went on like that.

At four o'clock or so in the morning the cook stuck his head out of
the slit in the forec's'le companionway and spoke his welcome little
piece. "Can't have any reg'lar sit-down this morning, boys. Have to
leave the china in the becket for a while yet, but all that wants can
make a mug-up, and when we get inside--if we do in anything like a
decent hour--we'll have breakfast."

At five o'clock the sky began to brighten to the eastward, but there
was no let-up to the wind or sea. If anything it was breezing up. At
six o'clock, when the short blasts of the lightship split the air
abreast of us, things were good and lively, but there was no daylight
to go by then. The wash that in the night only buried her bow good was
then coming over her to the foremast and filling the gangway between
the house and rail as it raced aft. The beauty of double-lashing the
dories began to appear, and all hands might have been towing astern
all night by the look of them. But the Johnnie Duncan was doing well
and the opinion of the crew generally was that the skipper could slap
every rag to her and she'd carry it--that is, if she had to. The
skipper put her more westerly after we had passed the lightship and on
we went.

We had the company of a couple of coasters in this part of the drive;
and by that, if nothing else, a man might know we were inshore. Some
Gloucester men were in sight, too, though most of the fleet, we
guessed, were still outside of us. The coasters were colliers,
three-masters both, and reefed down, wallowing in the sea. One had her
foretopmast snapped short off, and such patched sails as she had on
looked lonesome. The gang, of course, had to make fun of her.

"There's one way to house a topm'st!"

"Broke your clothes-pole, old girl!"

"Better take in your washing there--looks like rain!"

"Go it, you beauty! I only wish I had my cameraw. If y'only suspected
how lovely you look!"

Two big ocean tugs, one clear white and one all black, offered a
change in looks, though in nothing else, for each one, with two barges
of coal, was making desperate hauling of it, and the Breakwater yet a
good bit away.

"Hustle 'em, you husky coal-jammers!" roared Parsons at them, as if he
could be heard beyond the rail. "I wouldn't be aboard of you for my
share of the Southern trip--and mackerel away up in G, too. Would you,
Billie?"

"Then? Naw!" said Hurd, with a wrinkling of his little nose.

"No, nor me neither," said Long Steve. "Hi--ever hear the cook--ever
hear George Moore's song:--

    'If ever you go to sea, my boy,
    Don't ever you ship on a steamer;
    There's stacks to scrape and rails to paint--
    It's always work to clean her.
    When the wind is wrong and the shore is by,
    They'll keep you clear of leeway,
    But they roll and they jolt and they're never dry--
    They're the devil's own in a sea-way!'"

Steve, trying to sing that, had one hand hooked into a ring-bolt under
the rail and he was slowly pickling--we were all pickling--like a
salted mackerel in a barrel.

An hour past Five Fathom and the tall white tower of Cape Henlopen
could be made out ahead, as well as the gray tower of Cape May through
the mists to the northward. The wind was coming faster and it felt
heavier. We could judge best of how we were looking ourselves by
watching all our fellows near by. We could see to the bottom planks of
two to leeward of us, while on the sloping deck of one to windward it
was plain that only what was lashed or bolted was still there. When
they reared they almost stood up straight, and when they scooped into
it the wonder was that all the water taken aboard didn't hold her
until the next comber could have a fair whack at her.

The men--that is, a few of them--might joke, but were all glad to be
getting in. There's no fun staying wet and getting wetter all night
long. If it wasn't for the wetness of a fellow it would have been
great, for it was the finest kind of excitement, our running to
harbor--that night--especially in the morning when we were passing
three or four and nobody passing us. We went by one fellow--the
Martinet she was--a fair enough sailer--passed her to windward of
course, our gang looking across at their gang and nobody saying a
word, but everybody thinking a lot, you may be sure. It was worth a
square meal that.

With the Martinet astern, the skipper let her pay off and run for the
end of the Breakwater. For a while he let the wind take her fair
abeam, with sheets in, and the way she sizzled through the water was a
caution. There was a moment that an extra good blast hit her that my
heart sank, but I reflected that the skipper knew his business, and so
tried to take it unconcernedly. Everybody around me was joking and
laughing--to think, I suppose, that we would soon be in.

A moment after that I went down to leeward. The sea was bubbling in
over her rail at the fore-rigging and I wanted to get the feel of it.
I got it. It is pretty shoal water on the bar at the mouth of the
Delaware River and quite a little sea on when it blows. One sea came
aboard. Somebody yelled and I saw it--but too late--and slap! over I
went--over the rail--big boots and oilskins I went down into the
roaring. For a second my head came up and I saw the vessel. Everybody
aboard was standing by. The skipper was whirling the spokes and the
vessel was coming around like a top. I never saw a vessel roll down so
far in all my life. I went under again and coming up heard a dull
shout. There was a line beside me. "Grab hold!" yelled somebody. No
need to tell me--I grabbed hold. It was the seine-boat's painter. The
Johnnie was still shooting and when the line tautened it came as near
to pulling my arms out of my shoulders as ever I want to have them
again. But I hung on. Then she came up, and they hauled the painter in
and gaffed me over the rail.

"You blankety blank fool!" roared Clancy, as soon as I stood
up--"don't you know any better? A fine thing we'd have to be
telegraphing home, wouldn't it? Are you all right now?"

"All right," I said, and felt pretty cheap.

While being hauled in, knowing that I was safe, I had been thinking
what a fine little adventure I'd have to tell when we got back to
Gloucester, but after Clancy got through with me I saw that there were
two ways to look at it. So I took my old place under the windward rail
and didn't move from there again till it was time to take sail off
her.




XII

THE FLEET RUNS TO HARBOR


Nearing the Breakwater we had more company. Other seiners, with boats
astern and dories on deck, were coming in; jumbo, jib, fore and reefed
mainsail generally, and all plunging gloriously with a harbor near at
hand.

For the next few hours of that morning any watcher in the lighthouse
on the Breakwater could have seen plenty of samples of clever
seamanship. At our time we were only one of a half-dozen at the
business of working around the jetty, some making for one end and some
for the other. There was a great trying of tacks and some plain
criticism of tactics and weatherly qualities. There was one who tried
to cut in before he could quite make it. When he had to put back or
run ashore and lose her, a great laugh went up, though there was
nothing the matter with the try. He had only tried too much.

Eddie Parsons was the sharp critic. "Trying to beat out the fleet,
hey? And with that old hooker? Nothing wrong with your nerve, old man,
but some fine day, when there's a little wind stirring, you'll roll
that tub over a little too far. That's right--jam her up now! Think
you got a steamboat? Wonder nobody ever told you about sailing a
vessel. Come out of it, old man, and let her swing off."

We had yet to get in ourselves, and that we had the Johnnie Duncan to
eat into the wind we were thankful. At last we were by and reaching
down to the end of the jetty. We all began to feel good once we were
sure of it. It was fine, too, to listen to Clancy as we got near. He
was standing on the break, leaning against the weather rigging and
looking forward.

"You'd think she'd been coming here for a hundred years, wouldn't you?
Look at her point her nose now at that beacon--don't have to give this
one the wheel at all. She's the girl. See her bow off now. Man, but
she knows as well as you and me she'll be inside and snug's a kenched
mackerel before long. Watch her kick into the wind now. Oh, she's the
lady, this one. I've sailed many of them, but she's the queen of them
all, this one."

A half dozen of lucky fellows were in before us. We drove in among
them, under the bow of one and past the stern of another. They were
all watching us, after the custom of the fleet in harbor. We knew this
and behaved as smartly as we could without slopping over.

By and by our skipper picked out a place to his fancy. "Stand by
halyards and down-hauls," was his warning.

"Ready--all ready."

"Ready with the anchor!"

"All ready the anchor, sir!"

"Down with your jib! Down with jumbo! Let go your fore halyards! Watch
out now--ready--let go your anchor!"

Rattle--whizz--whir-r-r--splash! clink--and the Johnnie Duncan of
Gloucester was safe to her mooring.

And not till then did our skipper, ten hours to the wheel, unclinch
his grip, hook the becket to a spoke, slat his sou'wester on the
wheel-box and ease his mind.

"Thank the Lord, there's a jeesly blow behind us. There's some
outside'll wish they had a shore job before they get in. Hi, boys,
when you get her tied up for'ard, better all go below and have a bite
to eat. Let the mains'l stand and give it a chance to dry." Then he
looked about him. "And I didn't notice that anybody passed us on the
way." There was a whole lot in that last.

After eating a bite, I went over in the dory to the lighthouse on the
jetty, where seamen's mail was taken care of. After leaving my letters
I stopped to watch some of the fleet coming. It was easy enough to
pick them. The long, slick-looking, lively seine-boat in tow and the
black pile of netting on deck told what they were, and they came
jumping out of the mists in a way to make a man's heart beat.

There was a man standing on the jetty. He was master of a three-masted
coaster, he told me. "You come off one of them Gloucester
mackerel-catchers?" he asked me. I said yes. "That new-looking one
that came in a while ago?" I said yes again.

"I was watching her--she's a dream--a dream. I never see anything like
them--the whole bunch of 'em. Look at this one--ain't she got on about
all she can stand up under though? My soul, ain't she staggering! I
expect her skipper knows his business--don't expect he'd be skipper of
a fine vessel like that if he didn't. But if 'twas me I'd just about
take a wide tuck or two in that ever-lastin' mains'l he's got there.
My conscience, but ain't he a-sockin' it to her! I s'pose that's the
way some of your vessels are sailed out and never heard from
again--that was never run into, nor rolled over, nor sunk in a reg'lar
way, but just drove right into it head-first trying to make a passage
and drowned before ever they could rise again. Well, good-luck to you,
old girl, and your skipper, whoever he is, and I guess if your canvas
stays on you'll be to anchor before a great while, for you're making
steamboat time. Go it, old girl, and your little baby on behind, go
it! There ain't nothing short of an ocean liner could get you now. Go
it! a sail or two don't matter--if it's a good mackerel season I
s'pose the owners don't mind if you blow away a few sails. Go it, God
bless you! Go it! you're the lads can sail a vessel, you fishermen of
Gloucester. Lord, if I dared to try a thing like that with my vessel
and my crew and the old gear I got, I rather expect I'd have a
rigger's bill by the time I got home--if ever I got home carryin' on
like that in my old hooker."

I watched her, too. She was the Tarantula, Jim Porter, another
sail-carrier. Around the point and across she tore and over toward the
sands beyond, swung off on her heel to her skipper's heave, came down
by the wreck of a big three-master on the inner beach, and around and
up opposite what looked like a building on the hill. Then it was down
with the wheel, down with headsails, let go fore-halyards, over with
the anchor, and there she was, another fisherman of Gloucester, at
rest in harbor after an all-night fight with a lively breeze.

And I left the master of the coaster there and went back to the
Duncan, where the crew were standing along the rail or leaning over
the house and having a lot of fun sizing up those who were coming in.
It is one of the enjoyments of the seining fleet--this racing to
harbor when it blows and then watching the others work in. I've heard
it said that no place in the world can show a fleet like them--all
fine vessels, from one hundred to one hundred and twenty feet over
all, deep draught, heavily sparred, and provided with all kinds of
sail. They were ably managed, of course,--and a dash to port makes the
finest kind of a regatta. No better chances are offered to try vessels
and seamanship--no drifting or flukes but wind enough for all hands
and on all points of sailing generally.

They came swooping in one after the other--like huge sea-gulls, only
with wings held close. Now, with plenty of light, those already in
could easily see the others coming long before they rounded the jetty.
Even if we couldn't see the hulls of them, there were fellows who
could name them--one vessel after the other--just by the spars and
upper rigging. The cut of a topsail, the look of a mast-head, the set
of a gaff--the smallest little thing was enough to place them, so well
were they acquainted with one another. And the distance at which some
of them could pick out a vessel was amazing.

George Moore, coming up out of the forec's'le to dump over some
scraps, spied one. "The Mary Grace Adams," he sang out,--"the
shortest forem'st out of Gloucester. She must've been well inside when
she started--to get in at this time. Slow--man, but she is slow, that
one."

"Yes, that's the old girl, and behind her is the Dreamer--Charlie
Green--black mast-heads and two patches on her jumbo. She'll be in and
all fast before the Mary Grace's straightened out."

And so it was--almost. The Mary Adams was one of the older fleet and
never much of a sailer. The Dreamer was one of the newer vessels,
able, and a big sailer. They were well raked by the critics, as under
their four lowers they whipped in and around and passed on by.

After the Dreamer came the Madeline, with "Black Jack" Hogan, a fleshy
man for a fisherman, who minded his way and remained unmoved at the
compliments paid his vessel, one of the prize beauties of the fleet.
The Marguerite, Charley Falvey, a dog at seining, always among the
high-liners, who got more fun out of a summer's seining than most men
ever got out of yachting, who bought all the latest inventions in gear
as fast as they came out and who had a dainty way of getting fish. The
Marguerite dipped her bow as she passed, while her clever skipper
nodded along the line.

The King Philip, another fast beauty, made her bow and dipped her
jibs to her mates in harbor. At sight of her master, Al McNeill, a
great shout goes up. "Ho, ho! boys, here's Lucky Al! Whose seine was
it couldn't hold a jeesly big school one day off here last spring but
Billie Simms'? Yes, sir, Billie Simms. Billie fills up and was just
about thinking he'd have to let the rest go when who heaves in sight
and rounds to and says, 'Can I help y'out, William?' Who but Lucky Al
McNeill, of course. Bales out two hundred barrels as nice fat mackerel
as anybody'd want to see. 'Just fills me up,' says Al, and scoots to
market. Just been to New York, mind you, that same week with two
hundred and fifty barrels he got twelve cents apiece for. 'Just fills
me up,' says Al, and scoots. No, he ain't a bit lucky, Captain Al
ain't--married a young wife only last fall."

Then followed the Albatross, with Mark Powers giving the orders. Then
the Privateer, another fast one, but going sluggishly now because of a
stove-in seine-boat wallowing astern. Then the North Wind, with her
decks swept clear of everything but her house and hatches. Seine-boat,
seine and dory were gone.

After her was a big, powerful vessel, the Ave Maria, with the most
erratic skipper of all. This man never appeared but the gossip broke
out. Andie Howe had his record. "Here comes George Ross. What's this
they say now?--that he don't come down from the mast-head now like he
used to, when he strikes a school. When I was with him he was a pretty
lively man comin' from aloft--used to sort of fall down, you know. But
now he comes down gentle-like--slides down the back-stay. Only trouble
now he's got to get new rubber boots every other trip, 'count of the
creases he wears in the legs of them sliding down the wire. I tell you
they all lose their nerve as they get older. There's Billie Simms
coming behind him. He's given up tryin' to sail his vessel on the side
and tryin' to see how long he c'n carry all he c'n pile on. Billie
says 't'ain't like when a fellow's young and ain't got any family. I
expect it's about the same with George since he got married." The
master of the Ave Maria didn't even glance over as he piloted his
vessel along. He very well knew that we were talking about him.

Pretty soon came one that everybody looked at doubtfully. She sported
a new mainmast and a new fore-gaff. "Who's this old hooker with her
new spars? Looks like a vessel just home from salt fishing, don't she?
Lord, but she needs painting." Nobody seemed to know who she was, and
as she got nearer there was a straining of eyes for her name forward.
"The H-A-R-B-I--oh, the Harbinger. Must be old Marks and the old craft
he bought down East last fall. This the old man, of course--the
Harbinger. How long's she been down here? Came down ahead of the
fleet? Well, she ought to--by the looks of her she needs a good early
start to get anywhere. They ought to be glad to get in. I mind that
September breeze twenty year ago that the old man said blew all the
water off Quero and drove him ashore on Sable Island. He says he ain't
taking any more line storms in his. No, nor anybody else in the old
square-enders he gen'rally sails in. I'll bet he's glad to change
winter trawling for summer seining. I'll bet he put in a few wakeful
nights on the Banks in his time--mind the time he parted his cable and
came bumping over Sable Island No'the-east Bar? Found the only channel
there was, I callate. 'Special little angels was looking out for me,'
he says, when he got home. 'Yes,' says Wesley Marrs--he was telling it
to Wesley--'yes,' says Wesley, 'but I'll bet keepin' the lead goin'
had a hell of a lot to do with it, too.'"

So they came rolling in by the end of the jetty until they could make
one last tack of it. Like tumbling dolphins they were--seiners all,
with a single boat towing astern and a single dory, or sometimes two
dories, lashed in the waist, all gear stowed away, under four lower
sails mostly--jumbo, jib, fore and main, though now and then was one
with a mainsail in stops and a trysail laced to the gaff, and all
laying down to it until their rails were washing under and the sea
hissed over the bows.

Anybody would have to admire them as they came scooting past. When
they thought they were close enough to the Breakwater--and some went
pretty close--up or down would go the wheel, according to which end of
the jetty they came in by, around they would go, and across the flats
and down on the fleet they would come shooting. They breasted into the
hollows like any sea-bird and lifted with every heave to shake the
water from bilge to quarter. They came across with never a let-up,
shaving everything along the way until a good berth was picked out.
Then they let go sails, dropped anchor and were ready for a rest.

Nobody got by our fellows without a word. And we weren't the only crew
of critics. Bungling seamanship would get a slashing here, but there
was none of that. It was all good, but there are degrees of goodness,
of course. First-class seamanship being a matter of course, only a
wonderful exhibition won approval from everybody. And crews coming in,
knowing what was ahead of them, made no mistakes in that harbor.

A dozen ordinary skippers sailed past before a famous fisherman at
length came in. Everybody knew him--a dog, a high-liner, truly a
master mariner. A murmur went up. "There's the boy," said Tommie
Clancy. "I mind last summer when he came into Souris just such a day
as this, but with more wind stirring. 'Twas Fourth of July and we had
all our flags to the peak--and some fine patriotic fights going on
ashore that day--our flag and the English. The harbor was jammed with
seiners and fresh-fishers. You couldn't see room for a dory, looking
at 'em end on. But that don't jar Tom O'Donnell. What does he do? He
just comes in and sails around the fleet like a cup-defender on
parade--and every bit of canvas he had aboard flying--only his crew
had to hang onto the ring-bolts under the wind'ard rail. Well, he
comes piling in, looks the fleet over, sizes up everything, picks out
a nice spot as he shoots around, sails out the harbor again--clean
out, yes sir, clean out--comes about--and it blowing a living gale all
the time--shoots her in again, dives across a line of us, and fetches
her up standing. We could've jumped from our rail to his in
jack-boots, he was that close to us and another fellow the other side.
Slid her in like you slide the cover into a diddy box. Yes, sir, and
that's the same lad you see coming along now--Tom O'Donnell and his
Colleen Bawn."

He certainly was coming on now, and a fine working vessel he had. She
showed it in every move. She came around like a twin-screw launch,
picked out her berth like she had intelligence in her eyes, made for
it, swirled, fluttered like a bird, felt with her claws for the ground
underneath, found it, gripped it, swayed, hung on, and at last settled
gently in her place. There was no more jar to the whole thing than if
she had been a cat-boat in a summer breeze. "Pretty, pretty, pretty,"
you could hear the gang along our rail.

"They talk about knockabout racing craft," said Clancy, "but did
y'ever see anything drop to a berth slicker than that? And that's a
vessel you c'n go to sea in, and in the hardest winter gale that ever
blew you c'n turn in when your watch is done and have a feeling of
comfort."

"Where's the steam trawler, the porgy boat, we saw yesterday?"

"Put into Chincoteague most likely--nearer than here."

"That's what we'll have to come to yet--steamers, and go on wages like
a waiter in a hotel."

"Yes," said Clancy, "I s'pose so, but with vessels like we got and the
seamen sailing out of Gloucester we'll stave 'em off a long time yet,
and even as it is, give me a breeze and a vessel like this one under
us and we'll beat out all the steam fishermen that ever turned a
screw."

One of the latest experiments in a fishermen's model reached in then
and her coming started a chorus. They were always trying new models in
Gloucester, everybody was so anxious to have a winner. This one's
sails were still white and pretty and her hull still shiny in fresh
black paint. The red stripe along her rail and the gold stripe along
her run set off her lines; her gear didn't have a speck on it, her
spars were yellow as could be and to leeward we thought we could still
smell the patent varnish. For that matter there were several there as
new-looking as she was, our own vessel for one; but there had been a
lot of talk about this one. She was going to clean out the fleet. She
had been pretending to a lot, and as she hadn't yet made good, of
course she got a great raking.

"She's here at last, boys--the yacht, the wonderful, marvellous
Victory! Ain't she a bird? Built to beat the fleet! Look at the
knockabout bow of her!"

"Knockabout googleums--h-yah! Scoop shovel snout and a stern ugly as a
battle-ship's, and the Lord knows there was overhang and to spare to
tail her out decent. Cut out the yellow and the red and the whole lot
of gold decorations and she's as homely as a Newf'undland jack."

"Just the same, she c'n sail," said somebody who wanted to start an
argument.

"Sail! Yah! might beat a Rockport granite sloop. Ever hear of the
Henry Clay Parker, Mister Billie Simms, and the little licking she
gave this winner of yours? No? Well, you want to go around and have a
drink or two with the boys next time you're ashore and get the news.
It was like a dogfish and a mackerel--the Henry just eat her up. And
there's the others. Why, this one underneath us'd make a holy show of
her, I'll bet. And there's half a dozen others. There's the--oh,
what's the use?"

"Oh, Eddie Parsons, a perfect lady and coming in like a high-stepper
and yet you must malign her beauty and make light of her virtue," and
Clancy jammed Parsons's sou'wester down over his eyes--"hush up,
Eddie."

Into the harbor and after the Victory heaved another one. And she was
the real thing--handsome, fast and able. And she had a record for
bringing the fish home--an able vessel and well-known for it. She
could carry whole sails when some of the others were double-reefed and
thinking of dragging trysails out of the hold. And her skipper was a
wonder.

"You c'n cut all the others out--here comes the real thing. Here's the
old dog himself. Did he ever miss a blow? And look at him. Every man
comes in here to-day under four lowers, no more, and some under
reefed mains'l, or trys'l, but four whole lowers ain't enough for this
gentleman--not for Wesley. He must carry that gaff-tops'l if he pulls
the planks out of her. He always brings her home, but if some of the
underwriters'd see him out here they'd soon blacklist him till he
mended his ways. It's a blessed wonder he ain't found bottom before
this. Look at her now skating on her ear. There she goes--if they'd
just lower a man over the weather rail with a line on him he could
write his name on her keel!"

And she certainly was something to make a man's eyes stick out. There
had been a vessel or two that staggered before, but the Lucy fairly
rolled down into it, and there was no earthly reason why she should do
it except that it pleased her skipper to sport that extra kite.

She boiled up from the end of the jetty, and her wake was the wake of
a screw steamer. She had come from home, we knew, and so it happened
she was one of the last to get in. The harbor was crowded as she
straightened out. We knew she would not have too much leeway coming
on, and what berth she was after kept everybody guessing.

"If she goes where's she pointing--and most vessels do--she'll find a
berth down on the beach on that course, down about where the wreck is.
It'll be dry enough walking when she gets there. If she keeps on the
gait she's going now, she ought to be able to fetch good and high and
dry up on the mud. They'd cert'nly be able to step ashore--when they
get there. Ah-h-h, but that's more like it."

She was taking it over the quarter then. She cleared the stern of the
most leeward of the fleet and then kicked off, heading over to where
the Johnnie Duncan and the Victory lay. The betting was that she would
round to and drop in between us two. There was room there, but only
just room. It would be a close fit, but there was room.

But she didn't round to. She held straight on without the sign of a
swerve. On the Johnnie, the gang being almost in her path picked out a
course for her. Between the outer end of our seine-boat and the end of
the bowsprit of the Mary Grace Adams was a passage that may have been
the width of a vessel. But the space seemed too narrow. Our crew were
wondering if he would try it. Even the skipper, standing in the
companionway, stepped up on deck to have a better look.

"He's got to take it quarterin', and it ain't wide enough," said Eddie
Parsons.

"Quartering--yes, but with everything hauled inboard," said the
skipper. "He'll try it, I guess. I was with him for two years, and if
he feels like trying it he'll try it."

"And s'pose he does try it, Skipper?"

"Oh, he'll come pretty near making it, though he stands a good chance
to scrape the paint off our seine-boat going by. No, don't touch the
seine-boat--let her be as she is. We'll fool 'em if they think they
c'n jar anybody here coming on like that. There's room enough if
nothing slips, and if they hit it's their lookout."

It looked like a narrow space for a vessel of her beam to go through,
but she hopped along, and the eyes of all the harbor followed her to
the point where she must turn tail or make the passage.

She held on--her chance to go back was gone.

"Watch her, boys. Now she's whooping--look at her come!"

And she was coming. Her windward side was lifted so high that her
bottom planks could be seen. Her oil-skinned crew were crowded
forward. There were men at the fore-halyards, at jib-halyards, at the
down-hauls, and a group were standing by the anchor. Two men were at
the wheel.

She bit into it. There was froth at her mouth. She was so near now
that we could read the faces of her crew; and wide awake to this fine
seamanship we all leaned over the rail, the better to see how she'd
make out. The crews of half the vessels inside the Breakwater were
watching her.

She was a length away and jumping to it. It was yet in doubt, but she
was certainly rushing to some sort of a finish. She rushed on, and
w-r-r-rp! her weather bow came down on the Johnnie's seine-boat. But
it didn't quite hit it. Her quarter to leeward just cut under the
Adams' bowsprit and the leech of her mainsail seemed to flatten past.
For a moment we were not certain, but no jolt or lurch came and our
seine-boat seemed all right. Another jump and she was clear by. And
then we felt like cheering her, and her skipper Wesley Marrs, too, as
he stood to the wheel and sung out, "Couldn't scare you, could I,
Maurice. I thought you'd haul your seine-boat in. I've got your extra
seine," and swept by.

From our deck and from the deck of the Adams, and from the decks of
half a dozen others, could be heard murmurs, and there was a general
pointing out of the redoubtable skipper himself to the green hands
that knew him only by reputation. "That's him, Wesley himself--the
stocky little man of the two at the wheel."

If the stocky little man heard the hails that were sent after him, he
made no sign, unless a faint dipping of his sou'wester back over his
windward shoulder was his way of showing it.

He had business yet, had Wesley Marrs. There was a tug and a barge and
another big seiner in his course. He clipped the tug, scraped the
barge, and set the seiner's boat a-dancing, and two lengths more he
put down the wheel and threw her gracefully into the wind. Down came
jib, down came jumbo, over splashed the anchor. She ran forward a
little, rattled back a link or two, steadied herself, and there she
was. Her big mainsail was yet shaking in the wind, her gaff-topsail
yet fluttering aloft, but she herself, the Lucy Foster of Gloucester,
was at your service. "And what do you think of her, people?" might
just as well have been shot off her deck through a megaphone, for that
was what her bearing and the unnatural smartness of her crew plainly
were saying.

We all drew breath again. Clancy unbent from the rail and shook his
head in high approval. He took off his sou'wester, slatted it over the
after-bitt to clear the brim of water, and spoke his mind. "You'll see
nothing cleaner than that in this harbor to-day, fellows, and you'll
see some pretty fair work at that. That fellow--he's an able seaman."

"Yes, sir--an able seaman," said the skipper also.

And Clancy and the skipper were something in the line of able seamen
themselves.




XIII

WESLEY MARRS BRINGS A MESSAGE


Generally a day in harbor is a day of loafing for the crew of a
seiner; but it was not so altogether with us that day. Within two
hours of the time that Wesley Marrs came in to the Breakwater in such
slashing style the skipper had us into the seine-boat and on the way
to the Lucy Foster. By his orders we took along ten empty mackerel
barrels. "We'll go over to the beach first and fill these barrels up
with sand." We all knew what the sand was for--the Johnnie Duncan was
going to be put in trim to do her best sailing. Coming down the coast
the skipper and Clancy decided that she was down by the stern a
trifle.

So we attended to the sand, and on the way back hauled our second
seine out of the hold of the Lucy Foster, and piled it into the
seine-boat. With the last of the twine into the seine-boat and just as
we were about to push off from the Lucy, Wesley Marrs put a foot on
the rail of his vessel and spoke to Maurice.

