The Seiners Part 9

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 seamans.h.i.+p. 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 ash.o.r.e 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 n.o.body 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--splas.h.!.+ 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 sh.o.r.e 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sage 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, G.o.d 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 seamans.h.i.+p--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 sc.r.a.ps, 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed, 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 fis.h.i.+ng, don't she?

Lord, but she needs painting." n.o.body 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 ash.o.r.e 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 b.u.mping 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 h.e.l.l 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 was.h.i.+ng 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.

n.o.body got by our fellows without a word. And we weren't the only crew of critics. Bungling seamans.h.i.+p would get a slas.h.i.+ng here, but there was none of that. It was all good, but there are degrees of goodness, of course. First-cla.s.s seamans.h.i.+p 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 ash.o.r.e 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."