Part 15

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

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

WHEN THE DAY’S WORK IS DONE

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

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

The schooner rolls to the long ground-swell, her lamp-bracket swinging through a great arc and casting long, black shadows, monstrous presentiments of the smokers, which move rapidly from side to side over the misty beams and bulkheads like gnomes. A concertina, a mouth-organ, and perhaps a fiddle, are brought out, and a sea-song, an Irish jig, or something in unspeakable Portuguese, rises above the creaking of the timbers and the burst of foam alongside.

But the work is not done yet. It is never done. The ship is to be cleaned down and the gurry-pen and dory are to be sluiced out in readiness for the morrow. A vigil is to be kept, watch and watch, and woe be to the youngster who tumbles off his hatchway to the deck from sheer weariness.

WHEN A STEAMER LOOMS UP IN THE FOG

If there should be a fog,--and hardly a day or a night passes without one,--the danger is great. When the white veil settles down over the schooners the men on deck can hardly see their cross-trees. Foot-power horns are blown, the ship’s bell is tolled steadily, while conch shells bellow their resonant note from the trawlers in the dories. But it is all to no purpose. For the great siren comes nearer and nearer every second, and the pounding of the waves against the great hulk and the rush of resisting water grow horribly distinct.

There is a hazy glimmer of a row of lights, a roar and a splutter of steam, a shock and the inrush of the great volume of water, a shout or two from the towering decks and bridge, and the great body dashes by disdainfully, speed undiminished, her passengers careless, and unmindful that the lives and fortunes of half a dozen human beings have hung for a moment in the balance of Life and Death. But records have to be made, and the gold-laced officers forget to mention the occurrence. The men on the schooner do not forget it, though. More than one face is white with the nearness to calamity.

“What was she, Jim?”

“The ‘Frederick.’ I’d know her bloomin’ bellow in a thousand.”

They lean out over the rail and peer into the gray blackness, shaking their fists at the place where she vanished in the fog.

The man who gets his name in the newspaper and a medal from his government is not the only hero. And the modesty with which the Gloucester fisherman hides his sterling merit is only convincing proof of the fact,--Gloucester is a city of heroes.

For grit and devotion the case of Howard Blackburn surpasses understanding.

THE COURAGE OF THE UNNAMED HEROES

Blackburn and his dory-mate left their schooner in a driving snow-storm. Before they had been at the trawls long the weather had become so thick that they couldn’t see ten feet from the dory’s gunwale. The wind shifted and put them to leeward of their vessel. There was never a sound of bell or horn through the thickness, and, though they pulled to windward, where they thought their skipper lay, the vessel could not be found. They were lost, and the sea was rising. Then they anchored until dawn.

When the snow stopped falling, they saw the schooner’s light, a tiny speck, miles to windward. To reach it was impossible. The situation was desperate. Wave-crest after wave-crest swept into the dory, and all but swamped her. Time after time she was baled out, until it seemed as if human endurance could stand it no longer. Blackburn made a sea-anchor for a drag, but in throwing it out lost his mittens overboard. It was horrible enough to fear drowning in the icy sea, but as he felt his hands beginning to freeze the effort seemed hopeless.

With hands frozen, Blackburn felt that he was useless, for his dory-mate was already almost helpless with exposure. So he sat down to his oars and bent his freezing fingers over the handles, getting as firm a clutch as he could. There he sat patiently, calmly, keeping the dory up to the seas meanwhile,--waiting for his hands to freeze to the oars. The dory became covered with ice, and pieces of it knocked against the frozen hands and beat off a little finger and a part of one of the palms. During the second day Blackburn’s dory-mate gave it up, and Blackburn laid down beside him to try and warm him. But it was useless. The dory-man froze to death where he lay.

FOR FIVE DAYS ADRIFT AND STARVING

When Blackburn felt the drowsiness coming over him, he stood up and baled as the boat filled. The third day dawned without a ray of hope, and not a morsel to eat or a drop to drink, so he stuck the oar through his wounded fingers and rowed again.

The fourth day he saw land. He did not reach it until the afternoon of the fifth day, when he landed at a deserted fish-wharf. No one could be found, and he was too weak to move farther. So he lay down, more dead than alive, and tried in vain to sleep, munching snow to quench his thirst.

The next day he went out in the dory to try to find some signs of life, and in about three hours, the last remnant of his strength being gone, he saw smoke and the roofs of some houses, and he knew that he was saved. Even when he reached the shore in a pitiable condition, he would not go into the house until they promised him to get the body of his dory-mate.

This heroic man lost his hands and the most of his toes, but he reached Gloucester alive. The story of his grit and devotion to his dory-mate are to-day told to the young fishermen of the fleet, and the men of the Banks will sing his praises until Time shall have wiped out all things which remain unrecorded.

WHERE THE COD ABOUND

On some of the schooners, by the middle of the season most of the salt is “wet.” It is then that the “Polly J.” follows the fleet up to the “Virgin.”

This is a rocky ledge, many miles out in the desolate Bank seas, which rises to within a few feet of the surface of the ocean. Here the cod and camplin abound, and here, when it is time for them to run, most of the schooners come to anchor, sending out their little fleets until perhaps two thousand dories and schooners are afloat at the same time, within a distance of two or three miles of one another. When the schools of camplin come to the surface and begin to jump, the dories all close in on them, for the fishermen know that the cod are after them. Almost as quickly as the lines can be baited and cast overboard the fish strike on, and the work is steady and hard until the dories, loaded down almost to the gunwales, have made several trips of it, and the salt in the bins shows a prospect of being “all wet” before the week is out.

The few days towards the end of the season at the “Old Virgin” are a race between the ships at catching and dressing down. The rival crews work from dawn until dark.

At last the big mainsail of the victor--perhaps the “Polly J.”--is hauled out, the chain is hove in short, and the dories from less fortunate schooners crowd alongside with good wishes and letters for the folks at home. Anchor up, the flag is hoisted,--the right of the first boat off the Banks,--and the proud schooner, low lying in the water with her fifteen hundred quintal, bows gracefully to each vessel of the fleet at anchor as she passes them, homeward bound.

WHEN THE SCHOONERS MOVE UP THE HARBOR

Homeward bound!--there is magic in the word. Though the first vessel to head to the southward is proud among the fleet, she has a burden of responsibility upon her, for she carries every year news of death and calamity that will break the hearts of many down in Gloucester, and the flags she flaunts so gayly must come to half-mast before she sights the hazy blue of Eastern Point.

During those long summer months a lonely wife goes about her household duties down in Gloucester town. There is a weight upon her heart, and until the fleet comes in and she sees the familiar face at the front gate, happiness is not for her. Day after day she listens for his footsteps, and after supper, when the season draws to a close, she walks down to where she can look far out to sea.

Then a schooner, heavy laden, appears around the Point. She comes around and moves up the harbor slowly,--oh, so slowly. The flag the wife has seen is half-masted, and she knows that some woman’s heart is to break. Will it be hers?

THE END.

By Sydney George Fisher

Men, Women, and Manners in Colonial Times.

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* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Missing periods and quotation marks have been supplied where obviously required. All other original errors and inconsistencies have been retained, except as follows:

Page 68: changed attemts to attempts (that further attempts at flight) Page 145: changed then to them (and tumbling them both down) Page 248: changed gradutes to graduates (among the graduates of the) Page 282: changed bated to baited (lines and baited hooks at) Ads page 4: changed bioggraphy to biography (a unique biography, or rather) Ads page 4: changed tireles to tireless (an equally tireless and copious)