"And when I was taking the last of that aboard in the dock in
Gloucester, you wouldn't believe who it was stepped onto the cap-log
and looking down on the deck of the Lucy says, 'And you'll take good
care of that seine for Captain Blake, won't you, Captain Marrs?' Could
you guess now, Maurice?"

"No," said Maurice.

"No, I'll bet you can't. It isn't often she comes down the dock. Miss
Foster no less. 'And what makes you think I won't?' I asks her. 'Oh,
of course I know you will,' she says, 'and deliver it to him in good
order, too.' 'I'll try,' I says, as though it was a desp'rate job I
had on hand--to put a seine in the hold and turn it over to another
vessel when I met her. 'But what makes you worry about this partic'lar
seine, Miss Foster?' I asks."

"Which Miss Foster was it, Wesley--the one your vessel is named
after?" broke in our skipper.

"No--no--but the younger one--Alice. 'But what makes you worry?' I
asks her, and she didn't say anything, but that one that's with her
all the time--the one that goes with the lad that designed the Johnnie
Duncan----"

"Joe's cousin here----"

"That's it--the fat little Buckley girl--a fine girl too. And if I was
a younger man and looking for a wife, there's the kind for me--but
anyway she up and says, 'Alice is worried, Captain Marrs, because she
owns a third of Captain Blake's vessel--a good part of her little
fortune's in the Duncan--and if anything happens to the seine
one-third of it, of course, comes out of her. And it cost a good many
hundred dollars. So you must be careful.' 'Oh, that's it?' says I.
'Then it'll be shortened sail and extra careful watches on the Lucy
till I meet Maurice, for I mustn't lose any property of Miss
Foster's.'"

We rowed away from the Lucy Foster, and I supposed that was the end of
it. But that night going on deck to take a last look at the stars
before turning in, there was the skipper and Clancy walking the break
and talking.

"And did you know, Tommie, that Miss Foster owned any of this one?"
the skipper was saying.

"No," said Tommie, "I didn't know, but----"

"But you suspected. Well, I didn't even suspect. And there's that
seine we lost last night--cost all of eight hundred dollars."

"That's what it did--a fine seine."

A few minutes later the skipper went below, and Clancy, seeing me,
said, "Hold on, Joey. Did you hear what the skipper said?"

"About Miss Foster owning a share of the vessel?"

"Well, not that so much, but about the loss of the seine?"

"Yes--why?"

"Why? Joe, but sometimes a man would think you were about ten year
old. I tell you, Joe, I'm not too sure it's going to be Withrow. And
if you don't see some driving on this one when next we get among the
fish, then--" But he didn't finish it, only clucked his tongue and
went below.

Clancy was right again. During the night the weather moderated, and in
the morning the first of the fleet to go out past the Breakwater was
the Johnnie Duncan. It looked to us as if the skipper thought the
mackerel would be all gone out of the sea before we got back to the
spot where we had struck them two days before.




XIV

A PROSPECT OF NIGHT-SEINING


We might have stayed in harbor another twenty-four hours and lost
nothing by it. It was dawn when we put out from the Delaware
Breakwater, and by dark of the same day we were back to where we had
met the big school and lost the seine two days before. And there we
hung about for another night and day waiting for the sea to flatten
out. Mackerel rarely show in rough weather, even if you could put out
a seine-boat and go after them. But I suppose that it did us no harm
to be on the ground and ready.

On the evening of the next day there was something doing. There was
still some sea on, but not enough to hurt. Along about eight o'clock,
I remember, I came off watch and dropped into the forec's'le to fix up
my arm, which was still badly strained from hanging onto the
seine-boat's painter when I was washed overboard. The skipper, taking
a look, told me not to go into the dory that night, but to let Billie
Hurd, who was spare hand, take my place, and for me to stay aboard. I
would rather have gone into the dory, of course, but was not able to
pull an oar--that is, pull it as I'd have to pull when driving for a
school--and knowing I would be no more than so much freight in the
dory there was nothing else to do. "And if we see fish, Clancy'll stay
to the mast-head to-night--as good a seine-master as sails out of
Gloucester is Tommie--better than me," he said. "I'm going in the
seine-boat, and Eddie Parsons, you'll take Clancy's place in the
dory." And buttoning his oil-jacket up tight, he put on his mitts and
went on deck.

That evening the forward gang were doing about as much work as seiners
at leisure usually do. It was in the air that we would strike fish,
but the men had not yet been told to get ready. So four of them were
playing whist at the table under the lamp and two were lying half in
and half out of opposite upper bunks, trying to get more of the light
on the pages of the books they were reading. Long Steve, in a lower
port bunk nearer the gangway, was humming something sentimental, and
two were in a knot on the lockers, arguing fiercely over nothing in
particular. There was a fellow in the peak roaring out, "Scots wha hae
wi' Wallace bled." Only the cook, just done with mixing bread, seemed
to have ever done a lick of work in his life, and he was now standing
by the galley fire rolling the dough off his fingers. The cook on a
fisherman is always a busy man.

Down the companionway and into the thick of this dropped Clancy, oiled
up and all ready to go aloft. To the mast-head of a vessel, even on an
April night in southern waters, it is cold enough, especially when,
like a seiner, she is nearly always by the wind; and Clancy was
wrapped up. "I think," said Clancy, as his boot-heels hit the floor,
"I'll have a mug-up." From the boiler on the galley-stove he poured
out a mug of coffee and from the grub-locker he took a slice of bread
and two thick slices of cold beef. He buried the bread among the beef
and leaned against the foremast while he ate.

Once when Clancy was a skipper he did a fine bit of rescuing out to
sea, and after he got home a newspaper man saw him and wrote him up. I
had the clipping stuck on the wall of Withrow's store for months and
had read it so often that I knew it by heart. "In heavy jack-boots and
summer sou'wester, with a black jersey of fine quality sticking up
above the neck of his oil-jacket, with a face that won you at sight;
cheeks a nice even pink; damp, storm-beaten, and healthful; with
mouth, eyes, and jaw bespeaking humor, sympathy, and courage;
shoulders that seemed made for butting to windward--an attractive,
inspiring, magnetic man altogether--that is Captain Tommie Clancy of
the Gloucester fisherman, the Mary Andrews." That, was how it read,
and certainly it fitted him now, as he stood there in the middle of
the thick curling smoke of the pipes, holding the mug of coffee in one
hand and the sandwich of bread and meat in the other, leaning easily
against the butt of the foremast, and between gulps and bites taking
notice of the crew.

"Give me," he said to the cook as the proper man for an audience, "a
seiner's crew when they're not on fish for real gentlemen of leisure.
Look at 'em now--you'd think they were all near-sighted, with their
cards up to their chins. And above them look--Kipling to starb'd and
the Duchess to port. Mulvaney, I'll bet, filled full of whiskey and
keeping the heathen on the jump, and Airy Fairy Lillian, or some other
daisy with winning ways, disturbing the peace of mind of half a dozen
dukes. Mulvaney's all right, but the Duchess! They'll be taking books
of that kind to the mast-head next. What d'y' s'pose I found aft the
other day? Now what d'y' s'pose? I'll bet you'd never guess. No, no.
Well, 'He Loved, but Was Lured Away.' Yes. Isn't that fine stuff for a
fisherman to be feeding on? But whoever was reading it, he was ashamed
of it. 'Well, who owns this thing?' says I, picking up the lured-away
lad. 'Nobody,' speaks up Sam there. Of course he didn't own it--O
no!

"Violet Vance," went on Clancy, and took another bite of his sandwich.
"Violet Vance and Wilful Winnie and a whole holdful of airy creatures
couldn't help a fisherman when there's anything stirring. I waded
through a whole bunch of 'em once,"--he reached over and took a wedge
of pie from the grub-locker. "Yes, I went through a whole bunch of 'em
once--pretty good pie this, cook, though gen'rally those artificial
apples that swings on strings ain't in it with the natural tree apples
for pie--once when we were laying somewhere to the east'ard of Sable
Island, in a blow and a thick fog--fresh halibuting--and right in the
way of the liners. And I expect I was going around like a man asleep,
because the skipper comes up and begins to talk to me. It was my first
trip with him and I was a young lad. 'Young fellow,' says the skipper,
Matt Dawson--this was in the Lorelei--'young fellow,' says Matt, 'you
look tired. Let me call up the crew and swing a hammock for you from
the fore-rigging to the jumbo boom. How'll that do for you? When the
jumbo slats it'll keep the hammock rocking. Let me,' he says.
'P'raps,' he goes on, 'you wouldn't mind waking up long enough to give
this music box a turn or two every now and then while the fog lasts.'
We had a patent fog-horn aboard, the first I ever saw, and I'd clear
forgot it--warn't used to patent horns. But just another little wedge
of pie, George.

"However, I suppose when there's nothing doing there's no very great
harm. But we'll try to keep some of you busy to-night. Praise the
Lord, the moon's out of the way and it's looking black already and the
sea ought to fire up fine later on. And there's a nice little breeze
to overhaul a good school when we see one. If any of you are beginning
to think of getting in a wink of sleep then you'd better turn in now,
for you're sure to be out before long. I'm going aloft."

Clancy climbed up the companionway. Then followed the scraping of his
boot-heels across the deck. Half a minute later, had anybody cared to
go up and have a look, I suppose he would have been discovered
astraddle of the highest block above the forethroat--he and the
skipper--watching out sharply for the lights of the many other vessels
about them, but more particularly straining their eyes for the
phosphorescent trails of mackerel.




XV

CLANCY TO THE MAST-HEAD


The men below knew their skipper and Clancy too well to imagine that
they were to be too long left in peace. And then, too, the next man
off watch reported a proper night for mackerel. "Not a blessed star
out--and black! It's like digging a hole in the ground and looking
into it. And the skipper's getting nervous, I know. I could hear him
stirrin' 'round up there when I was for'ard just now, and he hollered
to the wheel that up to the no'the'ard it looked like planty of fish.
'And I callate we ain't the only vessel got eyes for it,' he said."

"Yes," said his watch-mate, who had just dropped down, "it's nothing
but side-lights all 'round and----"

Just then came the skipper's voice from aloft. "Tell the boys they
might's well oil up and be ready." The watch did not have to repeat
it--we all heard it below, and fore and aft, in cabin and forec's'le,
the gang made ready. Cards, novels, and all the hot arguments went
by the board, and then after a mug-up for nearly all we slid into
oil-clothes, boots and sou'westers, and puffing at what was probably
to be the last pipeful of the evening, we lay around on lockers and
on the floor, backs to the butt of the mast and backs to the
stove--wherever there was space for a broad back and a pair of stout
legs our fellows dropped themselves, discussing all the while the
things that interested them--fish, fishing, fast vessels, big
shares, politics, Bob Fitzsimmons, John L. Sullivan, good stories,
and just then particularly, because two of the crew were thinking of
marrying, the awful price of real estate in Gloucester.

By and by, ringing as clear as if he himself stood at the companionway,
came the skipper's voice from the mast-head: "On deck everybody!" No
more discussion, no more loafing--pipes were smothered into bosoms,
and up the companionway crowded oilskins and jack-boots.

Then came: "It looks like fish ahead of us. Haul the boat alongside
and drop the dory over."

We jumped. Four laid hands on the dory in the waist and ten or a dozen
heaved away on the stiff painter of the seine-boat that was towing
astern. Into the air and over the starboard rail went the dory, while
ploughing up to the vessel's boom at the port fore-rigging came the
bow of the seine-boat.

Then followed: "Put the tops'ls to her--sharp now."

The halyards could be heard whirring up toward the sky, while two
bunches of us sagged and lifted on the deck below. Among us it was,
"Now then--o-ho--sway away--good," until topsails were flat as boards,
and the schooner, hauled up, had heeled to her scuppers.

"Slap the stays'l to her and up with the balloon. Half the fleet's
driving to the no'the'ard. Lively."

The Johnnie liked that rarely. With the seventy-five foot main-boom
sheeted in to her rail, with the thirty-seven-foot spike bowsprit
poking a lane in the sea when she dove and a path among the clouds
when she lifted, with her midship rail all but flush with the sea and
the night breeze to sing to her--of course she liked it, and she
showed her liking. She'd tear herself apart now before she'd let
anything in the fleet go by her. And red and green lights were racing
to both quarters of her.

"Into the boat!" It was the skipper's voice again, and fifteen men
leaped over the rail at the word. Two dropped into the dory and
thirteen jumped from the vessel's rail onto thwarts or netting or into
the bottom of the seine-boat--anywhere at all so that they get in
quickly. As extra hand on deck I had to stand by and pay out the
painter.

In the middle of it came the skipper sliding down from the mast-head.
"Drop astern, boat and dory," he called out, and himself leaped over
the quarter and onto the pile of netting as into the Johnnie's boiling
wake they went. The thirty-eight-foot seine-boat was checked up a
dozen fathoms astern, and the dory just astern of that. The two men in
the dory had to fend off desperately as they slid by the seine-boat.

On the deck of the Johnnie were the cook, who had the wheel, and
myself, who had to stand by the sheets. There would be stirring times
soon, for even from the deck occasional flashes of light, marking
small pods of mackerel, could be made out on the surface of the sea.
Clancy, now at the mast-head alone, was noting these signs, we felt
sure, and with them a whole lot of other things. To the mast-heads of
other vessels out in the night were other skippers, or seine-masters,
and all with skill and nerve and a great will to get fish.

The Johnnie was making perhaps ten knots good now, and with every jerk
the painter of the seine-boat chafed and groaned in the taffrail
chock. The skipper from the boat called for more line. "Slack away a
bit, slack away. We're not porpoises."

I jumped to attend to the painter just as Clancy's voice broke in from
above: "Swing her off about two points, ease your main sheet and keep
an eye on that light to looard. Off, off--that's good--hold her--and
Joe, slack stays'l and then foretops'l halyards. Be ready to let go
balloon halyards and stand by down-haul. Look alive."

I paid out some sheet from the bitt by the wheel-box, unbuttoned the
after stays'l tack, jumped forward and loosed up halyards till her
kites dropped limp.

"Down with your balloon there--and at the wheel there, jibe her over.
Watch out for that fellow astern--he's pretty handy to our boat. Watch
out in boat and dory!" The last warning was a roar.

The big balloon gossamer came rattling down the long stay and the jaws
of the booms ratched, fore and main, as they swung over. From astern
came the voices of the men in boat and dory, warning each other to
hang on when they felt her jibing. Some of them must have come near to
being jerked overboard. "Why in God's name don't you slack that
painter?" came the voice of the skipper from the boat.

I leaped to give them more painter, and "Draw away your jib--draw away
your jumbo," came from aloft. Sheets were barely fast when it was:
"Steady at the wheel, George--steady her--ste-a-dy--Great God! man, if
you can't see can't you feel that fellow just ahead? And, skipper,
tell them to close their jaws astern there--water won't hurt 'em.
Ready all now?"

"Ready!" roared back the skipper.

"All right. Down with your wheel a bit now, George. Down--more yet.
Hold her there."

The vessels that we had dodged by this bit of luffing were now
dropping by us; one red light was slowly sliding past our quarter to
port, and one green shooting by our bow to starboard. Evidently Clancy
had only been waiting to steer clear of these two neighbors, for there
was plenty of fish in sight now. The sea was flashing with trails of
them. Clancy now began to bite out commands.

"Stand ready everybody. In the boat and dory there--is everything
ready, skipper?"

"All ready, boat and dory."

Out came Clancy's orders then--rapid fire--and as he ripped them out,
no whistling wind could smother his voice, no swash of the sea could
drown it. In boat, dory and on deck, every brain glowed to understand
and every heart pumped to obey.

"Up with your wheel, George, and let her swing by. Stea-dy. Ready in
the boat. Steady your wheel. Are you ready in the boat? Let her swing
off a little more, George. Steady--hold her there. Stand by in the
boat. Now then--now! Cast off your painter, cast off and pull to the
west'ard. And drive her! Up with the wheel. More yet--that's good.
Drive her, I say, skipper. Where's that dory?--I don't see the dory.
The dory, the dory--where in hell's the dory?--show that lantern in
the dory. All right, the dory. Hold her up, George. Don't let her
swing off another inch now. Drive her, boys, drive her! Look out now!
Stand by the seine! Stand by--the twine--do you hear, Steve! The
twine! Drive her--drive her--blessed Lord! drive her. That's the
stuff, skipper, drive her! Let her come up, George. Down with your
wheel--down with you wheel--ste-a-dy. Drive her, skipper, drive her!
Turn in now--in--shorter yet. Drive her now--where's that dory!--hold
her up!--not you, George! you're all right--ste-a-dy. Hold that dory
up to the wind!--that's it, boys--you're all right--straight ahead
now! That's the stuff. Turn her in now again, skipper. In the dory
there--show your lantern in the dory and be ready for the seine-boat.
Good enough. Now cover your lantern in the dory and haul away when
you're ready."

To have experienced the strain and drive of that rush, to have held an
oar in the boat during that and to have shared with the men in the
confidence they gathered--ours was a skipper to steer a boat around a
school--and the soul that rang in Clancy's voice!--why, just to stand
on deck, as I did, and listen to it--it was like living.

During this dash we could make out neither boat nor dory from deck,
but the flashes of light raised by the oars at every stroke were
plainly to be seen in that phosphorescent sea. Certainly they were
making that boat hop along! Ten good men, with every man a long, broad
blade, and double banked, so that every man might encourage his mate
and be himself spurred on by desperate effort. Legs, arms, shoulders,
back, all went into it and their wake alive with smoke and fire to
tell them they were moving! To be in that?--The middle of a black
night on the Atlantic was this, and the big seine-heaver was throwing
the seine in great armfuls. And Hurd and Parsons in the little dory
tossing behind and gamely trying to keep up! They were glad enough to
be in the dory, I know, to get hold of the buoy, and you can be sure
there was some lively action aboard of her when Clancy called so
fiercely to them to hold the buoy up to the wind, so that the efforts
of the crew of the seine-boat, racing to get their two hundred odd
fathoms of twine fence around the flying school, might not go for
naught.




XVI

WE GET A FINE SCHOOL


With his "Haul away now when you're ready," Clancy came down from
aloft. He was sliding down evidently by way of the jib halyards, for
there was the sound of a chafing whiz that could be nothing else than
the friction of oilskins against taut manila rope, a sudden check, as
of a block met on the way, an impatient, soft, little forgivable oath,
and then a plump! that meant that he must have dropped the last twelve
or fifteen feet to the deck. Immediately came the scurry of his
boot-heels as he hurried aft. In another moment he stood in the glow
of the binnacle light, and reaching back toward the shadow of the
cook, but never turning his head from that spot out in the dark where
he had last seen the boat, he took the wheel.

"All right, George, I've got you. A good-sized school, by the looks,
if they got them, and I think they have. Did you see that boat ahead
we near ran into?--the last time we put the wheel down? Man, but for a
second I thought they were gone. I hope no blessed vessel comes as
near to our fellows. And they were so busy rowing and heaving twine
they never saw us, and myself nearly cross-eyed trying to watch them
and our own boat and the fish all the time. Go below, George, she's
all right now, and tell Joe--where is he?--to go below, too, and have
a mug-up for himself. He must be soaked through taking the swash that
must've come over her bow for the last hour. But tell him to come
right up so's to keep watch out ahead."

I didn't go below, however, but standing by the fore-rigging kept an
eye out ahead. Clancy himself stood to the wheel with his head ever
turned over one shoulder, until he saw the flare of a torch from the
seine-boat. "Good!" he exclaimed. "What there is is safe now,
anyway."

After that his work was easy. He had only to dodge the lights of other
vessels now, the old red and green lights that had been our neighbors
all that evening, and a few new yellow flares that came from other
seine-boats. So his eyes ranged the blackness and in rings about his
own seine-boat he sailed the Johnnie Duncan. That the crew were quite
a little while pursing up only gave him satisfaction. "A nice school,
Joe, if they got it all," he said, "a nice school of 'em." And after a
pause, "I think I'll stand down and have a look."

He ran down, luffed, and hailed, "Hi--skipper, what's it like?"

From the row of figures that were seen to be crowding gunnel and
thwarts and hauling on the seine, one shadow straightened up beside
the smoky torch and spoke. "Can't be sure yet, Tommie, but things look
all right so far. A fair-sized school if we don't lose 'em."

"Lord, don't lose 'em, skipper, though I think you've got 'em fast
enough now. Sounds natural to hear 'em flipping inside the corks,
don't it? Ought to be hurrying 'em up, skipper--it's getting along in
the night."

Clancy, very well satisfied, stood away again and continued to sail
triangles around boat and dory. Being now clear of the greater part of
the mental strain his spirits began to lighten. Merely by way of being
sociable with himself he hummed some old ditties. There was that about
the old coaster, the Eliza Jane. I liked to hear him sing that, as,
dancing a one-footed jig-step by the wheel-box, he bumped it out:

    "Oh, the 'Liza Jane with a blue foremast
    And a load of hay came drifting past.
    Her skipper stood aft and he said, 'How do?
    We're the 'Liza Jane and who be you?'

      He stood by the wheel and he says, 'How do?
      We're from Bangor, Maine--from where be you?'

    "The 'Liza Jane got a new main truck--
    A darn fine thing but wouldn't stay stuck.
    Came a breeze one day from the no'-no'-west
    And the gosh-darned thing came down with the rest.

      Oh, hi-diddle-di--a breeze from the west--
      Who'd 'a' thunk the truck wouldn't stuck with the rest?

    "Oh, the 'Liza Jane left the wharf one day,
    A fine flood tide and the day Friday,
    But the darned old tide sent her bow askew
    And the 'Liza Jane began for to slew.

      Oh, hi-diddle-di--she'd 'a' fairly flew,
      If she only could sail the other end to.

    "Oh, the 'Liza Jane left port one day,
    With her hold full of squash and her deck all hay.
    Two years back with her sails all set
    She put from Bath--she's sailing yet.

      Oh, hi-diddle-di for a good old craft
      She'd 've sailed very well with her bow on aft."

There was a long story to the Eliza Jane, but Clancy did not finish
it. Maybe he felt that it was not in harmony with that lowering sky or
that flashing sea. Maybe, too, in the waters that rolled and the wake
that smoked was the inspiration for something more stirring. At any
rate he began, in a voice that carried far, an old ballad of the war
of 1812.

Two or three more stanzas to warm up, and the fight was on. And you
would think Clancy was in it. He laid every mast and yard of the
enemy over the side of her, he made her decks run with blood, and at
the last, in a noble effort, he caused her to strike her flag.

By the time he had finished that, it happened that we were running
before the wind, and, going so, it was very quiet aboard the vessel.
There was none of the close-hauled wash through her scuppers, nor was
there much play of wind through stays and halyards. It was in fact
unusually quiet, and it needed only that to set Clancy off on a more
melancholy tack. So in a subdued voice he began the recitation of one
of the incidents that have helped to make orphans of Gloucester
children:

    "Twelve good vessels fighting through the night
    Fighting, fighting, that no'the-east gale;
    Every man, be sure, did his might,
    But never a sign of a single sail
    Was there in the morning when the sun shone red,
    But a hundred and seventy fine men--dead--
    Were settling somewhere into the sand
    On Georges shoals, which is Drowned Men's Land.

    "Seventy widows kneeling----"

A long hail came over the water and a torch was raised and lowered.
"Hi-i--" hallooed the voice.

"Hi-i-i--" hallooed back Clancy as he pulled down his wheel. You might
have thought he intended to run over them. But no, for at the very
last second he threw her up cleverly and let her settle beside the
boat, from which most of the men came tumbling immediately over the
side of the vessel. Of those who stayed, one shackled the boat's bow
onto the iron that hung from the boom at the fore-rigging, and having
done that, braced an oar between himself and the vessel's run to hold
the boat away and steady while another in the stern of the boat did
the same thing with his oar. In the boat's waist two men hung onto the
seine.

A section of the cork edge of the seine was then gathered inboard and
clamped down over the vessel's rail, with the mackerel crowded into
the middle part, and the bunt of the seine thus held safely between
boat and vessel. Into this space the sea swashed and slapped after a
manner that kept all in the boat completely drenched and made it
pretty hard for the men in bow and stern to fend off and retain their
balance at the same time.

And then began the bailing in. Guided by the skipper, who stood on the
break, our big dip-net, which could hold a barrel easily, was dropped
over the rail and in among the kicking fish. A twist and a turn and
"He-yew!" the skipper yelled. "Oy-hoo!" grunted the two gangs of us at
the halyards, and into the air and over the rail swung the dip-net,
swimming full. "Down!" We let it sag quickly to Clancy and Parsons,
who were at the rail. "Hi-o!" they called cheerfully, and turned the
dip-net inside out. Out and down it went again, "He-yew!" and up and
in it came again. "Oy-hoo!" "Hi-o!" and flop! it was turned upside
down and another barrel of fat, lusty fish flipped their length
against the hard deck. Head and tail they flipped, each head and tail
ten times a second seemingly, until it sounded--they beat the deck so
frantically--as if a regiment of gentle little drummer boys were
tapping a low but wonderfully quick-sounding roll. Scales flew. We
found some next morning glued to the mast-head. I never can get some
people to believe that it is so--mackerel scales to the mast-head.

"He-yew!" called the skipper, "Oy-hoo!" hollered the halyards gang,
"Hi-o!" sung out Clancy and Parsons cheerily at the rail. "Fine fat
fish," commented the men in the seine-boat, the only men who had time
to draw an extra breath.

Blazing torches were all around us. Arms worked up and down, big boots
stamped, while inboard and out swung the dip-net, and onto the deck
flopped the mackerel. "Drive her!" called the skipper, and "He-yew!"
"Oy-hoo!" and "Hi-o!" it went. Drenched oilskins steamed, wet faces
glowed, glad eyes shone through the smoke flare, and the pitching
vessel, left to herself, plunged up and down to the lift and fall of
every sea.




XVII

A DRIVE FOR MARKET


Her deck was pretty well filled with mackerel when "All dry," said
Long Steve, and drew the last of the seine into the boat.

"Then hurry aboard and drop that seine-boat astern. And--whose watch?
Take the wheel--wait till I give you the course--there. But don't
drive her awhile yet. Some of those fish might be washed over. But it
won't be for long."

"Ready with the ice?" he asked next.

"All ready," and the men who had been chopping ice and making ready
the pens in the hold stood by to take the mackerel as we passed them
down.

As soon as we had enough of them off the vessel's deck to make it safe
to drive her, the skipper gave her a little more sheet and let her go
for New York. We hustled the seine-boat aboard too. Some other vessels
must have got fish, too, and there was no time to waste.

It was a good-sized school and when we had them all iced and
below--more than thirty thousand count--it was time for all hands to
turn in--all but the two men on watch of course. I didn't turn in
myself, but after a mug-up and pipeful below came on deck again. It
was a pretty good sort of a night for a dark night, with a moderate
breeze that sang in your ears when you leaned against the halyards and
a sea that lapped bucketfuls of spray over her rail forward and that
tumbled away in a wide flat hump as our quarter slipped on and left it
behind.

I found the skipper leaning against the weather rigging and watching a
red light coming up on us. Noticing me he said, "There's that porgy
steamer that we beat out for that school the other day overhauling us
now. There's the beauty of steam. The crew of this one knows more in a
minute than they know in a week about fishing in that steamer, and
we'd be carrying our summer kites when that gang, if they were in a
sailing vessel, would be laying to an anchor; and with our boat out
and their boat out and a school in sight they'd have to take our
leavings. But here's one of the times when they have the best of it."

There wasn't much wind stirring then, but it promised to breeze up, or
so the skipper thought, and I'm sure I was glad to hear him say it,
for the harder it blew the sooner we would get to New York and the
better our chance to beat the porgyman. First in to market got the
cream.

It was pretty well on to daybreak when the porgy steamer got up
abreast of us and after a while worked by. One of them took the
trouble to sing out to us when they went by, "Well, you got a school
before us, but we'll be tied up and into the dock and spending our
money ashore whilst you're still along the Jersey coast somewhere."

And we supposed they would, but Hurd, who was then to our wheel, had
to call back to them, "Oh, I dunno. I dunno about that--it's a good
run to Fulton Market dock yet." And, turning to us, "I hope the bloody
old boiler explodes so nobody'll be able to find a mackerel of 'em
this side the Bay of Fundy. Of course I wouldn't want to see the men
come to any harm, but wouldn't it jar you--them scrubs?"

The skipper wasn't saying anything. And it meant a lot to him, too. He
was looking after the steamer and, I know, praying for wind. We could
see it in his eyes.

And sometimes things come as we like to have them. At full dawn it was
a nice breeze with the Johnnie Duncan washing her face in plenty of
good spray and the fine sun shining warm on a fresh sea-way. Another
hour, the wind hauling and still making, the Johnnie was down to her
rail, and awhile after that she was getting all the wind she needed.

"We may have a chance to try her out on this run, who knows?" said the
skipper. We were coming up on the porgy steamer then and you should
have seen his eyes when they looked from the rail to the deck of his
vessel and from the deck again to aloft. On the steamer the gang were
in the waist watching us coming and they must have been piling the
coal into her below and giving her the jet steadily, for out of her
funnel was coming the smoke in clouds mixed with steam.

"But their firemen can stoke till they're black in the face and they
won't get more than eleven or eleven and a half knots out of her,"
said Clancy. "I know her--the Nautilus--and if this one under us ain't
logging her fourteen good then I don't know. And she'll be doing
better yet before we see New York."

They were driving the porgyman then, but she was fated. Once we began
to get her she came back to us fast enough, and once she was astern
she troubled us no more. After the porgyman we passed a big white
yacht, evidently just up from the West Indies after a winter's cruise.
She looked a model for a good sailer, but there was no chance to try
her out, for they had her under shortened sail when we went by.

There was a New York blue-fisherman on our weather bow bound for New
York, too, and the way we went by her was a scandal. And farther on
we drove by a big bark--big enough, almost, to take us aboard. They
were plainly trying to make a passage on her, but we left her too.
Then we passed another yacht, but she wasn't carrying half our sail.
Her hull was as long as ours, but she didn't begin to be sparred as we
were. We must have had ten feet on her main-boom and ten feet more
bowsprit outboard, and yet under her four lower sails she seemed to be
making heavy going of it. It's a good yacht that can hold a fisherman
in a breeze and a sea-way. We beat this one about as bad as we beat
the blue-fisherman. As we went by we tried to look as though we had
beaten so many vessels that we'd lost all interest in racing, and at
the same time we were all dancing on our toes to think what a vessel
we had under us. It was that passage we held the north-bound Savannah
steamer for seven hours. Her passengers stood by the rail and watched
us, and when at last we crowded our bowsprit past her nose, they waved
their handkerchiefs and cheered us like mad.

"When we get this one loosened up a bit and down to her trim, she'll
sail some or I don't know," said our skipper. He stood in the cabin
gangway then and filled his boots with water, but he wouldn't take in
sail. Back behind us was another seiner. We could just make out that
they were soaking it to her too. The skipper nodded his head back at
her. Then, with one hand on the house and the other on the rail, he
looked out from under our main-boom and across at the steamer. "Not a
rag--let the spars come out of her."

One thing was sure--the Johnnie was a vessel that could stand driving.
She didn't crowd herself as she got going. No, sir! The harder we
drove her the faster she went. Laying down on her side made no
difference to her. In fact we were not sure that she wouldn't do her
best sailing on her side. But it hadn't come to that yet. She was
standing up under sail fine. Most of them, we knew, would have washed
everything off their deck before that. And certainly there would have
been no standing down by the lee rail on too many of them with that
breeze abeam.

Going up New York harbor, where we had to tack, the Savannah steamer
could have gone by if she had to, but big steamers slow down some
going into a harbor, and we holding on to everything made up for the
extra distance sailed. The wind, of course, was nothing to what it was
outside, and that made some difference. Anyway, we kept the Johnnie
going and held the steamer up to the Battery, where, as she had to go
up North River, she gave us three toots. The people on the Battery
must have had a good look at us. I guess it was not every day they saw
a schooner of the Johnnie's size carrying on like that. Billie Hurd
had to pay his respects to them. "Look, you loafers, look, and see a
real vessel sailing in."

There was a sassy little East River towboat that wanted to give us a
tow, but our skipper said it would be losing time to take sail off and
wait for a line then. The tug captain said, "Oh, no; and you can't
dock her anyway in this harbor without a tug."

"Oh, I can dock her all right, I guess," said our skipper.

"Maybe you think you can, but wait till you try it, and have a nice
little bill for damages besides."

"Well, the vessel's good for the damages, too."

That towboat tailed us just the same, but we had the satisfaction of
fooling him. The skipper kept the Johnnie going till the right time
and then, when the tugboat people thought it was too late, he shot her
about on her heel and into the dock with her mainsail coming down on
the run and jibs dead.

A couple of East Side loafers standing on the wharf cap-log were
nearly swept away by the end of our bowsprit, we came on so fast. Four
or five of us leaped ashore, and with lines out and made fast in no
time, we had her docked without so much as cracking a single shingle
of the house across the head of the dock.

We sold our mackerel for nineteen cents apiece. Fifty-seven hundred
and odd dollars was our stock, and about a hundred and forty dollars
each man's share. We felt a little bit chesty after that. We were not
the first to market that year, but we were the first since the early
flurry, and the biggest stock so far that spring was to our credit.

We stood on the deck and watched the porgy steamer come in and tie up,
too late for that day's market. Some of our fellows had to ask them
where they got their fish--to the s'uth'ard or where?--and two or
three fights came out of it, but no harm done. Then nearly everybody
drew some money off the skipper, and we smoked fifteen-cent cigars and
threw our chests out. We all went uptown, too, and took in the
theatres that night, and afterwards treated each other and pretty
nearly everybody else that we met along the East Side on the way back,
until the policemen began to notice us and ask if we didn't think we'd
better be getting back to our ships. One or two of the crew had to get
into fights with the toughs along the water front, but we were all
safely aboard by three o'clock in the morning.

All but Clancy. Some of us were trying to get some sleep along towards
morning when Clancy came aboard with a fine shore list. The cook, who
was up and stirring about for breakfast, noticed him first. "It's a
fine list you've got, Tommie."

"And why not?--and a fine beam wind coming down the street. I'm like a
lot of other deep-draught craft of good model, George--I sail best
with the wind abeam. A bit of a list gets you down to your lines." And
until we turned out for breakfast, after which it was time to be off
and away to the fleet again, he kept us all in a roar with the story
of his adventures.




XVIII

A BRUSH WITH THE YACHTING FLEET


Through all of that month and through most of the month of May we
chased the mackerel up the coast. By the middle of May we were well up
front with the killers, and our skipper's reputation was gaining. The
vessel, too, was getting quite a name as a sailer. Along the Maryland,
Delaware, and Jersey coasts we chased them--on up to off Sandy Hook
and then along the Long Island shore, running them fresh into New
York. There were nights and days that spring when we saw some driving
on the Johnnie Duncan.

Toward the end of May, with the fish schooling easterly to off No
Man's Land and reported as being seen on Georges and in the Bay of
Fundy--working to the eastward all the time--we thought the skipper
would put for home, take in salt, fill the hold with barrels and refit
for a Cape Shore trip--that is, head the fish off along the Nova
Scotia shore, from Cape Sable and on to anywhere around the Gulf of
St. Lawrence, and stay there until we had filled her up with salt
mackerel. We thought so, because most of the fleet had decided on
that plan and because we had been away from home since the first of
April. But no--he stayed cruising off Block Island and running them
fresh into Newport with the last half-dozen of the fleet.

Our idea of it was that the skipper wanted to go home badly enough,
but he was set on getting a big stock and didn't care what it cost
himself or us to get it. Some of us would have given a lot to be
home.

    "Oh, fine blue sky and a fine blue sea
    And a blue-eyed girl awaiting me,"

was how Clancy put it as he came down from aloft one afternoon and
took the wheel from me. "By the wind is it, Joe?"

"By the wind," I said--the usual word when seiners are cruising for
mackerel, and I went aloft to take his place at the mast-head. It was
a lazy watch, as the mackerel generally were not showing at this time
in the middle of the day. They seemed to prefer the early morning or
the late afternoon, or above all a dark night.

Long Steve, who came up this day to pass the time with me aloft, had
been telling me about his old home, when we both noticed the topsails
of what we knew must be the first of a fleet of big schooner yachts
racing to Newport--from New York, no doubt, on one of their ocean
races. Steve, of course, had to try to name the leader, while she was
yet miles away--seiners have wonderful eyes for vessels--and was still
at it, naming the others behind, when the next on watch relieved me
and I went below.

The first of the yachts was almost on us when I came down, and Clancy
was watching her like a hawk when he turned the wheel over to the next
man. She was as about as big as we were. We knew her well. She had
been a cup defender and afterwards changed to a schooner rig. Our
skipper was taking a nap below at this time, or we supposed he was. He
had been up nearly a week, with no more than a two-hours' sleep each
day, and so was pretty well tired. That was what made Clancy stand by
the wheel and ask if the skipper was still asleep.

"No," said the skipper himself. He had just turned out, and in his
stocking feet he came to the companionway and looked up. "What is
it?"

"Here's this big yacht crawling by on our quarter--she'll be by us
soon. I thought you wouldn't like it."

"I'll be right up. Tell the gang to sway up."

He drew on his slip-shods and came on deck. He took a look over at the
yacht while we were swaying up. When we had everything good and flat
and trimmed sheets a bit, the skipper called out to take in the
fore-topsail. "She hasn't got hers set," he explained.

Now, a fore-topsail does not help much--hauled up, as were the Johnnie
Duncan and the yacht, it would be a hindrance to most vessels, and,
perhaps, because it did not help her was why the yacht had not hers
set. But it showed the skipper's fairness. Ours had been left set,
because we might need it in a hurry, and also because with the skipper
below nobody could order it down. Now we clewed it up.

Clancy, standing aft, threw a look at our seine-boat, which of course
we had in tow. "She's quite a drag," he suggested, "for a vessel
that's racing."

"Yes," said the skipper, "but wait a while. We won't cast it off
unless we have to."

We did not have to. We soon had her in trim. For weeks the skipper and
Clancy had been marking the Johnnie's sheets so that in an emergency
they could whip her into her best sailing in no time. With that, and
with the shifting of some barrels of salt that we had on deck, we soon
had her going. It is surprising what a lot of difference the shifting
of a few barrels of salt will make in the trim of a vessel. We had not
had a try with anything for two weeks or so and had become careless.
The last thing we did was to take some barrels of fresh water that
happened to be standing forward of the windlass and shift them aft,
and then the Johnnie began to go along for fair.

Coming up to Block Island Light things were pretty even. Then it came
a question of who was to go to windward. The yacht hauled her
mainsheet in to two blocks. So did we, and, further, ran a line from
the cringle in her foresail to the weather rigging. She could not make
it--we had her.

"Mind the time," said the skipper, when at last we had her under our
quarter--"mind the time, Tommie, when we used to do so much racing
down on the Cape shore? There's where we had plenty of time for racing
and all sorts of foolishness. I was pretty young then, but I mind it
well. A string of men on the rigging from the shear poles clear up to
the mast-head--yes, and a man astraddle the main gaff once or twice,
passing buckets of water to wet down the mains'l."

"Yes, and barrels of water out toward the end of the main-boom keep
the sail stretched. Man, but those were the days we paid attention to
racing."

"Those were the days," asserted the skipper. "But we can do a little
of it now, too."

By that you will understand we were walking away from our yacht. We
were to anchor in the harbor while she was still coming, and we had
towed our seine-boat all the way.

"Lord," said Clancy, as we were tying up our foresail, "but I'd like
to see this one in an ocean race with plenty of wind stirring--not a
flat breeze and a short drag like we had to-day."




XIX

MINNIE ARKELL AGAIN


Coming on to dark that night a gig put off from the schooner-yacht and
rowed over to us. On the way she was hailed and passed a few words
with a steam-yacht anchored in between. The man in the stern of the
gig was not satisfied until he had been rowed three times around the
Johnnie. When he had looked his fill he came alongside.

He mistook Clancy for the skipper. I suppose he couldn't imagine a man
of Clancy's figure and bearing to be an ordinary hand on a fisherman.
So to Clancy he said, "Captain, you've got a wonderful vessel here.
Put a single stick in her and she'll beat the world."

"Yes," said Clancy, "and she'd be a hell of a fine fisherman then,
wouldn't she?"

The rest of us had to roar at that. We at once pictured the Johnnie
rigged up as a sloop out on the Grand Banks, trawling or hand-lining,
with the crew trying to handle her in some of the winter gales that
struck in there. And a great chance she would have rigged as a sloop
and her one big sail, making a winter passage home eight or nine or
ten hundred miles, when as it was, with the sail split up to schooner
rig, men found it bad enough.

The master of the yacht had a message for our captain, he said, and
Clancy told him the skipper was below. There they talked for a while
and after the yachtsman had gone Maurice, inviting four or five of us
along, dressed up, called for the seine-boat, got in and was rowed
over to a steam-yacht that we now remembered had hailed the
schooner-yacht's gig. All brass and varnish and white paint and gold
she would be in the daytime, but now she was all lit up with electric
lights below and Japanese lanterns on deck.

When we came alongside, who should come to the gangway of the yacht
and welcome Maurice but Minnie Arkell--Mrs. Miner. She greeted all of
us for that matter--she never pretended not to see people--and invited
us all below for refreshments. There was a good lay-out there and we
pitched into it. Seiners are great people at table or in a bunk. They
can turn to and eat, or turn in and sleep any minute, day or night. So
now we turned to. Clancy did great things to the wine. Generally he
took whiskey, but he did not object to good wine now and then. He and
one fellow in a blue coat, white duck trousers, and a blue cap that
never left his head, had a great chat.

"I callate that if he didn't have that cap with the button on front
nobody'd know he was a real yachtsman, would they?" Eddie Parsons
whispered in my ear.

The owner of the steam-yacht was trying to convince Tommie that
yachting would be more in his line than fishing, but Tommie couldn't
see it.

"But why not?" he asked at last. "Why not, Mr. Clancy? Is it a matter
of money? If it is, I'll make that right. I pay ordinary hands
twenty-five and thirty dollars a month and found, but I'll pay you
fifty--sixty--seventy dollars a month to go with me. I'm going to race
this steamer this summer and I want a quartermaster--a man like you
that can steer to a hair-line. Seventy dollars a month now--what do
you say?"

"Come now, my good man, what do you say?" Clancy got that off without
so much as a smile. "But you couldn't make it seventy-five now, could
you? No, I didn't mean that quite, though I've been out the dock in
Gloucester of a Saturday noon and back again to the dock of a Tuesday
noon--three days--and shared two hundred dollars--not as skipper, mind
you, but just as hand. There now, I hope you're not going to get
angry. Hadn't we better have another little touch? But I can see
myself in a suit of white duck, touching my cap, and saying, 'Aye,
aye, sir,' to some slob--no reference to you, mind you--but some slob
in a uniform that's got a yacht, not because he loves the sea, but
because he wants to butt in somewhere--who lives aboard his yacht just
the same as he does in his house ashore--electric bells, baths,
servants, barber and all--and hugs the shore so close that he gets the
morning paper as regularly as when he's at home. When that kind go
yachting all they miss are the tables on the lawn and the automobiles
going by the door. They even have canary-birds--some of them--in
cages. Yes, and wouldn't be caught twenty miles off shore--no, not
even in a summer's breeze for--And where would he be in a winter's
gale? I can see myself rowing a gig with somebody like that in the
stern giving orders and fooling--well, some simple-minded women folks,
maybe, who know as much of the sea as they do of the next world--most
of them--fooling them into believing that he's a devil--yes, a clean
devil on the water. Seventy a month for that?--couldn't you make it
seventy-five?"

"You don't mean to say that----"

"Yes," said Clancy, "I do. I'd rather stick to fishing than--but
here's a shoot and let's call the quartermaster's job off."

Minnie Arkell chimed in here. "A real fisherman, you must remember,
Mr. Keith, doesn't care much for yachting because--leaving out the
question of wages, for he does make more at fishing--he can remain a
fisherman and yet be independent."

"You mean they don't have to take orders as if they were on a yacht,
Mrs. Miner?"

"No, no--don't make any mistake there. The discipline of a yacht, so
far as I know it, is baby play to what they have on a good fisherman.
The discipline aboard a warship is nothing to that aboard a fisherman,
like Captain Blake's vessel say, when there is anything to be done.
Fishermen, it's true, don't have to touch their caps and say, 'Very
good, sir,' to a man who may be no more of a real man than themselves.
On your yacht I suppose you'd discharge a man who didn't do what he
was told, and on a warship he would be sent to the brig, I suppose. On
a fisherman he'd be put ashore. On a fisherman they not only obey
orders, but they carry them out on the jump. And why? Because they've
always done it. Why, deep-sea fishermen are always getting into places
where only the best of seamanship can save them, and they very early
get in the way of doing things up quick and right. When a Gloucester
skipper orders in the sail, say in a gale of wind, and more than apt
to be in the middle of the night--you don't see men trying to see how
long it will take them to get into oilskins--or filling another pipe
before they climb on deck. No, sir--the first man out on the bowsprit,
if it's the jib to come in--or out on the foot-ropes, if it's the
mainsail to be tied up--he's the man that will have a right to hold
his head high next day aboard that vessel. And so the crew of a
fisherman jump to their work--if they didn't there'd be a lot more of
them lost than there are."

"Dear me," said Mr. Keith, "that never occurred to me before. But how
is it, Mrs. Miner, that you have it down so fine?"

"My father was a Gloucester skipper, and since I was that high"--she
put her hand on a level with her knee--"I've been listening to
fishermen. And yachting life does tend to spoil a fisherman," she went
on to explain. "After a summer of yachting a fisherman will begin to
think that a winter of fishing is going to be a serious thing." She
was warmed up then and went on talking at a great rate. And listening
to her I could understand better why men took to her. She had warm
blood in her. If it were not for her weakness to be admired by men,
she would have been a great woman. "And they get so, that what seems
extraordinary work to you is only an every-day matter to them. Do you
remember that last schooner-yacht race across the Atlantic?--when two
or three reporters went along, and after they got back wrote all kinds
of stories of what a desperate trip it was--how rough it was and
dangerous! Well, that time there were three or four Gloucestermen
making the run to Iceland. Now, they were not as big as the racing
yachts and they were loaded down with all the stores for a long salt
trip--their holds full of salt, for one thing--and yet they made about
as good time to Iceland as that yachtsman made to Queenstown. And they
weren't driving their vessels either--they don't drive on the way out.
It's only coming home that they try to make passages. Now, they must
have got the same weather and yet nobody ever heard them in their
letters home report a word of bad weather, or ever afterward, either.
And yet--but were you to Iceland that time, Maurice?"

"No," said the skipper, "but you were, Tommie?"

"Yes," answered Clancy, "in the Lucy Foster. We made Rik-ie-vik inside
of fourteen days, carrying both tops'ls all the way. Wesley--Wesley
Marrs--wasn't hurrying her, of course. As Mrs. Miner says, the vessels
going to the east'ard don't hurry, except now and then when two of
them with records get together. And the Lucy was logy, of course, with
the three hundred and odd hogsheads of salt and other stuff in her.
If we'd been driving her going to Iceland that time we'd have had the
stays'l and balloon to her--and she'd have gone right along with them,
too."

Mrs. Miner looked around at her yachting friends to see if they were
getting all that.

"There was one day that passage it blew a bit," exclaimed Clancy. "And
that was the day we thought we saw a fellow to the east'ard. We had
men by the halyards all that day with splitting knives."

"Why?" asked Keith.

"Why, to cut before she could capsize."

"Oh!" said Keith and said it with a little click.

"But that's nothing. I've seen the gang with Tom O'Donnell standing
watch by the halyards for days with axes when he was making a
passage."

Minnie Arkell filled another glass of champagne for Clancy, and Clancy
didn't give the fizz too much time to melt away either.

"These men are the real things," she said, but Clancy, for fear we
were getting too much credit, broke in, "Not us seiners. It's the
winter fishermen--trawlers and hand-liners--that are the real things.
Of course, we lose men now and then seining, but it's in winter up on
the shoal water on the Banks that--there's where you have some seas
to buck against," and he went on to tell of a battle with a gale on a
winter's night on the Grand Banks. Clancy could tell a story as well
as anybody I ever met. He could make the blood jump to your heart, or
the tears to your eyes--or he could chill you till the blood froze.
When he got through you could hear them all breathing--men and women
both, like people who had just run a race. "Two hundred and odd men
sailing out of Gloucester," he said, "went down that night. There
weren't too many came safe out of that blow. The father of this boy
here was lost--the Mary Buckley warn't it, Joe?--named for your
mother?"

"And my father, too, was lost soon after," said Minnie Arkell, and the
glance she gave me melted a lot of prejudice I had felt for her. That
was the good human side to her.

"No better man ever sailed out of Gloucester, Mrs. Miner," said
Clancy.

She flushed up. "Thank you, Tommie, for that, though I know he was a
reckless man." And, she might have added, he left some of his
recklessness in the blood of the Arkells.

The skipper told them a lot about sea life that night. Some of the
stories he told, though long known in Gloucester, they took to be
yarns at first. They could not believe that men went through such
things and lived. And then the skipper had such an easy way of telling
them. After a man has been through a lot of unusual things--had them
years behind him and almost forgotten them--I suppose they don't
surprise him any more.

The skipper looked well that night. When he warmed up and his eyes
took on a fresh shine and his mouth softened like a woman's, I tell
you he was a winner. I could not help comparing him with the
steam-yacht owner, who was a good-looking man, too, but in a different
way. Both of them, to look at, were of the same size. Both had their
clothes made by tailors who knew their business and took pains with
the fitting, though it was easy to fit men like Clancy and the
skipper, such fine level shoulders and flat broad backs they had. Now
the skipper, as I say, when he warmed up began to look something like
what he ought--like he did when walking the quarter and the vessel
going out to sea. Only then it would be in a blue flannel shirt open
at the throat and in jack-boots. But now, in the cabin of that yacht,
dressed as he was in black clothes like anybody else and in
good-fitting shoes, you had to take a second look at him to get his
measure. The yachtsman thought that he and the skipper were of about
the same size, and barring that the skipper's shoulders were a shade
wider there wasn't so much difference to look at. But there was a
difference, just the same. The yachtsman weighed a hundred and
seventy-five pounds. He asked what Maurice weighed. "Oh, about the
same," said Maurice. But I and Clancy knew that he weighed a hundred
and ninety-five, and Minnie Arkell, who knew too, finally had to tell
it, and then they all took another look at the two men and could see
where the difference lay. There was no padding to Maurice, and when
you put your hand where his shoulders and back muscles ought to be you
found something there.

When we were leaving that night, Mrs. Miner stopped Maurice on the
gangway to say, "And when they have the fishermen's race this fall,
you must sail the Johnnie Duncan, Maurice, as you've never sailed a
vessel yet. With you on the quarter and Clancy to the wheel she ought
to do great things."

"Oh, we'll race her as well as we know how if we're around, but Tom
O'Donnell and Wesley Marrs and Tommie Ohlsen and Sam Hollis and the
rest--they'll have something to say about it, I'm afraid."

"What of it? You've got the vessel and you must win--I'll bet all the
loose money I have in the world on her. Remember I own a third of
her. Mr. Duncan sold me a third just before I left Gloucester."

That was a surprise to us--that Mrs. Miner owned a part of the Johnnie
Duncan. It set Clancy to figuring, and turning in that night, he
said--he was full of fizzy wine, but clear-headed enough--"Well, what
do you make of that? The Foster girl a third and Minnie Arkell a third
of this one. I'm just wise to it that it wasn't old Duncan alone that
wanted Maurice for skipper. Lord, Lord, down at the Delaware
Breakwater do you remember that when we heard that the Foster girl
owned a part of this one, I said, like the wise guy I thought I was,
'Ha, ha,' I said, 'so Miss Foster owns a third? That's it, eh?' And
now it's Minnie Arkell a third. Where does Withrow come in? And did
you hear her when she invited Maurice to the time they're going to
have on that same steam-yacht to-morrow night?--that was when she
whispered to him at the gangway, when we were leaving. She tried to
get him to promise to come, and at last he said he would if he was in
the harbor. 'Then be sure to be in the harbor--you're skipper and can
do as you please. Do come,' she said at the last, good and loud, 'and
tell them how to sail a vessel in heavy weather. They only play at it,
so do come and tell them.' And then in a low voice--'But I want you to
come for yourself.' That's what she says--'For yourself,' she
says--in a whisper almost. 'Take a run into the harbor to-morrow night
if you can, Maurice,' she says. O Lord, women--women--they don't know
a thing--no," and Clancy turned in.




XX

THE SKIPPER PUTS FOR HOME


We were out of Newport Harbor before daybreak of next morning, and
cruised inside Block Island all that day. We all thought the skipper
would be in to Newport that night--it was no more than a two hours'
run the way the wind was--and we waited.

The test came after supper. We had supper as usual, at three o'clock.
Breakfast at four, dinner at ten, supper at three--mug-ups before and
after and in between. Along about four o'clock the skipper, standing
on the break, stood looking back toward where Newport lay. Had we
turned then we'd have been in nicely by dark. It was a fine
afternoon--the finest kind of an afternoon--a clear blue sky, and a
smooth blue sea with the surface just rippling beautifully. All fire
was the sun and the sails of every vessel in sight looked white as
could be. Several yachts passed us--steam and sail--all bright and
handsome and all bound into Newport, and the skipper's eyes rested
long on them--on one of them particularly with music aboard.

The skipper looked back a long time--looked back, and looked back. He
began walking the quarter--back and forth, back and forth, back and
forth. The sun got lower and lower, the sea lost some of its blue, and
the air grew fresher, and still he kept looking back.

"It'll be a grand sunset to-night, Tommie."

"The finest kind. But one thing wrong with it."

"What's that?"

"We're not seeing it astern of us."

The skipper stopped. "Astern? That's so, too--it _is_ a fine westerly,
isn't it?"

Clancy said nothing, only leaned against the rigging, not a move out
of him--puffing his pipe and looking away.

Nobody spoke till the skipper spoke again.

"Who's to the wheel--you, Steve? How's she heading now?"

"No'the by west."

"No'the by west? Put her east by no'the--ease off your mainsheet. Let
it go to the knot. Call the gang and make sail--stays'l and
balloon--everything--we'll go home, I guess."

Clancy snapped the pipe out of his mouth and hove it over the rail.
Then he went for the forec's'le gangway. In two jumps he was there.

"Up, you loafers--on deck and make sail. 'To the east'ard,' says the
skipper, and over the shoals we'll put her to-night."

"Home! Home--good enough--and hurroo!" we could hear from below.

The skipper said nothing more--only all night long he walked the
quarter.

Next day when we were almost abreast of Cape Cod Clancy began to
instruct me. "Here's a tip for any girl friends you got, Joe. See the
skipper last night? Tell them if they're after a man--a real man--even
if he's a bit shy--tell them--" Oh, the advice that Clancy could
give!

About the time that we left Cape Cod light astern and squared away for
Thatcher's--with Gloucester Harbor almost in sight--with the rocks of
Eastern Point dead ahead--Clancy began to sing again:

    "Oh, a deep blue sky and a deep blue sea
     And a blue-eyed girl awaiting me--
     Too-roo-roo and a too-roo-ree--
     Who wouldn't a Gloucester seiner be?

Ha, Joey-boy?" and gave me a slap on the shoulder that sent me
half-way to the break.

That was all right, but I went aloft so I could see the rocks of Cape
Ann a mite sooner. I was just beginning to discover that I had been
almost homesick.




XXI

SEINERS' WORK


We were high line of the seining fleet when we got home from the
Southern cruise and we felt pretty proud of ourselves. It was
something to stand on the corner on one of the days when the Johnnie
was fitting out again, and have other fellows come up to you and say,
"What's that they say you fellows shared on the Southern trip?" And
when we'd tell them, and we trying not to throw out our chests too
much, it was fine to hear them say, "That so? Lord, but that's great.
Well, if Maurice only holds out he'll make a great season of it, won't
he?"

"Oh, he'll hold out," we'd say, and lead the way down to the Anchorage
or some other place for a drink or a cigar, for of course, with the
money we'd made, we naturally felt like spending some of it on those
who were not doing so well. And of course, too, no seiner could ever
resist anybody who talks to him in a nice friendly way like that.

The skipper's doings ashore interested all of his crew, of course,
although me, perhaps, more than anybody else, unless it was Clancy. I
got pretty regular bulletins from my cousin Nell. She was for the
skipper, first, last and all the time.

"I like him," she said to me more than a dozen times. "I do like him,
but I never imagined that a man who does so well at sea could shrink
into himself as he does. Why, you almost have to haul him out by the
ears ashore. If it weren't for me I really believe--" and she
stopped.

But I thought I understood what she meant. "Meaning your chum, Alice
Foster?" I said.

"Yes, meaning my chum, Alice Foster. Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. Sometimes I think she's a kind of a frost."

"No, she isn't a frost, and don't you come around here again and tell
me so."

Nor did I, for I would not have an argument with Nell for all the
Alice Fosters in the world, for if Nell were anybody else but my first
cousin, I think I would have fallen in love with her myself.

And then we put out to sea and again we were living the life of
seiners, having it hard and easy in streaks. There were the times when
we went along for a week and did not do a tap but eat, sleep, stand a
trick at the wheel, a watch to the mast-head, and skylark around the
deck, and read, or have a quiet game of draw or whist or seven-up
below. But again there were times when we were on fish, and our
skipper being a driver, it was jump, jump, jump for a week on end.
There was that time in August when the fish were so plentiful on
Georges Bank, when, standing to the mast-head, you could see nothing
but mackerel schooling for fifteen or twenty miles either side of the
vessel. But, oh, they were wild! A dozen times we'd heave the
seine--put off from the vessel, put out that two hundred and odd
fathom of twine, drive seine-boat and dory to the limit, purse in--and
not so much as a single mackerel caught by the gills. That happened
fifteen or twenty times some days, maybe. We got our fill of sets that
month. But then again there was a week off Cape Cod and in the Bay of
Fundy and off the Maine coast when we ran them fresh to Boston market,
when we landed more mackerel it was said in a single week than was
ever landed before by one vessel. We were five days and five nights
that time without seeing our bunks. It was forever out and after them,
heave the seine, purse up and bail in, ice some, and dress the rest
along the way, and the vessel with everything on driving for Boston.

We stood to it that week, you may be sure, until coming on the fifth
day some of us fell asleep over the keelers as the Johnnie was coming
into T Wharf. I remember that I could just barely see in a kind of a
hazy way the row of people along the cap-log when we made fast. And
yet after that we had to hoist them out of the hold and onto the dock.
That day, going out again, the skipper made all but the watch and
himself turn in. That afternoon, when everybody had had a little kink,
the skipper himself, who had been under a heavier strain than any of
us, suddenly fell backward over the house and sound asleep. And there
he lay all the rest of that day and that night.

After ten or twelve hours of it we tried to wake him, but not a budge.
We tried again, but no use. At last he came to and without any help at
all. Sitting up, he asked where we were, and being told, he said
nothing for a moment or so, and then suddenly--"That so? How long was
I asleep?" We told him--seventeen hours. "Good Lord!" he groaned, and
after a mug-up scooted for the mast-head like a factory hand with the
seven o'clock whistle blowing. "He's a fisherman, the skipper," said
the gang as they watched him climb the rigging.

And he was a fisherman. All that summer he drove things with but
little time for us ashore. Twice he put into Gloucester with a day to
ourselves and another time we had a chance to run down after we had
put into Boston for market, and that we suspected was because the
skipper found he could not keep away himself any longer. Things, we
judged, were going pretty well with him in Gloucester. He did not
pretend any longer now that he was not interested in Miss Foster, and
from my cousin Nell I got occasional hints, most of which I confided
to Clancy, who explained them as if they were so many parables.

"It'll be all right," said Clancy, "if only Minnie Arkell stands
clear. I'm glad she's away for the summer, but she'll turn up in the
fall. You'll see her just before the race large as life, and some of
her swell-dressed friends, and a yacht, I'll bet."

Considering how deeply the skipper was interested in Miss Foster, some
of us thought he ought to be putting in a little time ashore between
trips. After a run into the Boston fresh fish market, say, we would
have liked mighty well to take in the theatre, or a trip to the beach,
or some other little entertainment of a night. But no, it was in and
out--drive, drive, drive.

He was all ambition, the skipper. He was going to be up front or break
something. Miss Foster was one of the ambitious kind, too. If she was
going to have a fisherman, he would have to be a killer or she would
know why. And so I suppose that had a lot to do with the way the
skipper drove things.

We had our loafing spells, as I say, but mostly it was plenty of work.
That time when we stayed awake for five days and nights was not the
only one. Another time our legs swelled up and the blood came out of
the ends of our fingers with standing up to the keelers and dressing
fish without rest. But, Lord, nobody minded that. After we'd got
rested up we felt better than ever.

We had good luck generally. We lost neither men nor gear to amount to
anything that summer. That seine we lost trying for our first school
to the s'uth'ard in the spring was the only bit of misfortune that
came, and we had long ago made up for that. But others were not so
lucky. There was the loss of the Ruth Ripley, Pitt Ripley's vessel. I
think I have said that she was a fast vessel. She was fast--fast, but
of the cranky type. We were jogging along a little to windward of her
one fine afternoon--it had been a fine September day and now it was
coming on to evening. To the westward of Cape Sable, in the Bay of
Fundy, it was, and no hint of a blow up to within a few minutes of the
time when the squall struck the Ruth. I suppose it would have been
more prudent on Pitt's part if he had had less sail on, but like most
of the skippers in the fleet I guess he was not looking for any record
for prudence. Any minute he might have to be up and driving her, and
keeping sail on was the quickest way to have it when you needed it in
a hurry. The squall hit her--it hit us, too, but we saw it coming and
met it and beyond washing a few keelers overboard, when she rolled
down, no harm was done to the Johnnie. On the Ripley, I suppose, they
saw it too, but the Ripley and the Duncan were not the same class of
vessel by any means. She went over--hove down, with her foremast under
water to the cross-trees almost.

Most of her crew were below at the time, some in their bunks. Four or
five of those below never reached the deck at all--the water rushing
down the companionways cut them off. Some rushed aft where the stern
was high out of water and some piled into the rigging. Some were
calling out and giving advice to others. We could hear them plainly.
Two jumped to the wheel and threw it up, but she would not right.

We had the Johnnie to keep right side up, but we saw the whole thing.
It could not have been more than two or three minutes from the time
the squall struck her when she was going down head-first. Those of her
crew who had gone to the stern were going with her, but those who had
taken to the rigging, by leaping wide came clear. Their seine-boat,
which had been towing astern, might have been of use to them, but
being fast to the vessel by the painter it was pretty well filled with
water before anybody had a chance to cut the painter. The man that
cut it went down with the vessel. He was all right, whoever he was.
Those in the water were looking about for the dory, and found that
half full of water, too. They were trying to bail the water out of the
dory, after hauling it across the bow of the submerged seine-boat,
when we got them in our seine-boat and picked up what was left of
them.

Nine of them were lost, her skipper among them. One of the men
saved--the cook--said that when the squall struck the vessel, Captain
Ripley had been seen to jump for the boom tackle, which he unhitched,
and then to spring for the lashings of the dory, which he cut with his
knife. The cook also said that he thought the skipper lost his life
because of the half-stunning blow that he must have received from the
fore-boom while he was on the rail trying to free the dory. The vessel
was sinking all the time and it being dark--or near it in the
squall--I suppose Captain Ripley could not watch everything. No doubt,
it was the fore-boom hit him and knocked him overboard. Certainly he
was knocked overboard, and the last seen of him he was swimming and
pushing an empty barrel before him to one of the crew. "Keep your
nerve up," he called to the cook, and after that he suddenly
disappeared. He got a man's death, anyway.

We rowed back to the Duncan with the survivors. Nine men gone--it was
a hard story to take home with us, but we had it to do. It was all a
part of fishing life, and so we put back for Gloucester.




XXII

ON THE CAPE SHORE


While we were into Gloucester, after taking home the crew of the Ruth
Ripley, our vessel was put on the ways. That was after a talk between
the skipper and Mr. Duncan. There is always something that needs
attending to on a fisherman, and this time it was our water-tanks. And
while they were being looked after, the Johnnie was overhauled, her
bottom scrubbed and topsides painted. Old Mr. Duncan, we found, was
beginning to take a lot of pride in our vessel and balked at no
expense to have her in trim. And now that the Ripley was lost, he
would have only two vessels to represent him in the big fishermen's
race, which was then only four weeks away.

"Hurry up home now," he said to Maurice as we left the dock that time.
"Hurry up, and give yourself plenty of time to tune her up and get her
in trim for the race. I've set my heart on it. You or the Lucy Foster
must win that race, and whatever else we do we've got to beat
Withrow's vessel, anyway."

And Miss Foster said that one of her guardian's vessels would have to
win the race, and my cousin Nell said that the Johnnie Duncan would
have to win. There was a lot depending on it, she said. It meant a lot
to Will Somers, I suppose Nell meant.

We figured that we had time to make a Cape shore trip, and, with fair
luck, to fill the Johnnie with salt mackerel and be back in time to
get her in good condition for the race, which this year, because it
was anniversary year in Gloucester, promised to be the greatest ever
sailed.

Our plans were somewhat interfered with by a rescue we made. We found
a Glasgow bark, New York bound, in the Bay of Fundy, and her crew in
hard straits. We stood down and after a lot of trouble took them
off--Clancy and Long Steve in the dory. Billie Hurd came near being
the second man in the dory, but Clancy, grabbing him as he had one
foot over the rail, hauled him back with, "Way for your elders, little
man," and jumped in beside Long Steve.

"Elders, but not betters," said Hurd.

"Have it your own way," answered Clancy, "but I go in the dory."

The rescue was really a fine thing, but the important thing was that
some of the rescued men had been exposed to the battering of the sea
so long that they needed medical attention, and so we drove for
home--and cracked our foremast-head doing it. That delayed us almost a
week, for the skipper had to have that spar just so. A lot might
depend on it, same as the rest of the gear. And it was a spar--as fine
a bit of timber, Oregon pine of course, as was ever set up in a
fisherman. And maybe that too was just as well, with the race coming
on.

By the time we were down the Cape shore--down Canso way--and among the
fleet again, we had lost a week. Our hold was still to fill up, and
only two weeks and a day to the race. Wesley Marrs, Tom O'Donnell, Sam
Hollis, and the rest were then talking of going home and making ready
for the race. Bottoms would have to be scrubbed, extra gear put
ashore--a whole lot of things done--and a few try-outs in the Bay by
way of tuning up.

The race was the talk of all the fleet. Half the crews on the Cape
shore wanted to be in Gloucester when the race came off, and some of
the skippers of the slower vessels, which would not enter because they
had no show to win, were already scheming to be home just before the
race so that they could be on hand to follow it.

The morning after we were back among the fleet we got a small school
right from under the eyes of the Lynx, one of the English cutters
which were patrolling the coast to see that we didn't get any fish
within the three-mile limit. I remember that while we were satisfied
at the time that we were outside the line, we did not know what the
revenue-cutter might say, and particularly the Lynx, whose captain had
a hard name among our fleet for his readiness to suspect law-breaking
when there wasn't any. The cutter people generally seemed to want to
be fair toward us, but this Lynx's captain was certainly a vindictive
cuss. Anything hailing from Gloucester was an abomination in his eyes.
And so this morning, when, after we had decided that we were outside
the limit, and made ready to set, it was hard to have to take the
order of the Lynx and sheer off. Our judgment of distance ought to
have been as good as his--better, really, we thought it, because we
were always judging distances at sea, and more at home upon the sea,
too. But that made no difference--what the cutter people said had to
be law for us.

So this time he ordered us not to set where we were or he'd seize our
vessel. Several Gloucester vessels had been confiscated just before
this and the owners had to pay the fine to recover them. One owner
disputed the judgment and his case was then waiting settlement.
Another who refused to pay saw his vessel turned into a lightship and
placed down Miramichi way in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, where it is
yet. This day the commander of the Lynx might have some reason to
think that his order ended that for us--and we could almost see him
chuckling--but it didn't. A fog was creeping up at the time and in ten
minutes it was on us, and under cover of the fog we got a little
school--the same school we thought and on the exact spot where the
cutter was lying when she ordered us off. Didn't we cackle though when
we bailed it in? Oh, no! It was not much of a school--only twenty
barrels--but it made us all feel fine. Not alone did we feel that we
had got the better of the English cutter, but also that luck was
coming to us again. We justified ourselves by saying that we honestly
believed we were outside the three-mile limit, and that our judgment
was as good as theirs.

That night the forec's'le of the Johnnie Duncan presented one of the
most beatific scenes I ever saw. Everybody was in the temper of an
angel. There was nothing doing--no whist at the table, no reading out
of upper bunks, no love song from the peak, and no fierce argument on
the lockers. We were discussing the cutters and the talk was very
soothing. The cook, as usual, was finishing up a batch of dough. You
might have thought he was the only man who had been working in a week,
were it not for the wet oil-clothes hanging up to dry, and the
overhauling of second suits of oil-clothes by some of the gang. Every
man, except the cook, who never smoked while at work, was puffing away
as if he misdoubted he would ever get another chance for a pipeful in
his life. "Harmony most ex-quis-ite," said somebody, and that's what
must have been that hung over the forec's'le, and it seemed to be
merely in keeping with the heavenly order of things that the
atmosphere showed pale blue wherever the rays of the lamp could get a
chance to strike through.

When Clancy dropped down for his usual mug-up before going to the
mast-head for the night of course, he wasn't going to let that get by
without having a word to say about it. He leaned against the foremast
and took a look around. "My soul, but it's as if the blessed angels
were fanning their wings over this forehold. There's Brian Boru and
Lord Salisbury there double-banked on the same locker, and nothing
doing on any Irish question. There's the lad that sleeps in the peak
and not a single hallelujah of praise for his darling Lucille. The
other one--the wild man that sings the Bobbie Burns songs--not a
shriek out of him. And Bill and John no longer spoiling their eyesight
on bad print. I expect it's that little school of fish--the first in
two weeks or more. The prospect must be making you all pleased. Well,
it ought. A few hundred barrels of that kind of mackerel--as fine
fish as ever I see bailed over the rail. And some of you ready
reck'ners ought to easily figure up what'll be coming to us if we ever
fill her up--say five hundred barrels. A good thing--a few hundred
barrels of mackerel. A few too many of 'em for good trim, but it's
comforting to know they're there. She seemed to be in pretty nice trim
when we tried out one or two of the fleet this morning, didn't she?
And to-night, if it breezes up--and it looks now as if it will--we'll
get some more--if it's a night like last night. One time there last
night--did you notice her, cook?--that time that crazy lad started to
cross our bow and we luffed her. Why, man, she shot over like I don't
know what--just shot like one of those torpedo boats we see around
when the Navy goes evoluting. I was near shook overboard from aloft.
They tell me they're going crazy over the race in Gloucester. Well,
here's one that'll bet his summer's earnings----"

"What's left of it, you mean, Tommie," said George Moore from his pan
of dough.

"Well, yes, what's left of it--and what I c'n borrow. Old man
Duncan'll stake me, and there's others. I hope, though, it blows a
jeesly gale. For this one, God bless her, she c'n sail, and some of
them'll find it out--when it's too late, maybe. Sam Hollis for one.
There's a man I'd give my eye almost, to beat. And maybe the
skipper hasn't got it in for him! He doesn't say much, Maurice
don't, but a while ago, after coming down from aloft, Billie Simms
hails him and tells him that the cutter people know all about that
little school to-day--and who told him, who told him? Well, the
skipper'll drive this one to the bottom before he ever lets Sam
Hollis or any of Withrow's vessels get by him when we race. Yes, sir.
But, Georgie-boy"--Clancy shouldered away from the foremast--"how
is it for a wedge or two of one of those blueberry pies you got
cooling there? Just a little wedge, now. But you don't need to be
too close-hauled with your knife--no. Sailing by the wind is all
right when you're jogging in and out among the fleet, and nothing
partic'lar doing except an eye out for mackerel, but you want to
give her a full always--always, Georgie--when you're cutting pie.
There's the lad--straight across the beam. And now at right angles
again. And now lay one atop of the other, and you have it--an
invention of my own--a blueberry sandwich. M-m--but look at the
juice squish through her scuppers!" He held it up for all of us to
have a look. "Now another little wash of coffee in the wake of that
and I'll be all right for a fine little watch aloft."

He jammed his sou'wester hard down, and heroically waved away the
remainder of the pie. "No, no. First thing I know I'll be having
dyspepsia. I never had it yet, but I might," and then heaved himself
up the companionway, humming, as he went, one of his old favorites:

    "Oh, the 'Liza Jane and the Maria Louise
     Sailed a race one day for a peck of peas.
     You'd hardly believe the way them two
     Carried sail that day--they fairly flew.

          People ashore they said, 'Gee whiz!
          The 'Liza Jane the fastest is.'"

We could hear him scrambling, still humming, over the barrels on deck.
He halted long enough by the rail to say, "How is it, boys?" to the
watch on deck, and then swung himself up the rigging. Once aloft he
had his work cut out, with hours of strain on brain and nerve. But
Clancy never minded--he never minded anything so far as we could make
out.




XXIII

DRESSING DOWN


That night was the worst I ever put in towing astern of a vessel.
"Owling" is the seiners' word for that kind of work. It was "owling"
sure enough, with the seine-boat on a short painter and the dory on a
shorter painter still and astern of the seine-boat again. We came near
to being lost in the dory. Mel Adams, who was in the dory with me,
thinking she was surely going to capsize one time she rode up over the
stern of the seine-boat, took a flying leap into the seine-boat. He
had a hard time getting back, for there was quite a little sea on.
Even in the seine-boat they were all glad enough to hear Clancy give
the word to cast off and pull after the school.

It was a big school, and hard work in that sea, but we had them safe
at last. The vessel then came alongside and the bailing in began.
Having had a good long lay-off we bailed them in with plenty of
good-will. It was "He-yew!" "Oy-hoo!" "Hi-o!" and "Drive her!" all
along the line until we had on deck what the skipper thought was a
hundred barrels. Then the bag was put around the seine to protect the
rest of the mackerel from dogfish and sharks, and we were ready to
dress.

Barrels were tossed out of the hold, keelers set up, sharp-edged
knives drawn from diddy-boxes below, and a chance had to see a smart
crew dressing a haul of mackerel that were to be salted. It was too
long a run, four hundred miles or so, to take a chance of getting them
fresh to market. It needed a fair and fresh breeze to be sure of it,
and besides with the market for salt mackerel getting stronger all the
time it was good judgment to salt down and fill her up before going
home.

We had been through the same thing before, even with as good a
deckload, but now we were getting near the end of the season. This
trip, then the race, and maybe one more trip after the race, and we
would be done seining. And so we drove things.

Four gangs of four men each took corners in the waist. Each gang had
two keelers--yard square boxes, eight inches or so in depth, and set
up on two or three barrels. Into the keelers the mackerel on deck were
bailed and around them the men gathered, with long-handled torches set
up all about.

All hands came into the dressing--skipper and cook too--and the work
went on. It was one gang against the other, each jealously counting
barrels when they were filled, that full credit might be given for
speed. Sixteen men were accounted for in this way. The seventeenth and
eighteenth were to keep the keelers filled, draw water for pickle from
over the side, roll the filled barrels out of the way--in short, to
help out generally.

It was fine to watch the splitters. One left-handed grab and the
mackerel was in place; flat and smooth, one right-handed slit and he
was laid open the length of his back. Forty-five mackerel a minute
either the skipper, Clancy or Moore could split--that is, pick them
up, place in position, split from nose to tail along the back, and
slide out of the way again. Sixty a minute they could do in spurts, if
somebody would place the mackerel in rows for them.

The busiest man of all was the skipper. He had to keep an eye out for
the course of the Johnnie. Vessels that are dressing fish, vessels on
which the entire crew are soaked in blood, gills, intestines, and
swashing brine, might be allowed privileges, one might think; but no,
they must keep a lookout just the same. On this dark night, the
Johnnie Duncan, though making a great effort--considering that she had
jibs down and wheel in the becket--to stay as she was put, yet would
fall away or come-to, especially when the wind shifted two or three
points at a jump. And just as soon as she did the skipper would
notice it instantly, jump aft and set her right. Generally, to shift
the wheel a few spokes would be enough, but now and then he would have
to give the wheel a good round whirl. At such a time he would sing out
a warning, the torches would be lowered, we would duck our heads, the
boom would go swinging by in the smoky yellow glare, and the Johnnie
Duncan would be off on another tack. We would brace our legs to a new
angle, the skipper would hop back to his knife, and again the dressing
would go humming along.

When we had the first hundred barrels of mackerel swashing in brine,
the rest of them, perhaps another hundred barrels, were bailed in. And
all night long like that we stood to it driving. Under the yellow and
smoky light of the torches I could see nothing but mackerel or the
insides of mackerel in the air. Keelers, deck, rail, our hands, faces,
boots and oilskins were sticky with the blood and gurry. At top speed
we raced like that through the night. Once in a while a man would drop
his knife or snap off his gibbing mitt, rinse his hand in the brine
barrel by his side, slap his hand across the hoops, and condemn the
luck of a split finger or a thumb with a fish-bone in it. Another
might pull up for a moment, glance up at the stars or down at the
white froth under the rail, draw his hand across his forehead,
mutter, "My soul, but I'm dry," take a full dipper from the
water-pail, drink it dry, pass dipper and pail along to the next and
back to his work.

When the cook called out for breakfast we were still at it, with the
deck of the vessel covered with barrels of pickling mackerel. It was
beginning to get light then. "Oh, the blessed day's coming on. Smother
the torches, boys," said the skipper, and led the way below for the
first table to have a bite.

Before the sun came up we were beginning to make out the rest of the
fleet. One after another they were coming into view, their long hulls
and high spars reaching across the wind. Between the gray sky and the
slaty sea their white sails looked whiter than chalk.

We had to name the different vessels then. "There's Tom O'Donnell--and
Wesley Marrs--and Sam Hollis--and--" sung out Andie Howe.

"Sam Hollis--where's Sam Hollis?" broke in Mel Adams.

"Away to the east'ard, ain't it, Andie?--the fellow with jibs down?"
spoke up Billie Hurd, who was a bit proud that he too could pick her
out at such a distance.

"So it is, ain't it?" said Mel, and he began to tell our troubles in
the dory. "'Twas him near ran over us last night--remember, Joe?
Leastways, it looked like Hollis's new one's quarter goin' by. He was
pointin' 'bout no'the-east then, but he couldn't 've held on that
tack long or he'd be somewhere up by Miquelon and not here this
mornin'--the gait he was goin'. Man, but there was smoke coming out
of his scuppers when he went by. 'Why don't y' come aboard whilst
you're about it--come aboard and be sociable,' I hollers. 'Oh, don't
cry, y' ain't hurted,' says whoever's to the wheel of her. Least it
sounded like that, 'Y' ain't hurted,' he says."

"Must have been pretty close, Mel?" said Clancy, never stopping, but
keeping a string of split mackerel rolling into his keeler. Mel and I
were gibbing for Clancy.

"Close? I could've touched his chain-plates like that," and Mel,
getting excited, reached his mittened hand across the keeler and
touched Clancy on the arm. Clancy's knife took a jump and cut a
finger. For a few seconds Clancy laid down the law of a splitting
knife to Mel, but Mel didn't mind.

"That's just about the way I swore at the man to the wheel of the
Withrow. Didn't I, Joe? Yes, sir, I cert'nly swore at him good, but it
no more jarred him than--but when their seine-boat came by, half of
'em smokin', some half-breed among 'em has to sing out, 'Y'ought to
hang up a riding light if your vessel's hove-to,' he says. What do you
think of that, Tommie--'if your vessel's hove-to!'--and if the Johnnie
was going one she was going ten knots an hour."

"That's right, Mel--I heard you to the mast-head," said Clancy. Clancy
heard it about as much as old Mr. Duncan back in Gloucester did, but
he was always ready to help a man out.

"Did you? Well, I hove-to him. I hove the bailer at him, that's what I
did, and he ducked. But he ducked too late, I callate, for 'Bam!' it
caught him--or somebody in the seine-boat with him. He swore some, or
somebody swore, you c'n bet. 'I don't know who y'are,' he hollers,
'but if ever I meet you ashore,' and he was so far away then I
couldn't ketch no more of it. 'Don't know who y'are, but if I ketch
you ashore'--Lord----"

"So, if a lad with a bump on the side of his head waltzes up to you on
Main Street and whangs you, Mel, next time you're ashore in
Gloucester, what'll you do?" asked Clancy.

"I'll say, 'Where's that bailer, you loafer?' but first I'll whang him
back. I had to finish the bailing out with my sou'wester. I sings out
to Andie Howe in the boat here to hand me one of the bailers in the
boat. 'I'm usin' my hat,' I hollers, 'and Joe's using his sou'wester,'
thinkin' that would fetch him all right. 'Well, we're usin' ten
sou'westers here,' says Andie, 'and one or two of 'em leaks,' and that
was all the satisfaction I got."

"Yes," said Eddie Parsons, "the seine-boat was sure wallerin' then.
The skipper had only just told Jimmie Gunn to quit his growling.
'You'll be wanting hot-water bags to your feet next, I suppose,' says
the skipper."

"I was thinking of the boat--afraid she'd be so logy with the water in
her that we couldn't drive her when the time came," bristled up Jimmie
Gunn to that.

"Y-yah!" snorted Eddie, "if you weren't scared, then I never saw a man
scared. Logy? I notice we made her hop along all right after we cast
off from the vessel. Man, but she fair hurdled some of them seas--some
of the little ones, I mean. Didn't she, Steve? We thought we'd lost
Joe and you, Mel, in the dory, didn't we, fellows?"

"You did, hey? Well, you didn't, nor nowheres near it," broke in Mel.
"We were right there with the goods when they hove the seine, warn't
we, Joey?"

And so it went on through all that day, while the men worked,
dressing, salting, and putting all in pickle. It was a drive all
through without any quitting by anybody, except when it was time to
relieve lookouts at the mast-head. In the middle of it all, had the
call of "School-O!" been heard from aloft, we would have been only too
glad to drop everything, jump into the boat and dory, get after the
mackerel, and do the same thing over--split, gibb and pack away--for
all of the next night, and the night after that--for a week if
necessary.

Not until well into the afternoon, when the last mackerel was
flattened out in its barrel, did any of us feel that we could step
back in our own time, straighten ourselves out, and take a look over
our work. Then we counted the oozing barrels with great satisfaction,
you may be sure, even while we were massaging our swollen wrists with
our aching fingers. It was a good bit of work that, well and quickly
done, and it was fine to get a rest after it, although it might be
only for a little while. Even though we had to do it all over
again--to stay half-drowned and chilled through in the seine-boat or
dory for half the night and then dress down for eighteen or twenty
hours on top of it--what did a little hard work matter? "Think of the
hundred-dollar bill, maybe, to be carried home and laid in the wife's
lap," said Long Steve.

"Or the roaring night ashore when a fellow's not a family man--m-m--!"
said Eddie Parsons. Eddie was not a family man.




XXIV

THE WITHROW OUTSAILS THE DUNCAN


We certainly were feeling pretty good along about that time, and we
felt better when next day, cruising in and out among the fleet, other
crews began to take notice of our catch. By that time the word had
gone around. One after another they came sailing up--as if to size us
up was the last thing that could enter their heads--rounding to, and
then a hail. Something like this it went:

"Hulloh, Maurice."

"Hulloh, Wesley," or George Drake, or Al McNeill, or whoever it might
be.

"That's a mighty pretty deckload of fish. When'd y'get 'em?"

"Oh, twenty barrels yesterday morning and the rest last night."

"That so? How many d'y'call 'em, Maurice?"

"How many? Oh, two hundred and eighty or ninety wash barrels. Ought to
head up about two sixty."

"That so? Fine, Maurice, fine. As handsome a deckload as I've seen
this year."

And he would bear off, and another vessel would come and go through
the same ceremony. It was very satisfying to us and the skipper must
have felt proud. Not that a lot bigger hauls had not been made by
other men before--indeed, yes, and by the very men perhaps who were
complimenting him. But three hundred barrels, or near it, in pickle at
one time does look fine on a vessel's deck, and they looked especially
fine at this time because there was not another vessel in the fleet
that had half as many, so far as we knew.

Not another but Sam Hollis--or so he claimed. He came ranging up that
same day and began asking how the Duncan was sailing lately, and
followed that up by saying he himself had two hundred odd barrels in
the hold. He showed about sixty wash barrels on deck. We did not
believe he had twenty below. She looked cork light. "If she sets as
high out of water with two hundred and forty barrels, then you ought
to put two hundred and forty more in her and she'd fly," called out
Clancy to Hollis, and that was pretty much what we all thought.

And 'twas Sam Hollis made trouble for the Duncan that day. He bore off
then but came back in the afternoon. More talk there was, and it wound
up by our racing with him. We did not start out to race, but
gradually, as we found ourselves jogging along side by side, jibs
were drawn away and sheets began to be trimmed. The first thing we
knew we found ourselves swaying up sails, and then before we really
woke up to it we were both off and away before a little breeze.

Hollis had all the best of it. He was bound to, with the Duncan
carrying most of her mackerel aft and away down by the stern. Even had
we had time to--we did shift some of it forward--we were too deep for
any kind of racing in that moderate breeze. We said that to ourselves,
anyway, and yet we held on. But it was no use--it wound up by Hollis
giving us a scandalous beating. And after running away from us he kept
straight on to the westward, and by that we knew that he was bound for
Gloucester to get ready for the big race.

The skipper felt it. He was one that took things to heart.

"I've been bragging about this one--what she could do. I told the old
man only the last time we were in that he could go broke that I'd beat
Sam Hollis, and here the first time we come together he makes her look
like a wood-carrier. The best thing I can do, I guess, is to keep out
of the race; maybe it will save the old man some money. I expected
he'd beat us, the trim we were in--but to beat us the way he did!"

Nothing the crew could say seemed to make him think otherwise, and
that night it was not nearly so joyful below in the Johnnie Duncan.
The talk was that she would not go home for the race. Only Clancy
seemed to be as cheerful as ever. "Don't any of you get to worrying,"
he said. "I know the skipper--the Johnnie Duncan'll be there when the
time comes."

Yet next morning when Wesley Marrs went by us with the Lucy Foster
bound for home and sang out, "Come along, Maurice, and get ready for
the race--we'll have a brush on the way," our skipper only waved his
hand and said, "No--this old plug can't sail." Wesley looked mighty
puzzled at that, but kept on his way.




XXV

TROUBLE WITH THE DOMINION CUTTERS


Next day after, in a calm, Clancy and I had to take the dory and row
out among the fleet for some salt. The skipper thought it likely that
some of the vessels that were going home might have salt to spare. He
doubted if he himself would have enough in case we struck another good
school. So we rowed out. We went from one vessel to another without
any luck, until we found ourselves aboard Tom O'Donnell--the Colleen
Bawn. And just as we got aboard a school showed near by her, and they
made a dash for it. The Colleen was pretty well inshore then, and yet
safe outside the three-mile limit in our judgment. Even in the
judgment of one of the Canadian revenue cutters, the Mink, she was
outside the limit. "You're all right, go ahead," her commander sang
out from the bridge.

Yet trouble came of it. The Colleen's gang were making a set when
along came the Lynx, the same cutter that had ordered our own skipper
not to set two or three days back in the fog, and we had set in spite
of him. I think I said that he had a bad reputation among our fleet.
In this case some said afterwards that he had been watching the Duncan
since that time, and having seen a dory put out from her and go aboard
Tom O'Donnell, that he then had a special watch for O'Donnell. Anyway,
we know that as the Colleen Bawn's crew were pursing in the seine he
came along and ordered them to cast loose the fish. "You're inside the
limit," said this fellow now.

"I may be, but I don't think so," said O'Donnell to that.

"You're inside and you know it."

"You're a liar if you say I know it."

O'Donnell had had trouble with the Lynx before, and had small patience
with her captain. More words came out of it, and while they were
talking back and forth another of the fleet a mile to the east'ard put
out a boat.

The cutter went after him, her captain singing out as he went, "You
wait here till I come back." "Wait like hell!" said O'Donnell, "and
this breeze making," and continued to purse up. Pursed up, the fish
aboard--there were forty or fifty barrels--he started off. One of
those sudden breezes were springing up and it promised to be wind
enough to suit anybody. We made out the Johnnie Duncan bearing down,
intending no doubt to take off Clancy and me. But the cutter was
coming toward us then, and O'Donnell said we had better stay aboard
or we would be picked up on the way by the cutter's people and maybe
get the Duncan and our skipper into trouble. That last--the thought
that our skipper or the vessel might get mixed up in it--kept us
aboard the Colleen Bawn.

The Lynx could steam as fast as any cutter they had on the Cape shore
at that time, but the Colleen was a witch and O'Donnell a wonder at
sailing her. So we stayed with O'Donnell and watched him and the
cutter have it out. They had it, the cutter letting drive a shot every
once in a while. The first shot, I remember, went whistling by the ear
of one of O'Donnell's crew who was standing back-to in the waist, and
so astonished him, he not expecting it, that he fell into the
forehold. He raised a great racket among a lot of empty barrels. The
fall never hurt him, but the things he said when he came on deck
again! O'Donnell made him lie flat--and then all of us but Clancy, who
refused to lie down but compromised by leaning over the house and
watching the cutter and making comments on her actions for the benefit
of the rest of us. Through it all O'Donnell stood to the wheel and the
nearest he came to honoring the cutter by a compliment was when he'd
half turn his head, spit over the rail and swear at her. The wind and
sea-way together were too much for the cutter. The Colleen left her
behind, and she at last drew off after bunching a few farewell shots.

O'Donnell then hove-to and took his seine-boat on deck. He had been
towing it the wrong end foremost for the whole forty miles, and he was
worried over it. "It's strained her maybe--and she almost a new boat,"
he lamented. "For the rest I don't care. That lad had it in for me all
along. The other one though, he's decent--never bothers a man without
a little reason. I was going home anyway for the race, and so it don't
matter. I suppose Maurice will be along soon, Tommie? Did you see him
coming after the cutter--he held her fine and he in no trim. What's it
they say about Hollis beating the Johnnie yesterday? If he did, be
sure he was specially prepared, and the Johnnie had an off-day. But I
suppose he'll be holding on now for Gloucester?"

Clancy said maybe, but no telling, and explained how it had been--the
skipper's discouragement after Hollis had beaten him.

O'Donnell said he was foolish to worry over a thing like that. "I know
Sam Hollis," he said--"'twas a trap he laid for Maurice. He's got a
smart vessel in the Withrow, but he can't run away from Maurice. No,
nor beat him I doubt--with both in trim. But wait a while--let the day
of the race get near and Maurice to thinking it over, and you'll see
him flyin' home."

We hoped so. For ourselves we went home on the Colleen. There was
nothing else for us to do. We had quite a time of it that trip with
O'Donnell. He sailed about five hundred miles out of his way--away to
the eastward and s'uth'ard. There might be cruisers and cutters galore
after him, he said--they might put out from Halifax, or telegraph
ahead--you couldn't tell what they might do, he said, and so he sailed
the Colleen out to sea. But we came across the Bay one dark night
without side-lights, and reached Boston all right. O'Donnell had a
suit of sails stowed away in an East Boston wharf that he wanted to
get out for the race. And also he didn't like his new foremast and was
going to have a new one put in if there was time.




XXVI

THE GOSSIP IN GLOUCESTER


Clancy and I went home by train, reaching Gloucester as the first of
an easterly gale set in. There we found it was nothing but talk of the
race. We had not reached Main Street at all before Clancy was held up.
Clancy, of course, would know. Where was Maurice Blake? What were we
doing in Gloucester and the Johnnie not in? The Duncans--especially
the elder Mr. Duncan--Miss Foster, my cousin Nell, and Will Somers
were boiling over. Where was Maurice Blake? Where was the Johnnie
Duncan? Everybody in town seemed to know that Sam Hollis had given us
a bad beating down Cape shore way, and the news had a mighty
discouraging effect on all Maurice's friends, even on those of them
who knew enough of Sam Hollis not to take his talk just as he wanted
them to take it. Withrow's vessel had beaten the Johnnie Duncan with
Maurice Blake sailing her--they had to believe that part of it, and
that in itself was bad enough. Sam Hollis's stock was booming, you may
be sure--and the race right close to hand, too.

"That little beating the Johnnie got didn't lose any in the telling by
Sam Hollis and his gang, did it, Joe?" said Clancy to me, and then he
went around borrowing all the money he could to bet the Johnnie Duncan
would beat the Withrow in the race. But would Maurice now enter at
all? I asked Clancy about that part--if there was not a chance that
Maurice might not stay down the Cape shore way and let the race go.
But he only laughed and said, "Lord--Joey-boy, you've a lot to learn
yet about Maurice in spite of your season's seining along with him."

It was a Monday morning when Clancy and I reached Gloucester. The race
was to be sailed on Friday of that same week. For several days before
this, we were told, Wesley Marrs, Sam Hollis, Tommie Ohlsen, and the
rest of them had been out in the Bay tuning up their vessels like a
lot of cup defenders. Never before had fishermen given so much
attention to the little details before a race. The same day that we
got home they were up on the ways for a final polishing and primping
up. They were smooth as porcelain when they came off. And coming off
their skippers thought they had better take some of the ballast out of
them. "'Tisn't as if it was winter weather"--it was the middle of
September then--"with big seas and driving gales," was the way Wesley
Marrs put it, and they all agreed that the chances were ten to one
that the wind would not be strong enough to call for the heavy ballast
they carried. Fishermen, of course, are built to be at their best when
wind and sea are doing their worst, and so the taking out of ballast
for a September race looked like good judgment. So about forty tons of
ballast were taken out of most of them--the Lucy Foster, the Withrow,
the Nannie O, and half a dozen others.

That looked all right, but on Tuesday night an easterly gale set in,
the wind blowing forty-odd miles an hour. All day Wednesday it blew,
and all day Thursday even harder, with a promise of blowing harder
still on Friday, which was to be the day of the race. The people of
Gloucester who had been praying for wind, "Wind for a fisherman's
race--wind--wind," seemed likely to get what they wanted.

On Thursday I saw Tommie Ohlsen and Wesley Marrs in conference on the
street. Wesley had his nose up in the air, sniffing the breeze. He
shook his head with, "Tommie, I ought to've let the ballast stay in
the Lucy. It looks like it's going to be the devil's own breeze for
vessels that ain't prepared for it."

"Yes," said Ohlsen, "wind fifty-two mile an hour the weather man says,
and still making. That's bad for light ballast and whole sail. If we
could only put the ballast back----"

"Yes--if we could. But we can't put it back now--there ain't time to
do it right and everybody would laugh at us too. And besides, if we
did, all the others would put it back, and where's the difference?"

"Of course," said Tommie, "but if all of us would put it back it would
make a better race."

In view of the reputation of Wesley Marrs and Ohlsen and O'Donnell and
their vessels, we could not understand the confidence of Withrow and
his people in Sam Hollis. He had a great vessel--nobody doubted it.
But it was doubted by many if she was the equal of some of the others,
and few believed she was better. And Sam Hollis was not the man to
carry the sail, or at least the fishermen of Gloucester generally did
not think so. But Withrow and Hollis's gang kept on bragging and they
backed their bragging up, too. I drew what money I had saved that
summer out of my seining share--two hundred and twenty-five
dollars--and bet it myself with one of the Withrow's crew that the
Johnnie Duncan would beat the Withrow, whether the Johnnie was home to
race or not. It was really betting against Withrow himself, who, it
was said, was taking up every bet made by any of the Withrow's crew.
That was Thursday afternoon, and still no word of the Duncan.

"Good for you, Joey," said Clancy when he heard of that. "Even if
Maurice don't come it's better to lose your money and shut them up.
But don't worry--he'll come. Do you think he's been standing and
looking at this easterly--it's all along the coast to Newf'undland I
see by the papers--and not swing her off? He's on his way now, and
swinging all he's got to her, I'll bet. Wait and see."

"My," said my cousin Nell, "and so you bet your pile on the Johnnie
Duncan whether she's in or not?--and if she don't reach here in time
you lose it all?" and told it all over to her Will Somers, to whom I
learned she was now engaged. And from that time on I noticed that
Alice Foster beamed on me like an angel.

Minnie Arkell was home for the race just as Clancy had prophesied. She
had come with some of her friends down from Boston three or four days
before this, in the same steam-yacht she had been aboard of at Newport
in June. Meeting me she asked me about our passage home on the Colleen
Bawn, and I told her of it. She listened with great interest.

"Is Tom O'Donnell as fine-looking as he used to be--with his grand
figure and head and great beard? I remember some years ago I used to
think him the finest-looking man I ever saw."

I told her that I guessed she'd think him fine-looking yet if she'd
seen him to the wheel of the Colleen Bawn with the six-pound shot
whistling by him, and he never so much as letting on he knew they were
there. Her eyes shone at that. Then she offered to take any bets I
made off my hands. "You can't afford to take your little savings out
of the bank and bet it on a vessel that may not be here in time. I'll
take it off your hands--come!"

That was an attractive side to her--caring but little for money--but I
wasn't letting anybody take my bets off my hands. I still believed
that Maurice would be home, though that was seven o'clock Thursday
evening. I knew he would be home if he only guessed that his friends
were betting on his vessel--and they not even knowing whether she was
to be home in time for the race. And if he weren't home, I was ready
to lose my little roll.




XXVII

IN CLANCY'S BOARDING-HOUSE


From Minnie Arkell, whom I met at the door of her own house, I went to
Clancy's boarding house. I did not find Clancy then and I went off,
but coming back again I found him, and a very busy man he was, with an
immense crock of punch between his knees. He was explaining down in
the kitchen to the other boarders--fifteen or twenty of the
thirstiest-looking fishermen I ever laid eyes on--just how it was he
made the punch. The bowl was about the size of a little beer keg.

"On the night of last Fourth of July," he was saying--"and I mind we
came in that morning with a hundred and seventy-five barrels we got
off Mount Desert--that night I warn't very busy. I gets this
crock--four gallons--let you all have a look--a nice cold stony crock
you see it is, and that they'd been using then in the house here for
piccalilli--and a fine flavor still hanging to it. Wait a minute now
till I tell you. It'll taste better, too, after you hear. And into the
crock I puts two gallons of rum--fine rum it was--for a bottom. Every
good punch has to have a bottom. It's like the big blocks they put
under a house by way of a foundation, or the ballast down near the
keel of a vessel--there'd be no stiffening without it, and the first
good breeze she'd capsize, and then where'd you be? Now, on top of
those two gallons--it was two o'clock in the morning, I mind, when I
started to mix it--whiskey, brandy, and sherry--no, I can't tell what
parts of each--for that's the secret of it. A fellow was dory-mate
with me once--a Frenchman from Bordeaux--told me and said never to
tell, and I gave my oath--down in St. Peer harbor in Miquelon it
was--and afterwards he was lost on the Heptagon--and of course, never
being released from the oath, I can't tell. Well, there was the rum,
the whiskey, the brandy, and the sherry--and on top o' that went one
can of canned pine-apple--canned pine is better than the pine-apple
right out of its jacket. Why? Well, that's part of the secret. Then a
dozen squeezed lemons and oranges. Then some maraschino. I'd got it
off an Italian salt bark skipper in the harbor once. On top o' that I
put one quart of green tea--boiled it myself--it was three in the
morning then, I mind--and I sampled a cup of it. Wait now--wait. Just
ease your sheets and let me tell it. Here's the best part of it. I
takes that crock with the fourteen quarts of good stuff in it and
lowers it to the bottom of the old well out in the yard with a lot of
cold round little stones above and below and more little stones packed
all around and then I lowers down two good-sized rocks on top o'
that--and nails boards over the well--that's why nobody could get into
that well all this summer. Well, that was the morning after the last
Fourth of July--I mind the sun was coming up over the rocks of Cape
Ann when I was done. And that was July, and now the last of
September--three months ago. A while ago in the dark and a howling
gale--you all see me come in with it, didn't you? Yes, if you go out
quick, you c'n see the well just where I left it--I goes out and digs
it up--and here it is--and now it's here, we'll all have a little
touch in honor of to-morrow, for it's a great day when the wind blows
fifty or sixty miles an hour so that fishermen can have good weather
for a race."

And they all had a little touch. Clancy sat on the table with the
crock between his feet and bailed it out while they all agreed it was
the smoothest stuff that ever slid down their throats. There was not a
man in the gang who was not sure he could put away a barrel of it.

"Put away a barrel of it?" whispered Clancy--"yes. Let's get out
of here, Joe. In an hour they'll be going into the air like
firecrackers."




XXVIII

IN THE ARKELL KITCHEN


We left Clancy's boarding house and went over to old Mrs. Arkell's
place, where most of the skippers who were going to race next day had
gathered. Clancy at once started in to mix milk-punches. And he sang
his latest favorite, with the gang supping his mixture between the
stanzas:

    "Oh, hove flat down on Quero Banks
    Was the Bounding Billow, Captain Hanks,
    And the way she was a-settlin' was an awful sight to see"--

Then Wesley Marrs sang a song and after him Patsie Oddie followed with
a roarer.

The punch-mixing, singing and story-telling went on and in the middle
of it Tom O'Donnell came driving in. He was like a whiff of a
no'the-easter out to sea. "Whoo!" he said. "Hulloh, Wesley-boy--and
Patsie Oddie--and Tommie Ohlsen--and, by my soul, Tommie Clancy again.
Lord, what a night to come beating down from Boston! What's that,
Wesley?--did the Colleen outfoot the cutter down the Cape shore way?
Indeed and she did, and could do it over again in the same breeze to
half their logy old battleships. Into Boston I was Monday morning, and
the fish out of her the same morning. Tuesday I took her across to
Cape Cod, tuning her up, and into Provincetown that night. Next day it
was blowing pretty hard. A fine day for a run across the Bay, I
thinks, and waits for maybe a Boston vessel, one of the T Wharf fleet.
For I'll go to Boston, I thinks, to put the Colleen on the railway
to-day, because maybe in Gloucester I may have to wait--or may get no
chance at all--with half a dozen or more that will be waiting to be
scrubbed for the race. And who comes along then but Tom Lowrie.
'Waiting for me?' he asks, and I tells him I was hoping it would be
the new Whalen vessel. 'Here's one that's as good as any Whalen
vessel,' he says--'as good as anything out of Boston--or Gloucester,'
he says. So across the Bay we had it out. And, gentlemen, I'm telling
you the Colleen sailed--all the wind she wanted. She came along, and
Lowrie--by the looks of things then--he's sailing yet. Well, I never
did like that forem'st that was in the Colleen, and so, thinks I,
here's a chance to test it--and why not, with the race coming on? So I
jibed her over off Minot's just--and sure enough it cracked about ten
feet below the mast-head."

"You were satisfied then, Tom?"

"Sure and I was. And better before the race than in the race. And next
day--that's to-day--we spent putting in a new stick. I had to take
what I could get to save time, and I don't think it's what it ought to
be and maybe it won't last through to-morrow. But, anyway, you want to
have an eye out for the Colleen to-morrow, for I'm telling you I never
see her sail like she did yesterday coming across the Bay. Ask Tom
Lowrie next time you see him. Well, to-night I had to beat down here
to be sure and be here in time, and so out we put--and here I am.
Blowing? Indeed and it is. And thick, is it? Standing on her
knight-heads and looking aft you c'd no more than make out her
side-lights. We came along, and Boston inner and outer harbor crowded
with vessels, steamers and sail, waiting for it to moderate so they
c'd put out. A blessed wonder it was we didn't sink somebody--or
ourselves. Outside we went along by smell, I think, for only every
once in awhile could we see a light. One time we almost ran into
something--a fisherman it must have been, for I s'pose only a
fisherman would be going in on a night like this--out of a squall of
snow and blackness she came--man alive! but, whoever she was, she was
coming a great clip. Winged out and we didn't see her till the end of
her bowsprit caught the end of our main-boom--hauled in we were to two
blocks--and over we went on the other tack--yes, sir, over on the
other tack. Thinks I, ''Tis a new way to jibe a vessel over.' And the
end of her fore-boom all but swept me from beside the wheel and over
the rail as she went by--she was that close. And I sings out to her,
'Won't you leave us your name so I can thank you next time we meet?'
but Lord, not a word out of him. He kept on to Boston, I suppose, and
we kept on to Gloucester, and here I am."

"And the Colleen, Tom--she's all right?"

"Right, man? Watch her to-morrow. Barring that forem'st being too
light--but whoever looked for a breeze like this?--two days and three
nights now and blowing harder all the time. But never mind, she'll
make great going of it to-morrow. Divil take it, but we'll all make
great going of it. Tommie, dear, what's in the bowl? Milk? Man, but
don't be telling me things like that--and the one thing the doctors
warn me against is heart-trouble. Ah, milk-punch--that's better, man.
A wee droppeen. Look at it--the color of the tip of a comber in twelve
fathom of water and a cross-tide. Well, here's to every mother's son
of us that's going to race to-morrow. May ye all win if the Colleen
don't--all but you, Sam Hollis. But where's he gone--into the other
room? Well, if he was here 'twould be the same. He's got a vessel
that can sail. Let him sail her to-morrow and win, if it's in her--or
in him. But a thousand dollars--and outside my house and vessel, Lord
knows, it's all the money I've got in the world--beyond my house and
vessel--a thousand dollars the Colleen beats the Withrow. Hello,
there--what d'y'say, Sam Hollis--the Colleen and the Withrow--a
thousand dollars, boat for boat. But where the divil is he? Gone? Are
you sure? Gone! But a queer time to leave a party--just when it's
getting to be real sociable."

"Never mind the betting now, Tom," spoke up Wesley Marrs. "Let the
owners have that to themselves. And according to accounts some of them
are having it. Fred Withrow and old Duncan are ready to go broke over
the race to-morrow. Whichever loses, he'll remember this race, I'm
thinking. Here's hoping it won't be Duncan. So to the devil with the
betting, Tom. Some of us have bet all we could afford--some of us more
than we could afford, I callate. Let's have a song instead, Tom."

"Anything to please you, Wesley," and O'Donnell began to sing. He
started off first with his

    "Oh, seiners all and trawlers all,"

but Alec McNeill and Patsie Oddie interrupted. "Oh, give us the other
one, Tom--the Newf'undland and Cape Shore Men."

"Ha!" laughed O'Donnell, "it's the mention of your own you want--you
and Patsie there. Well, it's all one to me. Any man from any place, so
long as he's a fair man and a brave man, and Lord knows ye're both
that. Well, here's to you both--a wee drop just, Tommie--easy--easy,"
and he began:

    "Oh, Newf'undland and Cape Shore men, and men of Gloucester town,
    With ye I've trawled o'er many banks and sailed the compass
        roun';
    I've ate with ye, and bunked with ye, and watched with ye all
        three,
    And better shipmates than ye were I never hope to see.
    I've seen ye in the wild typhoon beneath a Southern sky,
    I've seen ye when the Northern gales drove seas to mast-head
        high,
    But summer breeze or winter blow, from Hatt'ras to Cape Race,
    I've yet to see ye with the sign of fear upon your face.

    Oh, swingin' cross the Bay
    Go eighty sail of seiners,
    And every blessed one of them a-driving to her rail!

    There's a gale upon the waters and there's foam upon the sea,
    And looking out the window is a dark-eyed girl for me,
    And driving her for Gloucester, maybe we don't know
    What the little ones are thinking when the mother looks out so.
    Oh, the children in the cradle and the wife's eyes out to sea,
    The husband at the helm and looking westerly--
    When you get to thinking that way, don't it make your heart's
        blood foam?
    Be sure it does--so here's a health to those we love at home.

    West half no'the and drive her, we're abreast now of Cape Sable,
    It's an everlasting hurricane, but here's the craft that's able--
    When you get to thinking that way, don't it make your heart's
        blood foam?
    Be sure it does--so here's a health to those we love at home.

    Oh, the roar of shoaling waters and the awful, awful sea,
    Busted shrouds and parting cables, and the white death on our
        lee;
    Oh, the black, black night on Georges when eight score men were
        lost--
    Were ye there, ye men of Gloucester? Aye, ye were--and tossed
    Like chips upon the water were your little craft that night,
    Driving, swearing, calling out, but ne'er a call of fright.
    So knowing ye for what ye are, ye masters of the sea,
    Here's to ye, Gloucester fishermen, a health to ye from me.

    And here's to it that once again
    We'll trawl and seine and race again;
    Here's to us that's living and to them that's gone before;
    And when to us the Lord says, 'Come!'
    We'll bow our heads, 'His will be done,'
    And all together let us go beneath the ocean's roar."

I never again expect to hear a sea song sung as Tom O'Donnell sang it
then, his beard still wet with the spray and his eyes glowing like
coal-fire. And the voice of him! He must have been heard in half of
Gloucester that night. He made the table quiver. And when they all
rose with glasses raised and sang the last lines again:

    "And here's to it that once again
    We'll trawl and seine and race again;
    Here's to us that's living and to them that's gone before;
    And when to us the Lord says, 'Come!'
    We'll bow our heads, 'His will be done,'
    And all together we shall go beneath the ocean's roar----"

any stranger hearing and seeing might have understood why it was that
their crews were ready to follow these men to death.

"The like of you, Tom O'Donnell, never sailed the sea," said Patsie
Oddie when they had got the last ro-o-ar--"even the young ladies come
in off the street to hear you better."

He meant Minnie Arkell, who was standing in the doorway with her eyes
fixed on O'Donnell, who had got up to go home, but with Wesley trying
to hold him back. He was to the door when Minnie Arkell stopped him.
She said she had heard him singing over to her house and couldn't keep
away, and then, with a smile and a look into his eyes, she asked
O'Donnell what was his hurry--and didn't he remember her?

In her suit of yachting blue, with glowing face and tumbled hair, she
was a picture. "Look at her," nudged Clancy--"isn't she a corker? But
she's wasting time on Tom O'Donnell."

"What's your hurry, Tom?" called Wesley. "Another song."

"No, no, it's the little woman on the hill. She knew I was to come
down to-night and not a wink of sleep will she get till I'm home. And
she knows there'll be bad work to-morrow maybe and she'd like to see
me a little before I go, and I'd like to see her, too."

"She's a lucky woman, Captain O'Donnell, and you must think a lot of
her?" Minnie Arkell had caught his eye once more.

"I don't know that she's so awfully lucky with me on her hands,"
laughed O'Donnell, "but I do think a lot of her, child."

"Child? to me? But you don't remember me, Captain?"

"Indeed, and I do, and well remember you. And it's the beautiful woman
you've grown to be. But you always were a lovely child. It's often my
wife spoke of you and wondered how you were. She's heard me speak of
your father a hundred times, I know. A brave man your father, girl.
And she'll be glad to see you any time, little girl--or the daughter
of any fisherman lost at sea. If ever you have a blue day, go to her,
for 'tis she has the heart--and, God bless her, an extra weakness for
orphans. Her own children some day--there's no telling. But good-night
to you, dear"--he patted her head--"good-night all. Wesley, Tommie,
Patsie--all of ye, good-night. In the morning we'll have it out." Out
the door he went, and I fancied there was almost a blush on Minnie
Arkell's face.

Tom O'Donnell was the kind of a man a fellow would like to have for a
father.




XXIX

MAURICE BLAKE COMES HOME


From Mrs. Arkell's we walked back to Clancy's boarding house. Clancy
wanted to see how they made out with the punch. We found several of
them up in the wind, and so no great danger of them. But two or three
of them, Dave Campbell particularly, were running wild. "Boomed out
and driving," said Clancy, and began to remonstrate with Dave on the
evils of intemperance. He went on quite awhile, but Dave showed no
signs of remorse. "Wait and I'll fix him," said Clancy, and obeying a
motioning with his head two or three of the sober ones followed him
out.

He led the way to the wood-shed next door where there was a goat, and
the goat we carried up three flights of stairs to Campbell's room. He
was a big, able goat, and we had quite a time to get him up stairs. At
last we got him tied to the post of Campbell's bed. Then we went down
stairs to the kitchen and Clancy persuaded Campbell to go up stairs to
bed, which after awhile he did. It was not yet morning and there was
no light in the bedroom. We took our position on the landing outside
where we could hear everything that went on in Campbell's room, which
was just at the head of the stairs.

Dave went in and we could hear him falling over something in the dark.
"What's it?" we could hear him, and acting as if he was feeling
around. Taking off our shoes we crawled nearer. We could barely make
out his shadow in the dark, but we could easily hear him talking to
himself. "What's it? Eh, what?" He must have been feeling the horns
then, and the goat must have butted him. Again, and once more, for out
the door and down the stairs went Dave. We ran in and cut the goat
loose and down he went after Dave. The whole three flights they
raced.

"He's got me at last," hollered Dave, bolting into the kitchen,
slamming the door behind him and bracing himself against it.

We took the goat and put him back in the wood-shed and came back to
the kitchen by way of the window. Dave, who was still braced against
the door, did not know but what we had been in the kitchen all the
time, and that gave Clancy a fine chance to take up his lecture on
intemperance just where he had left it off,--at the very beginning.
"Intemperance, Dave, is an awful thing. You'll have to be doing
something for it soon, I think. Yes, when the devil himself gives you
a call it's time to do something. You'd better come with me and take
the pledge. Come up now to Father Haley."

"I'm a Pres--a Pres--a Pres--by--ter--ian, Tommie."

"Well, come with me to your church then--any church at all. What's the
odds, so long's you reform. Here, we'll do it right here now. Come,
hold up your hand," and then and there Clancy was about to get Dave to
promise not to look a glass of liquor or punch in the face for a year
again, when who comes bouncing in but Eddie Parsons.

"Hurroo!" said Clancy, forgetting Dave and grabbing Eddie by the
shoulder, "and the Duncan's home?"

"She is," said Eddie, "and four hundred and fifty barrels of mackerel
coming out of her hold. A dozen lumpers getting 'em out from both
holds and two at a lick they're coming onto Duncan's Dock. And what
d'y'think, Tommie----"

"But what kept you so long, man? We've all been getting heart disease
waiting for you."

"I know. We ought to've been in yesterday mornin', or in the
afternoon at the latest, for we swung her off Tuesday night
midnight--plenty of time with a fair wind. But on Wednesday afternoon,
coming like a race-horse--wung out--we sighted a dory and two men in
it signalizing. Astray they were, and we took 'em aboard, and all
that night we stood by. And warn't it chafing? Oh, no! Daylight came
thick and we waited for it to clear, keeping the horn goin'. It
lifted and we got another dory, but it was late afternoon then.
Then their vessel came along with all the others accounted for, and we
turned over our two and went on our way. And maybe she didn't come!
Oh, no! Blowing? A living gale all the time, but the skipper kept her
going. You'd hardly b'lieve if I told you where we was yesterday
afternoon and we here now. A no'the-easter and a howler all the way.
At four o'clock we passed in by the bell-buoy. Man, such a blow!
Are we in the race, you say? Are we! And oh, the skipper says for you
and Joe to be down after breakfast. We all knew you'd get home and be
all right with Tom O'Donnell. So be down after breakfast--the skipper
will be looking for you both. But say, let me tell you. What
d'y'think? Coming into the harbor a while ago who d'y' s'pose was
out in the stream with a lighter alongside his vessel? Who but Sam
Hollis and the Withrow. Yes, and the gang putting ballast back in
her."

"No?"

"Yes. And some one of them sees us going by in the dark. And we did go
by, too! 'Lord!' says somebody--'twas Withrow himself--'but if that
don't look like the ghost of Maurice Blake's vessel!' 'Yes,' hollers
back the skipper--and they must've been some surprised to hear
him--'and the ghost'll be with you to-morrow in the race. Yes,' the
skipper says, 'and we're all ready for it. Four weeks since we've been
on the ways and maybe a scrubbing wouldn't hurt her, but if it keeps
a-blowin' who'll mind that? Not the Johnnie.' Oh, Tommie, if you'd
seen her comin' across the Bay of Fundy yesterday afternoon and last
night. Did she come?--did she come? Lord--O Lord----"

"And so that's Withrow--got his vessel tuned up like a fiddle and
now he's putting extra ballast in her. Blast him and Hollis for
schemers!" said Clancy. "And that's how it comes they're so ready
to bet--stiffenin' her so stiff for to-morrow that they know
something'll happen to the others first. But the Johnnie's a bit
stiff, too--and there's no ballast out of her. And, as the skipper
says, maybe we ain't been on the ways for a few weeks now, but Lord,
the Johnnie ought to be able to drag a few little blades of sea-grass
on her hull in this breeze. And so we're in the race, heh? Dave, I
can't stop to give you the pledge now--

    Oh, the Johnnie Duncan fast and able,
    Good-by, dear, good-by, my Mabel."

And Clancy was the joyful man as he awoke the echoes in the gray of
that stormy morning.




XXX

THE MORNING OF THE RACE


I don't think that the people of Gloucester will ever forget the
morning of that race, which, they will still tell you, was the only
race ever sailed. Wind was what the fishermen wanted, and they got
it--wind, and sea with it. The admiral of the White Squadron, then at
anchor at Rockport Harbor, just around the Cape, stood on the bridge
of his flagship that morning and looked out to sea. Somebody told him
that the fishermen were going to race that day. He took another look.
"Race to-day? Pooh! they'll do well to stay hove-to to-day." Of
course, that ought to have settled it, the admiral having said it.

It blew that day. Leaving home I had time for a bite to eat and a
wash-up. I turned the corner and picked up Clancy, with Maurice Blake,
Tom O'Donnell and Wesley Marrs just ahead. We ran into Mr. Edkins, a
nice old gentleman, who had been made secretary of the race committee.
What he didn't know about fishing would be the making of a "killer,"
but, of course, he wasn't picked out for that--he'd never fished a
day in his life--but because of his knowledge of the rules of yacht
racing. Having had long experience in managing yachting regattas, he
knew all about time allowances and sail measurements--though there
were to be no allowances of any kind here. It was to be boat for boat
in this race; every vessel for herself. So he was thought to be a good
man to have to look after the stake and judges' boats. It was
Gloucester's Anniversary celebration, with a lot of strangers in
town--the Governor and a whole holdful of national characters--and in
deference to them the race was to be managed so that spectators might
have a chance to see it.

Mr. Edkins came along in his official regalia--tall hat, frock coat,
umbrella, gloves, and a pink in his button-hole.

"Is it true, Captain O'Donnell, that the race is going to be held
to-day?"

O'Donnell looked at him as though he didn't understand. "To-day?
to-day?--Good Lord, are we all on the wrong tack? And sure isn't this
the day?"

"Oh, yes--oh, yes, Captain O'Donnell, this is the day appointed. And
that is the trouble. Surely you are not going to race to-day?"

"We're not going to--" broke in Wesley Marrs, "and why aren't we going
to race to-day? What in the name of all that's good have we been
doing with our vessels up on the railway the last week or two? What
d'y'think we took the ballast out of our vessels for? What d'y'think I
had that everlasting new balloon made for last trip in, what for that
big mains'l that Tom here had bent on the Colleen yesterday, and for
what did Maurice drive the Johnnie Duncan home only last night? What
in----"

"Wait, Captain, wait. What I mean is, do you know how it is outside?
They've telegraphed me that up in Boston Harbor there won't be a
steamer leave the harbor to-day--it's as stormy as that. There are two
big ocean liners--and we've got word that they won't leave--won't dare
to leave--not a steamer of any kind will leave Boston Harbor to-day.
And outside a heavy sea running--with the wind fifty-four miles an
hour, the weather bureau says. Fifty-four miles an hour. That's not
street corner talk--it's official. And----"

"Divil take it, does being official make it blow any harder?" asked
O'Donnell.

"And I know the way you fishermen will try to carry on. I know, I
know--don't tell me you're careful. I tell you, Captain O'Donnell, and
you, Captain Marrs, I tell you all--that if you persist in racing
to-day I wash my hands of the whole affair--completely wash my----"

"Well, 'tis a fine wash day, too. Come, Wesley--come, Maurice, we'll
have to be getting on."

They left Mr. Edkins standing there. A little farther on they overtook
the manager of the insurance company, which had policies on most of
the fishing vessels. He was just about to enter his office when
O'Donnell spied him. "Hullo, there's the man I want to see--" and
hailed, "Just heave to a minute, Mr. Brooks, if you please. Now look
here, you know we've took a few pigs of iron out our vessels, and you
know it looks like a bit of weather outside. Now, what I want to know
is if I capsize the Colleen Bawn to-day--if I don't come home with
her--does my wife get the insurance? That's what I want to know--does
my wife get the insurance?"

Mr. Brooks looked at O'Donnell, rubbed his chin and scratched his
head, then looked at O'Donnell again. "Why, I suppose it all comes
under the usual risk of fishing vessels. I suppose so--but--h-m--it
will be pretty risky, won't it? But let me see--wait a moment
now--there's the President inside, and Mr. Emerson, too--he's a
director."

He went inside, and we could see that they were talking it over.
Pretty soon they all came out with the President of the company in
front. "Good-morning, Captain O'Donnell--Captain Marrs, good-morning.
How do you do, Maurice? Captain O'Donnell, take it from me as
official, your insurance on the Colleen Bawn is safe. For the honor
and glory of old Gloucester go ahead and sink her."

"And the Lucy Foster?" asked Wesley.

"And the Lucy Foster, Captain Marrs."

"Of course the Johnnie Duncan, speaking for the owners?" asked
Maurice.

"For every vessel that we insure that leaves the harbor to race
to-day."

"Hurroo!" said O'Donnell. "Don't tell me, Wesley, I'm no--what's
it?--dip-lo-mat. Yes, dip-lo-mat, by the Lord!"

But it certainly was a desperate morning for a race. The streets
seemed to be full of men ready to go out. There were to be only nine
vessels in the race, but another half dozen vessels were going over to
see it, and that meant more than three or four hundred able fishermen
going out. The men that were going to stay ashore would go up to those
that were going out and say, "Well, good-by, old man. If you don't
come back, why, you know your grave'll be kept green." And the men
going out would grin and say, "That's all right, boy, but if she goes,
she'll go with every rag on her," in a half-joking way, too, but it
was the belief that morning that there might be a whole lot of truth
in that kind of joking.

Before we reached the dock we knew that the whole town had learned
pretty much that half a dozen of the skippers had promised each other
in Mrs. Arkell's kitchen the night before, "No sail comes off except
what's blown off," and there promised to be some blown off. Men who
had only just heard their skippers speak of that were bragging of it
in the streets. "Why," said one of O'Donnell's crew as we were coming
down the dock, "if any crawly-spined crawfish loses his nerve and
jumps to our halyards, thinkin' the Colleen's going to capsize--why,
he'll get fooled--and why? Because our halyards are all housed
aloft--by the skipper's orders."

That sounded strong, but it was true. When we reached the end of our
dock we looked for ourselves, and there it was. The Colleen's crew had
hoisted their mains'l already and there she lay swayed up and all
ready, and men aloft were even then putting the seizing on. Tom
O'Donnell himself was pointing it out to Sam Hollis with a good deal
of glee, thinking, I suppose, to worry Hollis, who, to uphold his
reputation, would have to do the same and take the chances that went
with it. By this time everybody knew that Hollis had put his ballast
back during the night. One of Wesley Marrs's men jumped onto the
Withrow and below and had a look for himself. He couldn't get down by
way of the hatches--they were battened down--but he dropped into the
forec's'le and, before anybody knew what he was up to, he had slipped
through the forehold and into the mainhold and there he saw where they
had hurriedly put back the flooring, and he also saw extra barrels of
sand tiered low for further stiffening of the Withrow. He was
discovered before he got on deck and nearly beaten to a jelly before
he got up on the wharf again. It ended in a fine little riot with some
of our gang and O'Donnell's mixing in. Clancy came down the back-stay
like a man falling from the mast-head, so as to be into it before it
was over. He was almost too late--but not quite. Only old Mr. Duncan
coming along with half a dozen other dignified owners stopped it. But
there was time for Clancy to speak his mind out to Sam Hollis. And
that gave Hollis a chance to say, "Well, talk away, Tommie Clancy, but
this is the day I make the Johnnie Duncan take in sail." And Clancy
answered him, "That so! Well, no matter what happens, put this down,
Maurice Blake hangs to his canvas longer than Sam Hollis to-day--hangs
to it or goes over with it or the spars come out of the Johnnie
Duncan."

After the talking was over we thought Hollis would be shamed into
sending a man aloft to mouse his halyards too. But not for Hollis.
That was a little too much for him. Clancy and three or four others
finished attending to our own halyards and overhauling the gear aloft.
Our mains'l was already hoisted and the other three lowers with stops
loosed were all ready to hoist too. The mains'l had been left standing
just as it was when the Johnnie Duncan came in that morning. It was
flat as a board, and I remember how grieved we were when we had to
lower it again because the tug that came to give us a kick out from
the dock could not turn us around with it up--it was blowing so. The
tug captain said he might manage to turn it against the sun, but that
would be bad luck of course, and he knew the crew wouldn't stand for
it, especially with a race like this on hand. It had to be with the
sun; and so we had to lower it again, and when the vessel was turned
around, hoist it again, not forgetting to lash the halyards aloft
again too. But after we'd got it swayed up it didn't set near so well
as before--too baggy to our way of thinking.




XXXI

THE START OF THE RACE


We got away at last and beat out the harbor with the Lucy Foster, the
Colleen Bawn, the Withrow, the Nannie O, and four others. For other
company going out there was a big steam-yacht with Minnie Arkell and
her friends aboard, which did not get out of the harbor. Out by the
Point they shipped a sea and put back, with Minnie Arkell waving her
handkerchief and singing out--"Don't take in any sail, Maurice," as
they turned back. There was also the Eastern Point, a high-sided
stubby steamer, at that time running regularly to Boston; and there
was the New Rochelle, a weak-looking excursioner that might have done
for Long Island Sound, where somebody said she'd just come from, but
which didn't seem to fit in here. Her passengers were mostly
fishermen--crews of vessels not in the race. There was also a big
powerful iron sea-tug, the Tocsin, that promised to make better
weather of it than any of the others.

Billie Simms was one of the men who were not going in the race but
intended to see some of it. He was in the Henry Clay Parker, a
fine-looking vessel that was not so very fast, but had the reputation
of being wonderfully stiff. Coming out past Eastern Point lighthouse,
where he could begin to get a look at things, Billie hollered out that
he was sorry he hadn't entered. "Looks to me like the vessel that'll
stay right side up the longest ought to win this race, and that's the
Henry C." He hauled her across our stern while he was yelling and I
remember she took one roll down to her sheer poles when passing on,
and Maurice sang out, "Look out, Billie, or you'll capsize her."

"Capsize this one? Lord, Maurice, I've tried it a dozen times and I'm
damned if I could," and he went rolling on like nothing I ever saw,
unless it was the rest of us who were then manoeuvring for the start.
We passed the Parker again before we got to the line, and old Peter
Hines, who was hanging to her main-rigging, had to yell us his good
wishes. "Drive her, Maurice-boy, and whatever you do don't let the man
that took your vessel from you beat you home," meaning Sam Hollis of
course. Maurice waved his hand, but said nothing. He was looking
serious enough, however.

Tommie Clancy was the boy who wasn't worrying particularly. He saluted
Peter as if he were going out on a holiday excursion. "Ain't she a
dog, Peter? Watch her."

"That's what she is--and drive her, Tommie--drive her."

"Oh, we'll drive her, Peter," called back Tommie, and began:

    "Oh, I love old Ocean's smile,
      I love old Ocean's frowning--
    I love old Ocean all the while,
      My prayer's for death by drowning."

"Let you alone, Tommie, and you'll get your prayer some day," was
Peter's last hail as we straightened out for the swoop across the
line.

Clancy was to the wheel then with the skipper. Both were lashed and we
had life-lines around deck. To the wheel of every vessel in the fleet
were two men lashed, and they all had life-lines around deck.

In crossing the line there was no attempt at jockeying such as one
often sees in yacht racing. There was no disposition on the part of
any skipper to do anything that would set anybody else back. Of
course, everybody wanted to be in a good berth and to cross between
the guns; but the idea was to give the vessels such a try out as they
would get out to sea--as if they were making a passage in a breeze.
The course--forty-two miles or so--was very short for a fisherman,
for one great thing in a fisherman is her power to stand a long drag.
Day and night in and day and night out and driving all the time is the
way a fisherman wants it. Any sort of racing machine could be built to
stand a little hard going for a while. But that wouldn't be living
through a long hard winter's gale on the Banks--one of those blows
where wind and sea--and in shoal water at that--have a chance to do
their worst. Fishermen are built for that sort of work and on their
sea-worthiness depends not only the fortunes of owners but the lives
of men--of real men--and the happiness and comfort of wives and
children ashore. And so the idea in everybody's mind that day was to
make this test as nearly fair as could be and see who had the fastest
and most weatherly boat in the fleet. There were men to the wheel that
day who could handle big fishermen as if they were cat-boats, who
would have dared and did, later, dare to sail their vessels as close
to a mark in this sea as men sail a twenty-foot knockabout in the
smoothest of waters inshore--only with the fishermen a slip-up meant
the loss of a vessel, maybe other vessels too, and twenty-five or
fifty lives perhaps.

And so the skill of these men was not used to give anybody the worst
of it. A fair start and give everybody his chance was the idea. Thus
Tommie Ohlsen could have forced the Withrow outside the starting boat
and compelled her to come about and maybe lose a few minutes, but he
did not. He held up and let her squeeze through. O'Donnell in his turn
could have crowded Ohlsen when he let up on the Withrow, but he did
not. He, too, held up in turn and let Ohlsen have his swing going
across.

Across we went, one after the other. West-sou'west was the course to a
stake-boat, which we were told would be found off Egg Rock, fourteen
miles away. We had only the compass to go by, for at the start it was
rain and drizzle, as well as wind and a big sea, and you couldn't see
a mile ahead. On the way we shot by the New Rochelle, which had
started ahead with the intention of waiting for the fleet at the first
stake-boat. Now she was headed back, wabbing awfully. From Billie
Simms, who went over part of the course in the Henry Clay Parker ahead
of the fleet, we got word of the trouble as we went by. The New
Rochelle was beginning to leak. "You c'n spit between her deck-planks
and into her hold--she's that loose," hollered Billie. I don't think
the fishermen aboard of her minded much so long as she stayed afloat,
but her captain, a properly licensed man, did, I expect, and so she
put back with some of them growling, I heard afterward, "and after
paying their little old three dollars to see only the start of the
race." Her captain reported, when he got in, that he didn't see
anything outside but a lot of foolish fishermen trying to drown
themselves.

The first leg was before the wind and the Lucy Foster and the Colleen
Bawn went it like bullets. I don't expect ever again to see vessels
run faster than they did that morning. On some of those tough passages
from the Banks fishing vessels may at times have gone faster than
either of these did that morning. It is likely, for where a lot of
able vessels are all the time trying to make fast passages--skippers
who are not afraid to carry sail and vessels that can stand the
dragging--and in all kinds of chances--there must in the course of
years of trying be some hours when they do get over an everlasting lot
of water. But there are no means of checking up. Half the time the men
do not haul the log for half a day or more. Some of the reports of
speed of fishermen at odd times have been beyond all records, and so
people who do not know said they must be impossible. But here was a
measured course and properly anchored stake-boats--and the Lucy and
the Colleen did that first leg of almost fourteen sea-miles in fifty
minutes, which is better than a 16-1/2 knot clip, and that means over
nineteen land miles an hour. I think anybody would call that pretty
fast going. And, as some of them said afterward, "Lord in Heaven!
suppose we'd had smooth water!" But I don't think that the sea checked
them so very much--not as much as one might think, for they were
driving these vessels.




XXXII

O'DONNELL CARRIES AWAY BOTH MASTS


We were next to the last vessel across the starting line. The Nannie
O--we couldn't see them all--about held the Lucy Foster and the
Colleen Bawn level. The Withrow showed herself to be a wonderful
vessel off the wind, too. Wesley Marrs was around the stake-boat
first. In the fog and drizzle the leaders did not find the stake-boat
at once. Wesley happening to be nearest to it when they did see it,
got the benefit and was first around. We were close up, almost near
enough to board the Withrow's quarter rounding. I am not sure that the
skipper and Clancy, who were to the wheel, did not try to give Hollis
a poke with the end of our long bowsprit; but if they did, the Johnnie
was not quite fast enough for that. The Withrow beat us around.
Looking back we could see the others coming like wild horses. Every
one of them, except one that carried away something and hauled up and
out of it, was diving into it to the foremast with every leap the same
as we had been. On that first leg nobody could stand anywhere for'ard
of the fore-hatch or he would have been swept overboard.

Leaving Egg Rock and going for Minot's Ledge, the skipper left the
wheel and George Nelson took his place beside Clancy. It was drizzling
then, every now and then that settling down so that we couldn't see
three lengths ahead. At such times we simply hoped that nobody ahead
would carry away anything or in any way become disabled in the road.

Well clear of the stake-boat, however, it lifted and we could see what
we were doing. The Lucy Foster was still ahead with O'Donnell and
Ohlsen and Hollis almost abreast--no more than a few lengths between.
Practically they were all about just as they started. We were next. It
was a broad reach to Minot's Ledge and hard going for all hands. It
must be remembered that we all had everything on, even to balloon and
staysails, and our halyards were lashed aloft. The men to the
mast-head, who were up there to shift tacks, were having a sweet time
of it hanging on, even lashed though they were.

Everybody was pretty well strung up at this time. The skipper, a line
about his elbow, was hooked up to the main-rigging--the weather side,
of course--and it was up to a man's waist and boiling white on the lee
side. The crew were snug up under the weather rail and hanging on--no
mistake either about the way they were hanging on. Every once in
awhile one of us would poke his head up to see what they were doing to
windward of us. Mr. Duncan, who had come aboard just before we left
the dock, was trying to sit on the weather bitt near the wheel-box. He
had a line around his waist, too. He had bet a lot of money with
Withrow on the race, but I don't think that his money was worrying him
half so much as some other things then.

So far as we could see at this time we were making as good weather as
any of them. And our best chance--the beat home--was yet to come. The
Johnnie had the stiffness for that. Had the Johnnie reached Gloucester
from the Cape Shore earlier she, too, would have been lightened up and
made less stiff. To be sure she would have had her bottom scrubbed and
we would have had her up to racing pitch, with every bit of sail just
so and her trim gauged to a hair's depth, but that did not matter so
very much now. The Johnnie was in shape for a hard drag like this, and
for that we had to thank the tricky Sam Hollis. We began to see that
after all it was a bit of good luck our vessel not being home in time
to tune up the same as the rest of the fleet.

It was along about here--half-way on the reach to Minot's--that
Tommie Ohlsen broke his main-gaff. It was the fault of the Eastern
Point, the Boston steamer. She had gone ahead of the fleet, taking
almost a straight course for Minot's Ledge. Reaching across from
Half-Way Rock to Minot's the fleet began to overhaul her. She, making
bad weather of it along here, started to turn around. But, rolling to
her top-rail, it was too much for them, and her captain kept her
straight on for Boston. That was all right, but her action threw
Ohlsen off. She was right in the Nannie O's way, and to save the
steamer and themselves from a collision and certain loss of life,
Ohlsen had to jibe the Nannie O, and so suddenly that the Nannie O's
gaff broke under the strain. And that lost Ohlsen his chance for the
race. It was too bad, for with Ohlsen, Marrs, and O'Donnell, each in
his own vessel in a breeze, you could put the names in a hat and shake
them up. When we went by the Nannie O her crew were getting the
trysail out of the hold, and they finished the race with that, and
made good going of it, as we saw afterward. Indeed, a trysail that day
would have been sail enough for almost any men but these.

Before we reached Minot's there was some sail went into the air. One
after the other went the balloons--on the Foster, the Colleen, the
Withrow and at last on us. I don't know whether they had any trouble
on the others--being too busy with our own to watch--but we came near
to losing men with ours. It got caught under our keel, and we started
to try to haul it in--the skipper having an economical notion of
saving the owner the expense of a new sail, I suppose. But Mr. Duncan,
seeing what he was at, sang out: "Let the sail go to the devil,
Captain--I'll pay for the new one myself." Even at that we had to
crawl out on the bowsprit--six or eight of us--with sharp knives, and
cut it away, and we were glad to get back again. The Johnnie never
slackened. It was desperate work.

Rounding Minot's, Tom O'Donnell gave an exhibition of desperate
seamanship. He had made up his mind, it seems, that he was due to pass
Wesley Marrs along here. But first he had to get by the Withrow. Off
Minot's was the turning buoy, with just room, as it was considered,
for one vessel at a time to pass safely in that sea.

O'Donnell figured that the tide being high there was easily room for
two, and then breasted up to the Withrow, outside of her and with the
rocks just under his quarter. Hollis, seeing him come, made a motion
as if to force him on the rocks, but O'Donnell, standing to his own
wheel, called out--"You do, Sam Hollis, and we'll both go." There
certainly would have been a collision, with both vessels and both
crews--fifty men--very likely lost, but Hollis weakened and kept off.
That kind of work was too strong for him. He had so little room that
his main-boom hit the can-buoy as he swept by.

Once well around O'Donnell, in great humor, and courting death, worked
by Hollis and then, making ready to tack and pass Wesley's bow, let
the Colleen have her swing, but with all that sail on and in that
breeze, there could be only one outcome. And yet he might have got
away with it but for his new foremast, which, as he had feared, had
not the strength it should have had. He let her go, never stopped to
haul in his sheets--he had not time to if he was to cross Wesley's
bow. So he swung her and the full force of the wind getting her laid
both spars over the side--first one and then the other clean as could
be.

Hollis never stopped or made a motion to help, but kept on after the
Lucy Foster. We almost ran over O'Donnell, but luffed in time, and the
skipper called out to O'Donnell that we'd stand by and take his men
off.

O'Donnell was swearing everything blue. "Go on--go on--don't mind me.
Go on, I tell you. We're all right. I'll have her under jury rig and
be home for supper. Go on, Maurice--go on and beat that divil
Hollis!"

Half way to Eastern Point on the way back saw us in the wake of the
Withrow, which was then almost up with the Lucy Foster. It was the
beat home now, with all of us looking to see the Withrow do great
things, for just off the ways and with all her ballast in she was in
great trim for it. Going to windward, too, was generally held to be
her best point of sailing. All that Hollis had to do was to keep his
nerve and drive her.




XXXIII

THE ABLE JOHNNIE DUNCAN


Hollis was certainly driving her now. He ought to have felt safe in
doing so with the Lucy Foster to go by, for the Lucy, by reason of the
ballast taken out of her, should, everything else being equal, capsize
before the Withrow.

Hollis must have had that in mind, for he followed Wesley Marrs's
every move. Wesley was sailing her wide. And our skipper approved of
that, too. To attempt a too close course in the sea that was out in
the Bay that day, with the blasts of wind that were sweeping down,
would have deadened her way altogether too much--maybe hung her up.
And so it was "Keep her a full whatever you do," and that, with coming
about when the others did--we being afraid to split tacks--made plenty
of work for us.

"Hard-a-lee" it was one after the other, and for every "Hard-a-lee"
twenty of us went down into the roaring sea fore and aft and hauled in
and slackened away sheets, while aloft, the fellows lashed to the
foremast head shifted top and staysail tacks. They were wise to lash
themselves up aloft, for with every tack, she rolled down into it as
if she were never coming up, and when she did come up shook herself as
if she would snap her topmasts off.

Half way to Eastern Point on the beat home it seemed to occur to the
skipper and to Clancy that the Johnnie Duncan stood a chance to win
the race. It was Clancy, still lashed to the wheel, now with Long
Steve, turned his head for just a second to Mr. Duncan and spoke the
first word of it.

"Mr. Duncan, do you know, but the Johnnie's got a chance to win this
race?"

"D'y'think so, Tommie--d'y'think so?"

Some of us in the crew had been thinking of that same thing some time,
and we watched Mr. Duncan, who, with a life line about him, was
clinging to a bitt aft, and watching things with tight lips, a drawn
face and shiny eyes. We listened to hear what else he might have to
say. But he didn't realize at once what it meant. His eyes and his
mind were on the Lucy Foster.

"What d'y'think of the Lucy and the Withrow, Tommie?" Mr. Duncan said
next.

Tommie took a fresh look at the Lucy Foster, which was certainly doing
stunts. It was along this time that big Jim Murch--a tall man, but
even so, he was no more than six feet four, and the Lucy twenty-four
feet beam--was swinging from the ring-bolts under the windward rail
and throwing his feet out trying to touch with his heels the sea that
was swashing up on the Lucy's deck. And every once in a while he did
touch, for the Lucy, feeling the need of her ballast, was making
pretty heavy weather of it. Every time she rolled and her sheer poles
went under, Jim would holler out that he'd touched again.

We could hear him over on the Johnnie at times. Mr. Duncan, who
believed that nothing ever built could beat the Lucy Foster, began to
worry at that, and again he spoke to Clancy. He had to holler to make
himself heard.

"But what do you think of the Lucy's chances, Tommie?"

Clancy shook his head.

And getting nothing out of Clancy, Mr. Duncan called out then: "What
do you think of the Lucy, you, Captain Blake?"

The skipper shook his head, too. "I'm afraid it's too much for her."

And then--one elbow was hitched in the weather rigging and a half
hitch around his waist--the skipper swung around, and looking over to
the Withrow, he went on:

"I don't see, Mr. Duncan, why we don't stand a pretty good chance to
win out on Hollis."

"Why not--why not--if anything happens to the Lucy."

It jarred us some to think that even there, in spite of the great race
the Johnnie was making of it, she was still, in the old man's eyes,
only a second string to the Lucy Foster.

About then the wind seemed to come harder than ever, but Clancy at the
wheel never let up on the Johnnie. He socked it to her--wide and free
he sailed her. Kept her going--oh, but he kept her going. "If this one
only had a clean bottom and a chance to tune her up before going out,"
said somebody, and we all said, "Oh, if she only had--just half a day
on the railway before this race."

We were fairly buried at times on the Johnnie--on the Lucy Foster it
must have been tough. And along here the staysail came off the Withrow
and eased her a lot. We would all have been better off with less sail
along about that time. In proof of that we could see back behind us
where the Nannie O, under her trysail, was almost holding her own. But
it wouldn't do to take it off. Had they not all said before putting
off that morning that what sail came off that day would be blown
off?--yes, sir--let it blow a hundred miles an hour. And fishermen's
pride was keeping sail on us and the Foster. Hollis tried to make it
look that his staysail blew off, but we knew better--a knife to the
halyards did the work.

It was after her big staysail was off and she making easier weather of
it that the Withrow crossed the Lucy's bow for the first time in the
race and took the lead.

We all felt for Mr. Duncan, who couldn't seem to believe his eyes. We
all felt for Wesley, too, who was desperately trying to hold the wind
of the Withrow--he had even rigged blocks to his jib sheets and led
them to cleats clear aft to flatten his headsails yet more. And
Wesley's crew hauled like demons on those jib sheets--hauled and
hauled with the vessel under way all the time--hauled so hard, in
fact, that with the extra purchase given them by the blocks they
pulled the cleats clean out, and away went the Lucy's jib and
jumbo--and there was Wesley hung up. And out of the race, for we were
all too near the finish for her to win out then unless the Johnnie and
the Withrow capsized entirely.

Mr. Duncan, when he saw the Lucy's crew trying to save the headsails,
couldn't contain himself.

"Cut 'em away--cut 'em to hell!" he sang out, and we all had to smile,
he spoke so excitedly. But it was no use. The Lucy was out of the
race, and going by her, we didn't look at Mr. Duncan nor Wesley
Marrs--we knew they were both taking it hard--but watched the
Withrow.

Over on the other tack we went, first the Withrow, then the Johnnie.
We were nearing the finish line, and we were pretty well worked
up--the awful squalls were swooping down and burying us. We could hear
Hollis's voice and see his crew go up when he warned his men at the
wheel to ease up on her when the squalls hit. On our vessel the
skipper never waved an arm nor opened his mouth to Clancy at the
wheel. And of his own accord you may be sure that Clancy wasn't easing
up. Not Tommie Clancy--no, sir--he just drove her--let her have it
full--lashed her like, with his teeth and eyes flashing through the
sea that was swashing over him. And the Johnnie fairly sizzled through
the water.

There were several times in the race when we thought the going was as
bad as could be, but now we were all sure that this was the worst of
all. There was some excuse for Mr. Duncan when he called out:

"My God, Tommie, but if she makes one of those low dives again, will
she ever come up?"

"I dunno," said Clancy to that. "But don't you worry, Mr. Duncan, if
any vessel out of Gloucester'll come up, this one'll come up."

He was standing with the water, the clear water, not the swash, well
up to his waist then, and we could hear him:

    "Oh, I love old Ocean's smile,
       I love old Ocean's frowning--
     I love old Ocean all the while,
       My prayer's for death by drowning."

That was too much for Mr. Duncan, and, watching his chance, he dove
between the house and rail, to the weather rigging, where the skipper
grabbed him and made him fast beside himself. The old man took a look
down the slant of the deck and took a fresh hold of the rigging.

"Captain Blake, isn't she down pretty low?"

"Maybe--maybe--Mr. Duncan, but she'll go lower yet before the sail
comes off her. This is the day Sam Hollis was going to make me take in
sail."

Less than a minute after that we made our rush for the line. Hollis
tried to crowd us outside the stake-boat, which was rolling head to
wind and sea, worse than a lightship in a surf gale--tried to crowd us
out just as an awful squall swooped down. It was the Johnnie or the
Withrow then. We took it full and they didn't, and there is all there
was to it. But for a minute it was either vessel's race. At the
critical time Sam Hollis didn't have the nerve, and the skipper and
Clancy did.

They looked at each other--the skipper and Clancy--and Clancy soaked
her. Held to it cruelly--recklessly. It was too much to ask of a
vessel. Down she went--buried. It was heaven or hell, as they say, for
a while. I know I climbed on to her weather run, and it was from there
I saw Withrow ducking her head to it--hove to, in fact, for the blast
to pass.

The Johnnie weathered it. Able--able. Up she rose, a horse, and across
the line we shot like a bullet, and so close to the judge's boat that
we could have jumped aboard.

We all but hit the Henry Clay Parker, Billie Simms's vessel, on the
other side of the line, and it was on her that old Peter of Crow's
Nest, leaping into the air and cracking his heels together, called out
as we drove by:

"The Johnnie Duncan wins--the able Johnnie Duncan--sailin' across the
line on her side and her crew sittin' out on the keel."




XXXIV

MINNIE ARKELL ONCE MORE


We were hardly across the line when there was a broom at our truck--a
new broom that I know I, for one, never saw before. And yet I suppose
every vessel that sailed in the race that day had a new broom hid away
somewhere below--to be handy if needed.

But it was the Johnnie Duncan, sailing up the harbor, that carried
hers to the truck. And it was Mr. Duncan who stood aft of her and took
most of the cheers, and it was Clancy and Long Steve who waved their
hands from the wheel-box, and it was the skipper who leaned against
the weather rigging, and the rest of us who lined the weather rail and
answered the foolish questions of people along the road.

Every vessel we met seemed to think we had done something great; and I
suppose we had in a way--that is, skipper, crew and vessel. We had
out-carried and out-sailed the best out of Gloucester in a breeze that
was a breeze. We had taken the chance of being capsized or hove-down
and losing the vessel and ourselves. Mr. Duncan, I think, realized
more than anybody else at the time what we had been through. "I didn't
know what it really was to be," he said, "before I started. If I had,
I doubt very much if I'd have started." We all said--"No, no, you'd
have gone just the same, Mr. Duncan;" and we believed he would, too.

Going up the harbor somebody hinted to Clancy that he ought to go and
have a mug-up for himself after his hard work--and it had been hard
work. "And I'll take your place at the wheel," said that somebody,
"for you must be tired, Tommie."

"And maybe I am tired, too," answered Clancy, "but if I am, I'm just
thick enough not to know it. But don't fool yourself that if I stood
lashed to this wheel since she crossed the starting line this morning
I'm going to quit it now and let you take her up the harbor and get
all the bouquets. I'll have a mug-up by and by, and it'll be a mug-up,
don't you worry."

And it was a mug-up. He took the gold and silver cup given to Maurice
as a skipper of the winning vessel, and with the crew in his wake
headed a course for the Anchorage, where he filled it till it
flowed--and didn't have to pay for filling it, either.

"It's the swellest growler that I ever expect to empty. Gold and
silver--and holds six quarts level. Just a little touch all round,
and we'll fill her up again. 'Carte blanche, and charge it to me,'
says Mr. Duncan."

"What kind is carte blanche, Tommie?" asked Andie Howe.

"They'll tell you behind the bar," said Clancy.

"Billie," ordered Andie, "just a little touch of carte blanche, will
you, while Clancy's talking. He's the slowest man to begin that ever I
see. Speeches--speeches--speeches, when your throat's full of
gurry--dry, salty gurry. A little touch of that carte blanche that Mr.
Duncan ordered for the crew of the Johnnie Duncan, Billie, will you?"

"Carte blanche--yes," went on Clancy, "and I callate the old fizzy
stuff's the thing to do justice to this fe-lic-i-tous oc-ca-sion. Do I
hear the voice of my shipmates? Aye, aye, I hear them--and in accents
unmistakable. Well, here's a shoot--six quarts level--and a few pieces
of ice floating around on top. My soul, but don't it look fine and
rich? Have a look, everybody."

"Let's have a drink instead," hollered Parsons.

Clancy paid no attention to that. "Who was the lad in that Greek bunch
in the old days that they sank up to his neck in the lake--cold
sparkling water--and peaches and oranges and grapes floating on a
little raft close by--but him fixed so he couldn't bend his head down
to get a drink nor lift his head to take a bite of fruit--and hot
weather all the time, mind you. Lord, the thirst he raised after a
while! What was his--oh, yes, Tantalus--that's the lad, Tantalus--the
cold sparkling water. Man, the thirst he----"

"The thirst of Tantalus ain't a patch on the thirst I got. And this is
something better than cold sparkling water. That's you all over,
Tommie--joking at serious times," wailed Parsons.

"Is it as bad as that with you, Eddie? Well, let's forget Tantalus and
drink instead to the able-est, handsom-est, fast-est vessel that ever
weathered Eastern Point--to the Johnnie Duncan--and her skipper."

"And Mr. Duncan, Tommie--he's all right, too."

"Yes, of course, Mr. Duncan. And while we're at it, here's to the
whole blessed gang of us--skipper, owner and crew--we're all
corkers."

"Drive her, Tommie!" roared a dozen voices, and Tommie drove her for a
good pint before he set the cup down again.

It was a great celebration altogether. Wherever one of our gang was
there was an admiring crowd. Nobody but us was listened to. And the
questions we had to answer! And of course we were all willing enough
to talk. We must have told the story of the race over about twenty
times each. After a while, of course, some of our fellows, with all
the entertaining and admiration that was handed out to them, had to
put a touch or two to it. It was strong enough to tell the bare facts
of that race, I thought, but one or two had to give their imaginations
a chance. One man, a fisherman, one of those who had been on one of
the excursion boats, and so didn't see the race at all, came along
about two hours after the Duncan crew struck the Anchorage and
listened to Andie Howe for a while. And going away it was he who said,
"It must have been a race that. As near as I c'n make it out the
Johnnie sailed most of that race keel up."

"Oh, don't go away mad," Andie called after him. "Come back and have a
little touch of carte blanche--it's on the old man."

"I'll take it for him," came a voice. It was old Peter of Crow's Nest,
who took his drink and asked for Clancy. Clancy was in the back part
of the room, and I ran and got him. Peter led the way to the
sidewalk.

"Tommie, go and get Maurice, if it ain't too late."

"What is it?"

"It's Minnie Arkell. Coming up the dock after the race she ran up and
grabbed him and threw her arms about his neck. 'You're the man to sail
a race in heavy weather,' she hollers, and a hundred people looking
on. And there's half a dozen of those friends of hers and they're up
to her house and now making ready for a wine celebration. Go and get
him before it is too late."




XXXV

CLANCY LAYS DOWN THE LAW


Clancy started on the run and I after him. "We'll go to his
boarding-house first, Joe, and if he's not there, to Minnie
Arkell's."

He wasn't in his boarding-house, and we hurried out. On the sidewalk
we almost ran into little Johnnie Duncan.

"Oh, Captain Clancy--or you, Joe Buckley--won't you tell me about the
race? Grandpa was too busy to tell me, but went down the wharf with a
lot of people to show them the Johnnie Duncan. They all left the
office and told me to mind it. And my cousin Alice came in with Joe's
cousin Nell. And I saw Captain Blake with some people and ran after
him and I just caught up with him and they went off and left me. And
then a little while ago he came back by himself and ran toward the
dock and didn't even see me. And Captain Blake used to be so good to
me!" Poor Johnnie was all but crying.

"Toward the dock? That's good," breathed Clancy. "Stay here, Johnnie,
and we'll tell you about the race when we get back," and led the way
to Mr. Duncan's office.

We found the skipper in the outer office, standing beside the
bookkeeper's desk and looking out of the window next the slip. Hearing
us coming he turned and then we saw that he held in his hands an open
box with a string of beautiful pearls. Noticing us gaze at the pearls
in surprise, he said, "Mr. Duncan gave me these for winning the race.
And I took them, thinking that somebody or other might like them."

"And don't she?" asked Clancy--it seemed to slip out of Tommie without
his knowing it.

"I guess not," said Maurice. Only then did it flash on me what it all
might mean.

"Did you try?" asked Clancy.

"Try! Yes, and was made a fool of. Oh, what's the use--what in
hell's the use?" He stood silent a moment. "I guess not," he said
then--looked out the window again, and hove the whole string out
of the open window and into the slip.

Clancy and myself both jumped to stop him, but we weren't quick
enough. They were gone--the whole beautiful necklace. The skipper
fixed his eyes on where they had struck the water. Then he turned and
left the office. At the door he stopped and said: "I don't know--maybe
I won't take the Johnnie next trip, and if I don't, Tommie, I hope
you'll take her--Mr. Duncan will let you have her if you want. I hope
you'll take her anyway, for you know what a vessel she is. You'll take
care of her--" and went and left us.

Clancy swore to himself for a while. He hadn't quite done when the
door of the rear office opened and Miss Foster herself came out. She
greeted me sweetly--she always did--but was going out without paying
any attention to Clancy. She looked pale--although perhaps I would not
have noticed her paleness particularly only for what had just
happened.

I was surprised to see then what Clancy did. Before she had got to the
door he was beside her.

"Miss Foster, Miss Foster," he said, and his tone was so different
from what I had ever heard from him before that I could hardly believe
it. He was a big man, it must be remembered, and still on him were the
double-banked oilskins and heavy jack-boots he wore through the race.
Also his face was flushed from the excitement of the day--the salt
water was not yet dry on him and his eyes were shining, shining not
alone with the glow of a man who had been lashed to a wheel steering a
vessel in a gale--and, too, to victory--for hours, and not alone with
the light that comes from two or three quarts of champagne--it was
something more than that. Whatever it was it surprised me and held
Alice Foster's attention.

"Mister Clancy," she said, and turned to him.

"Yes, Mister Clancy--or Tommie Clancy--or Captain Clancy, as
it is at times--master of an odd vessel now and again--but
Clancy all the time--just Clancy, good-for-nothing Clancy--hard
drinker--reveller--night-owl--disturber of the peace--at best
only a fisherman who'll by and by go out and get lost like
thousands of the other fishermen before him--as a hundred every
year do now and have three lines in the paper--name, age,
birthplace, street and number of his boarding-house, and that
will be the end of it. But that don't matter--Tommie Clancy,
whatever he is, is a friend of Maurice Blake's. And he means
to speak a word for Maurice.

"For a long time now, Miss Foster, Maurice has thought the world of
you. He never told me--he never told anybody. But I know him. He
waited a long time, I'm sure, before he even told himself--maybe even
before he knew it himself. But I knew it--bunk-mates, watch-mates,
dory-mates we've been. He's master of a fine vessel now and I'm one of
his crew. He's gone ahead and I've stayed behind. Why? Because he's
carried in his heart the picture of a girl he thought could be all a
woman ought to be to a man. And that was well A man like Maurice
needs that, and maybe--maybe--you're all that he thought and more
maybe, Miss Foster. Wait--he had that picture before his eyes all the
time. I hadn't any picture. Years ago, when I was Maurice's age, I
might have had something like it, and now look at me. And why? Why,
Miss Foster, you're a woman--could you guess? No? Think. What's
running in a man's head, do you think, in the long winter nights when
he's walking the deck, with the high heavens above and the great,
black rolling sea around him? What's in his head when, trawls hauled
and his fish aboard, when the danger and the hard work are mostly by,
his vessel's going to the west'ard? What when he's an hour to rest and
he's lying, smoking and thinking, in his bunk? What's been in
Maurice's head and in his heart all the years he's loafed with the
likes of me and yet never fell to my level? Anything he ever read
anywhere, do you think, or was it a warm image that every time he came
ashore and was lucky enough to get a look at you he could see was true
to the woman it stood for? When you had no more idea of it than what
was going on at the North Pole he was watching you--and thinking of
you. Always thinking of you, Miss Foster. He never thought he had a
chance. I know him. Who asks a woman like you to share a fisherman's
life? Is it a man like Maurice? Sometimes--maybe with the blood
racing through him after a great race he might. A while ago he did,
Miss Foster. And what gave him the courage?

"Listen to me now, Miss Foster, and say what you please afterward.
Maurice and I are friends. Friends. I've been with him on the bottom
of a capsized dory when we both expected we'd hauled our last
trawl--with the seas washing over us and we both getting weak and him
getting black in the face--and maybe I was, too. I told you this once
before, but let me tell it again. 'Come and take the plug strap,
Tommie,' he says to me. 'Come and take the plug strap.' Do you know
what that means, Miss Foster?--and the seas sweeping over you and your
whole body getting numb? And I've been with him four days and four
nights--astray in the fog of the Western Banks in winter, and, for all
we knew and believed, we were gone. In times like those men get to
know each other, and I tell you, Miss Foster--" Clancy choked and
stopped. "To-day he sailed a race the like of which was never sailed
before. A dozen times he took the chance of himself going over the
rail. And why? The better to keep an eye on things and help his vessel
along? Yes. But why that? For that cup we've drowned a dozen times in
wine to-day? He never looked twice at it when he got ashore. He
hasn't seen it since he handed it to me on the dock. The boys might
like to look at it, he said. He's forgot he ever won it by now. He let
us take it up to a rum-shop and drink out of it the same as if it was
a tin-pail--the beautiful gold and silver cup--engraved. We used it
for a growler for all Maurice cared for the value of it, and there's
forty men walking the streets now that's got a list they got out of
that cup. We might have lost it, battered each other's drunken heads
in with it, and he wouldn't have said a dozen words about it. But
there was a necklace of pearls, and he thought you'd like them. 'To
you, Maurice, for winning the race,' says Mr. Duncan, 'for winning the
race,' and hands Maurice the pearls--your own guardian, Miss Foster,
and most crazy, he was that pleased. And that's what Maurice ran up to
get when the race was over--there was something a girl might like, or
thought so. And then what? On the way down a woman that I know--that
you know--tried to hold him up. Kissed him before a hundred
people--she knew you were waiting--she knew, trust a woman--and walked
down part way with him, because you were looking. And he being a man,
and weak, and only twenty-six--and the racing blood still running
through him--maybe forgot himself for five minutes--not knowing you
were within a mile. That doesn't excuse him? No, you're right, it
don't. But he, poor boy, knowing nothing--what does a boy of
twenty-six know?--knowing nothing--suspecting nothing--and yet, if he
forgot himself, he never really forgot you. He hurries on to you and
offers you the necklace that he risked his life to get. And you--what
did you say?"

"What did I say? I told him that perhaps he knew somebody that he'd
rather give it to before me----"

"Before you? There's a woman. You're not satisfied when a man fights
all the devil in himself for you, but you must rub it into him while
he's doing it. Maurice--or maybe you don't understand. You could say
things like that to a dog--if a dog could understand--and he'd come
back and lick your hand. Maurice has blood and fire in him. And here's
a woman--whatever else she is--is warm-blooded too. She wants Maurice,
and, by God, she'll get him if you keep on. Do you remember the night
of the Master Mariners' ball--the night before we sailed on the
Southern cruise? Well, that night this woman, she waits for Maurice
and stops him on his way home. But she didn't get him. He was up in
the wind for a minute or two, but one spoke of the wheel and he found
his head again. Again last June in Newport on a warm summer's
night--flowers, music, wine--the cabin of a beautiful yacht--she asks
him to wait over a day or two in Newport harbor. Does he? Does he? Not
Maurice. With never a touch of the wheel, off he swings and drives for
home. And why didn't he stay? Why, do you suppose? Didn't he tell you
a while ago? Good God! Look here--you're no fool. Look at me--ten
years ago I was another Maurice. And this woman--I tell you she knows
men. She don't care whether a man is rich or poor, tall or short, thin
or fat, so long as she likes him. And I tell you she loves Maurice--as
well as she can love--and she's not a good enough woman--there it is.
And they're all saying you're likely to marry Withrow. Wait now.
Withrow, I'm telling you, isn't fit to wash the gurry off Maurice's
jack-boots. I'm a careless man, Miss Foster, and in my life I've done
things I wish now I hadn't, but I draw the line above the head of a
man like Withrow. Whatever I am, I'm too good to be company for Fred
Withrow. And on top of all that he's so carried away with this other
woman--this same woman--and she caring more for Maurice's eyelash than
Withrow's whole two hundred and ten pounds--Withrow is so carried away
with her that he is ready to elope with her--elope with her! I know
that--never mind how. Bring Withrow and me together, and I'll tell
him--tell him, yes, and throw him through the door afterward if he
denies it. This woman is enough of a woman to want Maurice--Maurice
with nothing at all--before Withrow with all he's got and all he can
get her or give her--and she's clever enough to come pretty near
getting what she wants. And now, Miss Foster, suppose you think it
over. I'm going to hunt up Maurice, though I'm not too sure we'll find
him in a hurry. Good-by."

He swept his sou'wester wide to her and went out the door. I said
good-by without looking at her. I was too ashamed--and went after
Clancy. But I think she was crying to herself as I went out.




XXXVI

MAURICE BLAKE IS RECALLED


The morning after the race I was eating breakfast at home and I could
not remember when I enjoyed a meal like that one. I had had a fine
long sleep and the sleep that comes to a man after he's been through a
long and exciting experience does make him feel like a world-beater. I
felt that I could go out and about leap the length of a seine-boat or
rip up a plank sidewalk. It was worth while to be alive, and
everything tasted so good.

I had put away six fried eggs and about fourteen of those little
slices of bacon before I even thought of slacking up (with my mother
piling them up as fast as I lifted them off)--and maybe I wouldn't
have slacked then only my cousin Nell came skipping in.

She kissed my mother half a dozen times, and danced around the room.
"Four vessels off the Johnnie Duncan's model have already been
ordered. Four, auntie--four. There will be a fleet of them yet, you'll
see. And how are you, Joe?"

"Fine," I said, and kept on eating.

Nell didn't like my not noticing how glad she was feeling, I suppose,
for all at once, as I was about to sugar another cup of coffee, she
ran her hands through my hair and yanked till I couldn't pretend any
longer.

"There, now, with your mind off your stomach, perhaps you'll look up
and converse when a lady deigns to notice you. How much money did Mr.
Withrow lose on the race?"

"I don't know, but it was a good pile; I know that."

"And how much did Mr. Duncan win?"

"I don't know that, either; but I hope it was a good roll, for he won
about all Withrow lost."

"M-m--but aren't you in love with your old employer? But let's not
mind common money matters. What do you think of the Johnnie Duncan for
a vessel?"

"She's a dog--a dog."

"Isn't she! And the fastest, able-est and the handsomest vessel that
ever sailed past Eastern Point, isn't she?"

"That's what she is."

"And who designed her?"

"Who? Let me see. Oh, yes, some local man."

"You don't know! Look up here. Who designed her!"

"Oh, yes. 'Twas a Gloucester man."

"A Gloucester man? Look up again.
Now--who--de--signed--the--John--nie--Dun--can!"

"Ouch, yes. A ver-y fine and a-ble--and handsome gen-tle-man--a
wonderful man."

"That's a little better. And his name?"

"William Somers--William the Illustrious--William the First--'First in
war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of Gloucestermen'--and if
you let me stand up, I'll do a break-down to show you how glad I am."

"Now you're showing something like appreciation. And now where do you
suppose your friend Clancy is and your skipper?"

"Clancy? Lord knows. Maybe in a circle of admiring friends, singing
whatever is his latest. 'Hove flat down' was the last I heard. If it
was earlier in the day--about three in the morning--it would be pretty
sure to be that."

"What a pity, and he such a fine man otherwise!"

"What's a pity?"

"Why, his getting drunk, as I hear he does very often."

"Gets drunk? Who gets drunk? Clancy? That's news to me. As long as
I've known him I never saw him drunk yet. He gets mellow and
loose--but drunk! Clancy drunk? Why, Nell!"

"Oh, well, all right, he's an apostle of temperance then. But Captain
Blake--where is he?"

"I couldn't say--why?"

"I have a message for him."

"Did you try his boarding-house?"

"Yes. That is, Will did, and he wasn't there, hadn't been there at
all, they said, since the afternoon before."

"That so? Where else did you try? Duncan's office?"

"We did, and no word of him there."

"Try Clancy's boarding-house?"

"Yes, and no word."

"Try--h-m--the Anchorage?"

"Oh, Joe, you don't think he's been loafing there since?"

"No, I don't. And yet after the way he got turned down yesterday, you
know--there's no telling what a man might do."

"Well, Will looked in there, too."

"You fat little fox! Why didn't you say that at first? And no word?"

"No."

"Well, I don't know where he'd be then."

"Nor I, except--did you notice the wind has hauled to the northwest?"

"I did."

"Well. Do you know that old vessel that Mr. Withrow's been trying to
get a crew for--the Flamingo?"

"M-h-h."

"Well, this morning early she went out--on a hand-lining trip to the
east'ard, it is said. And Will says that he thinks--he doesn't know,
mind you, because they won't tell him anything down to Withrow's--but
he thinks that Maurice Blake's shipped in her."

"Wow! She won't last out one good breeze on the Banks."

"That is just what Will said. And it's too bad, for I had a message
for him--a message that would make everything all right. I suppose you
can guess?"

"Guess? H-m-m--I don't know as I want to."

"Well, don't get mad about it, anyway. How would you feel if you saw
that horrid Minnie Arkell rush up and--Oh, you know what I mean.
However, I've been pleading with Alice since yesterday afternoon. For
two hours I was up in her room last evening, and poor Will walking the
veranda down below. I put Captain Blake's case as I thought a friend
of his would put it--as you would put it, say--perhaps better in some
ways--for I could not forget that he sailed the Johnnie Duncan
yesterday, and her winning meant so much to Will. Yes, and I'm not
forgetting Clancy and the rest of her crew--indeed, I'm not--I felt as
though I could kiss every one of them."

"Well, here's one of them."

"Don't get saucy because your mother is standing by. Go and find
Maurice Blake. Go ahead, won't you, Joe? Tell him that everything is
all right. She is proud."

"That's a nice sounding word for it--pride. Stuck on herself is what
I'd say."

"No, she isn't. You must allow a woman self-respect, you know."

"I guess so. And it must be her long suit, seeing she's always leading
from it."

"Oh, keep your fishermen's jokes for the mugging-up times on your
vessel. You go and get Maurice Blake--or find Mr. Clancy and have him
get him--if he hasn't gone on the Flamingo."

So I went out. On a cruise along the water front I found a whole
lot of people. I saw Wesley Marrs and Tommie Ohlsen--sorrowful and
neither saying much--looking after their vessels--Ohlsen seeing to a
new gaff. "I ought to've lost," said Ohlsen. "Look at that for a
rotten piece of wood." Sam Hollis was around, too, trying to explain
how it was he didn't win the race. But he couldn't explain to
anybody's satisfaction how his stays'l went nor why he hove-to when
that squall struck him--the same squall that shot the Johnnie
Duncan across the line. Tom O'Donnell was there, looking down on the
deck of the vessel in which he took so much pride. "Two holes in
her deck where her spars ought to be," he was saying when I came
along. I asked him if he had seen Maurice that morning, and it was
from him I learned for certain that Maurice had shipped on the
Flamingo. "I didn't see her leaving, boy, but Withrow himself told
me this morning. 'And I hope he'll never come back,' he said at the
same time. ''Tis you that takes a licking hard. But maybe 'tis the
insurance,' I says. 'If that's what you're thinking,' says he, 'she
isn't insured.' 'Then it must be the divil's own repair she's in
when no company at all will insure her,' I says. Sure, we had hard
words over it, but that won't bring back Maurice--he's gone in the
Flamingo, Joe."

I went after Clancy then, and after a long chase, that took me to
Boston and back, I caught up with him. He was full of repentance and
was gloomy. It was up in his boarding-house--in his room. He, looking
tired, was thinking of taking a kink of sleep.

"Hulloh, Joe! And I don't wonder you look surprised, Joe. I must be
getting old. Thursday morning I got up after as fine a night's sleep
as a man'd want. That was Thursday. Then Thursday night, Friday,
Friday night, Saturday--two nights and three days, and I'm sleepy
already. Sleepy, Joe, and I remember the time I could go a whole week,
and then, after a good night's sleep, wake up fine and daisy and be
ready for another week. Joe, there's a moral in that if you can only
work it out."

Clancy stayed silent after that, not inclined to talk, I could see,
until I told him about Maurice having shipped in the Flamingo and the
hard crew that had gone in her.

That stirred him. "Great Lord, gone in that shoe-box! Why, Joe, I'd as
soon put to sea in a market basket calked with butter. And the man
that's got her--Dave Warner! He's crazy, Joe, if ever a man was crazy.
Clean out of his head over a girl that he met in Gloucester once, but
now living in Halifax, and she won't have anything to do with him.
He's daffy over her. If she was drowning alongside you'd curse your
luck because you had to gaff her in. That is, you would only she's a
woman, of course. Wants to get lost, Joe, I believe--wants to! If this
was Boston or New York and in older days, I'd say that Dave and
Withrow must have shanghaied a crew to man the Flamingo's kind. But
you c'n get men here to go in anything sometimes. Wait a bit and I'll
be along with you. We'll see old Duncan and maybe we c'n head the
Flamingo off."




XXXVII

THE GIRL IN CANSO


That was Saturday evening. The crew of the Johnnie had been told just
after the race by the skipper that he would not need them again until
Monday. Scattering on that, some going to Boston, they could not be
got together again until Monday morning, and it was not until Monday
noon that we got away.

We fitted out as though for a Cape Shore seining trip, and that's what
we were to do in case we missed the Flamingo or could not persuade her
skipper or Maurice himself that he ought to leave her and come back on
the Johnnie Duncan. It was Clancy who had the matter in charge.
Indeed, it was only Clancy who knew what it was really all about.

We had a good run-off before a stiff westerly that gradually hauled to
the north, and Tuesday night late saw us in Halifax Harbor. It was too
late to do anything that night, but Clancy went ashore to find out
what he could. Before sunrise he was back with word to break out the
anchor and put to sea. He had word of the Flamingo.

"That girl of Dave's--it seems she's moved to Canso with her folks,
and Dave's gone there. He's probably there before this--maybe left
again. She's an old plug, the Flamingo, but she ought've made Canso
before this. He only stayed a few hours here and left Monday."

It was bang, bang, bang all the way to Canso, with Clancy swearing at
Withrow and the Flamingo and Dave Warner and the girl in the case--one
after the other and sometimes all together. "Blast Withrow and that
crazy fool Dave Warner, too. And why in the devil couldn't her folks
stayed in Gloucester--or in Halifax, at least. They ought've put a few
sticks of dynamite in her and blown her to pieces ages ago. She's
forty years old if she's a day--her old planks rotten. They won't keep
her afloat over-night if they're out in this. Why d'y's'pose people
leave a good lively little city like Halifax to go to a place like
Canso? Why?"

Andie Howe happened to be within hearing, and "Maybe the rent's
cheaper," suggested Andie.

"Maybe it is--and maybe if you don't talk sense I'll heave you over
the rail some fine day. Better give her a grain more fore-sheet. Man,
but it's a wicked night."

We made Canso after the worst day and night we had had in the Johnnie
Duncan since she was launched. Outside Canso Harbor it looked bad. We
didn't think the skipper would try to enter the harbor that black
night, but he did. "Got to go in and get news," said Clancy, and in we
went. It was as black as could be--squalls sweeping down--and Canso is
not the easiest harbor in the world to make at night.

I went ashore with Clancy to hear what the young woman might have to
say. We found her in a place run by her father, a sort of lodging
house and "pub," with herself serving behind the bar--a bold-looking
young woman, not over-neat--and yet attractive in her way--good
figure, regular features, and good color. "There, Joe, if you brought
a girl like that home your mother would probably die of a broken
heart, but there's the kind that a foolish man like Dave Warner would
sell his soul for." Then Clancy explained while we were waiting for
her to see us privately, "I don't know if she'll remember me, but I
met her two or three times in Gloucester."

When she came in she recognized Clancy right away. "How do you do,
Captain Clancy?"

"How do you do, Miss Luce? My friend, Mr. Buckley. Now what we've come
for--but first, suppose we have a little something by way of
sociability. A little fizzy stuff, say, and some good cigars, Miss
Luce."

She brought the wine and the cigars. Clancy pulled the cork, filled
both glasses, pushed one glass toward the young woman and drew one to
himself.

"But, Captain, your friend hasn't any."

"My friend," said Clancy, "doesn't drink. The last thing the doctor
said to him before we came away was, 'Don't touch a drop of liquor or
your life will pay the forfeit.' You see, Miss Luce, he's been a
dissipated youth--drink--and having been dissipated and coming of
delicate people, it's affected his health."

"You don't tell me? I'm sure he doesn't look it."

"No, he don't--that's a fact. But so it is."

"Stomach?" she asked me.

"No--heart," answered Clancy for me. "What they call an aneurism. You
know what an aneurism is, of course?"

"Yes-yes--oh, yes----"

"Of course. Well, he's got one of them."

"That's too bad. So he only smokes instead?"

"That's all. Here, Joe, smoke up."

"My, I always thought smoking was bad for the heart."

"It is--for everything except aneurisms. Smoking's the death of
aneurisms. Have another cigar, Joe. And Miss Luce, shall we exchange a
health?"

"But I never drank anything in all my life."

"Of course not. But you will now, won't you? Consider the occasion and
I'm sure you won't let me drink alone. And I've come so far to see
you, too--only of course not--Well, here's to your good health, and
may you live long and----"

The rest of it was smothered in the gurgle. And nobody would ever
think to see the way she put down hers that Miss Luce had never had a
drink of wine before.

"And now, Miss Luce, may I ask how long it has been since your friend
Dave Warner left----"

"Oh-h--Dave Warner? He's no friend of mine."

"Isn't he? Well, he's no particular friend of mine, either. But a
friend of mine--of both of us, Joe here, too--is with Dave--Maurice
Blake. Any word of him?"

"Oh, yes. A good-looking fellow, nice eyes and hair and nice manners.
I do like to see refined manners in people. Now if it was him----"

"If it was him, you wouldn't have told him to go to sea and the devil
take him----"

"I'd have you know, Captain Clancy, I don't swear."

"Swear? You, Miss Luce? Dear me, whatever made you think I thought
that? But let's have another taste of wine. But of course you didn't
encourage Dave to stay ashore here?"

"Him?--I guess not. When he said he didn't care if he never came back,
I told him I was sure I didn't--and out he went."

"O woman, gentle woman," murmured Clancy in his glass, "especially
real ladies. But Dave never did know how to talk to a lady."

"I should say he didn't."

"No, not Dave. And so his money gone he's----"

"Money? Why, he never had any money."

"Well, that's bad. Not even enough to open a bottle of wine to drink a
lady's health?"

"Bottle of wine? No, nor a thimbleful of tuppenny ale."

"That was bad, Miss Luce. Dave ought've come better heeled----

    'And so his money gone he puts out to sea--
     It may happen to you or happen to me.'

And which way did he say he was going?"

"He didn't say and I didn't ask, though one of the men with him said
something about going to the Grand Banks."

"Grand Banks, eh? That's comforting--it isn't more than a couple of
days' sail from here to the nearest edge of it, and twenty-odd
thousand or more square miles of shoal water to hunt over after you
get there. Had they taken their bait aboard, did you hear, Miss
Luce?"

"Yes, they had. That was yesterday afternoon late. His vessel was
leaking then, I heard him say to that nice-looking man--Maurice Blake
his name, did you say? A nice name Maurice, isn't it? Well, he said to
Maurice going out the door, 'Well, we'll put out and I callate--I
don't know how she'll get out but out we'll go to-night.' 'The sooner
you go the better it will suit me,' Blake said, and they went off
together."

"And how was Mr. Blake?"

"How do you mean? How did he act? My, I never saw such a man. Wouldn't
open his head all night--wouldn't drink, but just sat and smoked like
your friend there. Anything the matter with him?"

"With Maurice? Oh, in the way of aneurisms? Not that I know of. Oh,
yes, he has heart-trouble too, come to think. But I must be getting
back to the vessel."

"So soon?"

"Yes, we've got to go to sea. I'm like Dave Warner in that I'm going
to sea too."

"But nobody's driving you away." She had her eyes on Clancy's face
then.

He didn't look up--only stared into his glass.

She was silent for a full minute. Clancy said nothing. "Nobody's
driving you away," she said again.

At that Clancy looked at her. "There's no telling," he said at first,
and then hastily, "Oh, no--of course nobody's driving me to sea."

"Then what's your hurry?"

I got up and went to the door then. I heard the sound of a scraping
chair and then of Clancy standing up. A moment's quiet and then it
was: "No, dear, I can't stay--nobody's driving me away, I know that.
I'm sure you wouldn't--not with your heart. And you've a good heart if
you'd only give it a chance. But I can't stay."

"And why not? You won't, you mean. Well, I never thought you were
_that_ kind of a man."

"No? Well, don't go to giving me any moral rating. Don't go to
over-rating me--or maybe you'd call it under-rating. But you see, it's
my friend that's calling."

"And you're going out in this gale?"

"Gale. I'd go if it was a hundred gales. Good-by--and take care of
yourself, dear."

"And will you come back if you don't find him?"

"Lord, Lord, how can I say? Can anybody say who's coming back and who
isn't?"

He went by me and out the door. She looked after him, but he never
turned--only plunged out of the house and into the street and I right
after him.




XXXVIII

THE DUNCAN GOES TO THE WEST'ARD


Getting back to the vessel Clancy was pretty gloomy. "That's
settled. We can't chase them as far to the east'ard as the big
banks--a three hundred mile run to the nearest edge of it and tens of
thousands of square miles to hunt over after we'd got there. And it
would be child's work anyway to ask Maurice to leave her on the bank.
Who'd take his place even if Dave would stand for it? 'Twould mean
laying up a dory or taking his dory-mate too. Maurice wouldn't leave
her anyway, even if he believed he'd never get home--no real fisherman
would. And yet there it is--Dave in a devil of a mood, and a vessel
according to all reports that won't live out one good easterly.
And there's a crazy crew aboard her that won't make for the most
careful handling of a vessel. Oh, Lord, I don't see anything for
it, but, thank the Lord, Maurice has been behaving himself--and that
in spite of how blue he must have been feeling. By this time he's
cert'nly made up his mind he's with a pretty bad crowd, but maybe
he's glad of a little excitement. What I don't understand is how
Dave ever left old man Luce's place without breaking up the
furniture before going away. Gen'rally that's his style. Maybe
Maurice being along had something to do with it--a pretty able man in
close quarters is Maurice. Yes, he must be glad of the excitement,
but Lord, that won't save him from being lost. Oh, oh, and now
what'll we do? Let's see, the Flamingo's on the way to the Banks,
and that's the end of that chase. We've got to wait now and see that
she comes home--or don't come home--one or the other. I told that
girl that I was going to put out--put out if it blew a hundred gales.
And so I would if any good would come of it, but putting out to sea a
day like this because you bragged you would--risking your vessel and
crew, or making hard work for them if nothing else--that ain't good
sense, is it? Besides, I had to tell her something to get away
without setting up to be a model of virtue. What else could I do?
Women are the devil--sometimes--aren't they, Joe? There's some are. I
suppose it wouldn't do any great harm to head her for home. I don't
believe there's going to be much more fish going to be seined this
fall--and wouldn't she make a passage of it in this easterly? Oh,
Lord, it would be the race all over again, only ten times as long a
drag."

While he sat there in the cabin, smoking and meditating, letting us
into his thoughts every now and then, the voices of some of our crew
were heard on deck.

We all went up and got the word that was being passed around. A coast
steamer had just come to anchor in the harbor with the report that
just outside--about ten miles to the west'ard--was a vessel, dismasted
and clean-swept, and dragging toward the rocks. They could not help
her themselves--too rough--a hurricane outside--to launch a boat was
out of the question. They didn't mind taking a chance, they said, but
to attempt her rescue would be suicide.

It looked like a pretty hard chance going out in that gale, but Clancy
didn't wait. "Nobody else seems to be hurrying to get out, and we
being the able-est looking craft in the harbor, I callate it's up to
us to go." He got the exact location of the distressed vessel from the
coaster, and then it was up anchor, make sail, and out we went.

There were people who called Clancy a fool for ordering out his vessel
and risking his crew that day--men in that very harbor--and maybe he
was. But for myself, I want that kind of a fool for my skipper. The
man that will take a chance for a stranger will take a bigger chance
for his own by and by.

We saw her while we were yet miles away, down to the west'ard--near
Whitehead and with the cruel stretch of rocks under her lee quarter.
Even with plenty of sea-room she could not have lasted long, and here
with these ledges to catch her she looked to be in for a short shrift.
We had a good chance to get a look at her as we bore down. Everything
was gone from her deck, even the house and rail. There was not as much
loose wood on deck as would make a tooth-pick. Afterwards we learned
that two seas hove her down so that they had to cut the spars away to
right her, and then just as she was coming up another monster had
caught her and swept her clean--not only swept clean, but stove in her
planks and started some of her beams so that she began to leak in a
fashion that four men to the pumps could just manage to keep up with.

We could just see them--the men to the pumps working desperately--with
the others lashed to the stumps of the masts and the stanchions which
were left when the rail went. Her big hawser had parted and her chain
was only serving to slightly check her way toward the rocks.

With spars and deck gear gone and her hull deep in the water, a vessel
is not so easily distinguished. But there was something familiar in
this one. We had seen her before. All at once it flashed on half a
dozen of us--"the Flamingo!" we said. "God! that's luck!" said
Clancy.

She lay in a sort of inlet that was wide open to the gale, rocks on
the better part of three sides of her, north, south and west. She was
then within all but striking distance of the rocks, and the seas, high
and wicked, were sweeping over her. It looked like a bad place to work
out of if we should get close in, but Clancy held on.

"Not much lee-room, but plenty of water under her keel anyway," and
himself to the wheel, sailed the Johnnie around the Flamingo. He
hailed Maurice as he went by, waved his hand to the others, and hove a
line aboard. They took the line, hauled in the hawser at the end of
it, made that fast to the windlass, and then we started off with her
in tow.

We were doing pretty well, what with plenty of wind and the Johnnie
buckling down to her work like she was a steamer, till the hawser
parted and back toward the rocks went the Flamingo again.

"No use," said Clancy, "sea's too much for any line we got. We'll try
it with the seine-boat. Who'll go in the seine-boat and try to take
them off? Think quick, but mind what it means."

Every man of the crew of the Johnnie Duncan said, "Here!" The cook
even came out of the forec's'le and put in his "And me, too,
skipper."

"You're good men," said Clancy,--"damn good men," and looked us up and
down. We felt proud, he said it in such a way. "But you're taking your
lives in your hands and some of you got wives and children--mothers or
something. Who hasn't anybody depending on him? Which of you hasn't
any woman somewhere, or little brothers or sisters?"

About twelve of the sixteen men standing on the deck of the Johnnie
Duncan said "Me!"

"Three-quarters of you, at least," said Clancy, "are damn liars. Over
with the seine-boat and be careful nobody gets hurt."

Somebody did get hurt, though. Andie Howe got his foot smashed and was
helped below. Clancy gave the rest of us a scolding in advance.
"You're not hurt yet, but some of you will be--like Andie--if you
don't watch out. You'd think that some of you were out on some little
pond up in the country somewhere launching a canoe off one of those
club-house floats. Keep an eye out for those seas when they board. And
watch out for that deckload or some of you'll have a head cut off. A
man killed or a man washed over the rail--what's the difference--it's
a man lost. Look out now--watch, you Steve--damn you, watch out! Over
with it!"

And over it went and with it leaped two men before it could sag away,
while the rest of us stood by the rail watching our chance.

"Nelson," called Clancy, "come away from that rail! Steve, come
away!--come away, I say, and no back talk. Pat, you can go--jump
in--watch your chance or it's the last of you. Eddie, you can go, and
you Bill, and you Frenchy. Joe! stand away from that rail or I'll put
you in the hold and batten the hatches on you. Now, that's better. And
that's enough--six men to the oars and one to steer."

"And who'll steer?" asked somebody.

"You'll know in a minute," said Clancy, and he leaped for the
seine-boat and made it, and grabbed the steering oar. "Stand by--push
off! Fend off in the vessel there! Steve, if anything happens--you
know--you're to take the Johnnie home. Give way, fellows. Now! Watch
out!--now--now then, around with her--end on, and there she is like a
bird! And now drive her!"

"A bird!" said Clancy--but a wild-looking bird--fifty feet she looked
to be going into the air one moment and down out of sight the next,
and water slamming aboard her so that we thought she was swamped half
a dozen times. Two had to leave the oars and go to bailing, while
Clancy with an arm and shoulders and back and swinging waist
like--well, like nothing a man ever had before--kept her end to it.

"Good luck!" we called.

"Never fear--we'll bring 'em back!" said Clancy.

"Or stay with them," we thought.

But he didn't stay with them. It was a ticklish job, but Clancy got
away with it. He didn't dare to go too near the Flamingo, for that
meant that the seas would pitch the seine-boat up and dash it to
kindling wood against her hull. What he did do was to go as near the
Flamingo as he could and keep her clear, then heave a line aboard and
call to her crew one after the other to make it fast around themselves
and jump overboard. It took some nerve to make that jump--from the
rigging of the Duncan we watched them--saw them shiver and draw
up--these were men accustomed to face danger--reckless men--but the
shiver was over in a breath, and then over the rail and into that
sea--a game fight--and they were hauled into the seine-boat. Some of
them we thought would never make it, for it was an awful sea.

As fast as one of the Flamingo's men made the seine-boat he was set to
work bailing out or taking a haul at the oars, for it was a difficult
matter in that sea to keep the seine-boat at the right distance from
the Flamingo. But they got them all--ten of them. Two were hauled in
unconscious, but came to after awhile.

To get aboard the Johnnie again was almost as bad as to get into the
seine-boat from the Flamingo. But we managed it. Long Steve was swept
over while we were at it, but we got him back with the help of Maurice
Blake and another of the Flamingo's crowd. By smart clever work they
grabbed Steve before he could go down and hauled him into the
seine-boat.

When they were all safe aboard the Duncan Clancy shook hands with
Maurice. "I call that luck, Maurice--to come out to save a stranger
and find you've saved your own. And now whose trick to the wheel--you,
Joe? Put her on the off-shore tack till we're well clear of that
headland--maybe we c'n make it in one leg. No? Then a short tack and
have an eye out for the ledges--not too close. And Maurice, go
below--you and Dave and all hands of you, and we'll get out dry
clothes for you. Man, but you must be cold and hungry, but the cook's
getting coffee and grub ready. And for the Duncan's crew--on deck all
hands and put the tops'ls to her. For, Maurice-boy, we're going
home--going home, Maurice--where there's people waiting for you. Hang
on a while longer, Joe, and I'll take her myself."

No need to tell me to hang on. If I hadn't hung on or been lashed to
the wheel I could never have kept my feet, for at this time it was so
bad that they had passed a line from my waist to the windward bitt and
I was up to my waist with every dive of her.

"Lord, she's a dog, ain't she! If old man Duncan could see her now!
Remember Tom O'Donnell singing that song the other night:

    'West half-no'the and drive her--we're abreast now of Cape
        Sable--
     'Tis an everlasting hurricane, but here's the craft that's
        able.'

We're not abreast of Cape Sable yet, but it won't take us too many
hours at this clip. And here's the craft that's able. Man, wouldn't it
be fine if Tom O'Donnell himself was with us and the pair of us racing
home? Let me take the wheel, Joe. And go for'ard and have a mug-up for
yourself--and have a care going, Joe, for it's leaping she is now and
seas that'd lift you a cable's length to looard if ever they caught
you fair. That's it--oh, but if your mother could see you now, Joe,
it's never to sea you'd come again."

I made my way for'ard. A dash between the house and windward rail, a
shoot for the mainmast and holding on there for awhile. Another dive
for the gripes on the dories, another shoot between rail and dories, a
grip of the bow gripes, a swing around and I was at the forec's'le
hatch. Here I thought I heard him call and looked aft.

He had a leg either side of the wheel, standing full height and sawing
the spokes a bit up and down to get the feel of her. The life line was
trailing from his waist to the bitt--the clear white sea was up to his
middle and racing over the taffrail. He had cast away his mitts the
better to grip the spokes, and even as I looked he took off his
sou'wester and sent it scaling. The wind taking hold of it must have
carried it a quarter a mile to leeward. Watching it go, himself
looking out under the boom, he laughed--laughed--such a roar of a
laugh--stamped his feet and began to sing:

    "Oh, I love old Ocean's smile,
      I love old Ocean's frowning--
     My love's for Ocean all the while,
      My prayer's for death by drowning."

The devil was in him then. "Did you call me, skipper?" I sang out.

"Did I? Did I? Lord, Joe, I don't know. Maybe I did. I feel like
calling from here to Gloucester, and if I did I bet they'd hear me.
God, Joe, but it's good to be alive, isn't it?--just to be alive.
Whew! but I wish I had a few more sou'westers--just to see 'em scale.
But what was it I wanted--but is the cook there?"

"He is--I c'n hear him talking."

"Then go below and tell him, Joe--tell him to mouse his pots and
kettles, for with sail alow and sail aloft, with her helmsman lashed
and her house awash, in a living gale and the devil's own sea, the
Johnnie Duncan's going to the west'ard."

And she certainly went.




XXXIX

THE HEART OF CLANCY


That trip ended seining for the Duncan that year. Everything went well
with our friends, after we got home. It was late in the season, and
Maurice Blake was to stay ashore to get married, for one thing. He had
made a great season of it and could afford to. So the Johnnie Duncan
was fitted out for fresh halibuting and Clancy took her.

I went with him. I remember very well that I had no idea of going
winter fishing when the seining season ended, but, somehow or other
when Clancy came to get a crew together I was looking for a chance.

So we put out, and on the rocks of Cape Ann, near Eastern Point
lighthouse, on the day we sailed on our first halibuting trip, were
Maurice Blake and Alice Foster, my cousin Nell and Will Somers, to
wave us good luck. Clancy hauled the vessel close in to get a better
look and they waved us until I suppose they could see us no longer. Of
course they should have been able to make us out long after we had
lost sight of them, we being a tall-sparred, white-sailed vessel; and
Clancy must have had that in mind, for long after all signs of them
had been lost to us he kept the glasses pointed to the rocks. He
turned at last with a "Well, I suppose they're all happy now, Joe?"

"They ought to be," I said.

"Yes, they ought to be," he repeated, and then again, "they ought to
be," and went for'ard.

He stayed for'ard a long time, saying no word, but leaning over the
windlass and looking out ahead. Nobody disturbed him. Once or twice
when the sheets needed trimming--and in a deep sleep I think Clancy
would know that--he turned and gave the word, but the bare word and no
more. He had his spells we all knew, when he didn't want anybody near
him, and so he wanted to be alone, I suppose. And there he stayed,
with what spray came over the bow splashing him, but he paying no
attention.

At supper call he moved, but not to go below and eat--only to shift to
walking the quarter, and walking the quarter he stayed until near
midnight. He went below then after giving a few words of instruction
to the watch--went below and got out his pipe. From my bunk, the
middle port bunk in the cabin, I watched him rummaging for tobacco in
his stateroom and then his coming out with his pipe and his filling
and lighting it slowly and thoughtfully, and then his sitting and
smoking under the cabin lamp.

Looking over when he had finished that pipeful--I had not drawn my
curtain--he caught my eyes on him. He smiled, but said nothing--only
lit another pipeful, and kept on smoking.

I fell asleep watching him--fell asleep and woke again. He must have
been watching me, for his eyes were on mine when I looked for him
again. He smiled and shook his pipe out, and made as though to turn
in.

But he didn't turn in. He took off his jersey, loosened the collar of
his flannel shirt, cast off his slip-shods--stopped--looked into his
bunk, came back, filled and lit another pipeful and began to talk to
me. I thought I was sleepy, but in five minutes I didn't think so.
Joking, laughing, telling stories--in ten minutes he had me roaring.
Before long he had everybody in the cabin awake and roaring, too. Men,
coming off watch and into the cabin to warm up, or for one thing or
another, listened and stayed. He kept that up all the rest of the
night--until after six o'clock in the morning, and only the cook
called to breakfast there's no telling when he would have stopped. And
not until he was going for'ard to eat did I get a glimpse of what it
was he had been thinking of during all those earlier hours of the
night. The sun, I remember, was streaking the sky ahead of us--he
stopped just as he was about to drop into the forec's'le and pointed
it out.

"A sunrise, Joe, on a fine October morning out to
sea--beautiful--beautiful--but just one thing wrong about it. And what
is it?--you don't see? Well, Joe, it's over the bow. A sunrise, Joe,
is most beautiful when it's over the stern--and why? 'Cause then
you're going home--of course. Going home, Joe--if you've got a home to
go to. Look to it, Joe, that you've got a home of your own to go to
before you're much older. Somebody to work for--somebody waiting for
you--a wife, Joe--wife and children--or you're in for some awful
lonesome times."

That was Clancy--watch-mate, bunk-mate, dory-mate once, and now my
skipper--Clancy, who could be any man's friend, the man that everybody
jumped to shake hands with, and yet never a bit of use to himself. And
I couldn't but half wonder at that, and kept my eyes on him when, with
one foot on the top step of the companionway, he turned and looked
around again.

"And if you can't get anybody, skipper?"

"Then it's hard--though most likely you've deserved it."

"But you haven't deserved it?"

"Deserved it? Yes, and ten times over."

"That's pretty rough."

"Rough? No, it's right. When you do wrong you've got to make up for
it. It's all in the big scheme of the universe. You've got to strike a
balance some time--somewhere. And the sooner the better. Be thankful
if you have to settle it right away, Joe. If you don't and it drags
along--then it's worse again, and the Lord help those that come after
you--those that have to take up life where you've left it off. The
Lord have mercy on the heirs of your brain and heart and soul, boy.
What you hand them they've got to take. Yes, sir, you'll pay for it
somewhere--you yourself, or, what's worse, those you care for will
have to pay--in this world or another--whatever it is we're coming to,
a better or a worse world, it's there and waiting us. Be thankful, as
I said, Joe, if you have to settle for it here--settle for it yourself
alone."

All around, above and below, ahead and astern, he looked, a long, long
look astern--his foot on the step, and singing softly, almost to
himself:

    "And if I come to you, my love,
       And my heart free from guile,
     Will you have a glance for me--
       Will you on me smile?

Oh, Lord! pipe-dreams--pipe-dreams. Let's go below, Joe, and have a
bite to eat."

So below we went; and her sails lit up by the morning sun, her decks
wet by the slapping sea, sheets off and sailing free, the Johnnie
Duncan clipped her way to the east'ard.



***