Part 4

Who gaze on the ghosts of the Gloucester -fleets on the Night of the White Review._

’Tis a mournful monition from those gone before--

That phantom procession of Fate;

But’tis only the craven that flees to the shore, For the fisher must work and must wait-- Must wait for the storm that shall carry him down,

Must work with his dory and trawl;

There are women and babies in Gloucester town Who are hungry. So God for us all 1

Though mystic and silent and pallid and weird Those ominous Banksmen may roam, Though Death trails above them, where’er they are steered,

We’ll work for the babies at home.

_The Banks will claim their toll,

And Fate makes up the roll Of those with the humble epitaph: “Went dozen with every soul.”

And it’s woe to that fated crew Who behold them passing through-- Who gaze on the ghosts of the Gloucester fleets on the Night of the White Review._

THE BALLAD OF ORASMUS NUTE

There once was a Quaker, Orasmus Nute, With a physog as stiff as a cowhide boot,

And he skippered a ship from Georgetown, Maine,

In the’way-back days of the pirates’ reign. And the story I tell it has to do With Orasmus Nute and a black flag crew; The tale of the upright course he went In the face of a certain predicament.

For Orasmus Nute was a godly man

And he faithfully followed the Quaker plan Of love for all and a peaceful life And a horror of warfare and bloody strife. While above the honors of seas and fleets He prized his place on “the facing seats.”

Ah, Orasmus Nute,

Orasmus Nute,

He never disgraced his plain drab suit.

Now often he sailed for spice and teas ’Way off some place through the Barbary seas; And once for a venture his good ship bore Some unhung grindstones, a score or more. Now, never in all of his trips till then Had he spoken those godless pirate men.

But it chanced one day near a foreign shore The sail of a strange craft toward him bore; And as soon as the rig was clearly seen The mate allowed’twas a black lateen.

Now a black lateen, as all men knew,

Was the badge of a bold, bad pirate crew.

So the mate he crammed to its rusty neck A grim “Long Tom” on the quarter deck, Then leaned on its muzzle a bit to pray And waited to hear what the skipper would say. For Orasmus Nute,

Orasmus Nute

Had stepped below for to change his suit.

He asked as he came on deck again,

“Does thee really think those are pirate men?” “Yea, verily,” answered the Quaker mate,

“And they come at a most unseemly gait.” Orasmus Nute looked over the rail At the bulging sweep of the huge black sail; Said he, “We are keeping our own straight path,

And I’m sorry to harm those men of wrath Yet, brother, perchance we are justified In letting Thomas rebuke their pride.

We’ll simply give ’em a dash of fright.

So be sure, my friend, thee have aimed just right.”

He squinted his eye along the rust,

“Now shoot,” said he, “if thee thinks thee must.”

Ker-boomo! the old Long Thomas roared, And the big lateen flopped overboard.

And Orasmus Nute,

Orasmus Nute,

Seemed puzzled to find that he could shoot.

“Now what are those sinful men about?”

He asked, as he heard a hoarse, long shout. And the Quaker mate he answered, “Lo! They’ve out with their oars, and here they row!”

“Now, what in the name of William Penn,” Cried Orasmus Nute, “can ail those men? Perchance they are after our load of stones, Will thee roll them up here, Brother Jones? We’ll save them all of the work we can--

As a Quaker should for his fellow man.”

So as soon as the fierce, black pirate drew Up’longside, that Quaker crew Rolled those grindstones down pell-mell,

And every stone smashed through the shell Of the pirate zebec, and down it went,

And all of the rascals to doom were sent, While Orasmus Nute leaned over the side,

“No thanks, thee’rt welcome, my friends,” he cried.

It chanced one wretch from the sunken craft Made a clutch at a rope that was trailing aft, And up he was swarming with frantic hope, When Orasmus cried, “Does thee want that rope? ”

So he cut it away with one swift hack With a smile for the pirate as he dropped back. And the Quaker skipper surveyed the sea “God loveth the generous man,” quoth he. Then Orasmus Nute,

Orasmus Nute

Went down and resumed his Quaker suit.

THE DORYMAN’S SONG

_Dory here an’ Dora there,

They keep a man a-guessin’;

An’ here’s a prayer for a full-bin fare,

--Then home for the parson’s blessin’!_

Ruddy an’ round as the skipper’s phiz, out of the sea he rolls,

--The fisherman’s sun, an’ the day’s begun for the men on the Grand Bank shoals.

With pipe alight an’ snack stowed tight under a bulgin’ vest,

I’ll over with dory an’ in with the trawls for the wind is fair sou’ west.

--The wind is fair sou’ west,

The fish-slick stripes the crest

Of every curlin’, swingin’ an’ swirlin’, billowin’ ocean-guest,

That sweeps to the wind’ard rail

An’ under the bulgin’ sail

Seems wavin’ its welcome with clots of foam that are tossed by the roguish gale.

_Dory here an’ Dora there,

‘Way over yon at Glo’stcr;

Those clots of foam seem letters from home

To pledge I haven’t lost her._

Friskily kickin’, the dories dance, churnin’ the foamin’ lee,

With a duck an’ a dive an’ a skip an’ skive-- the bronchos of the sea.

Sheerin’ an’ veerin’ with painter a-flirt, like a frolicsome filly’s tail,

--Now a sweep on the heavin’ deep, close to the saggin’ rail,

--Close to the saggin’ rail,

Jump! If you cringe or fail,

You’re doin’ a turn in the wake astern in the role of a grampus whale.

As she poises herself to spring,

--Nimble an’ mischievous thing,

There’s only the flash of a second of time to capture her on the wing.

_Dory here an’ Dora there!

Sure, they drive me frantic.

For one she swims on the ocean of whims, An’ one on the broad Atlantic._

Sowin’ the bait from the trawl-heaped tubs, I pull at my old T. D.

An’ I dream of a pearl of a Glo’ster girl, who’s waitin’ at home for me;

Statin’ she’s waitin’ is not to say she’s prom- ised as yet her hand,

For she’s wild as my dory--she keeps me in worry;--they’re hard to understand.

--They’re hard to understand,

But I’ve got the question planned,

Please God, I’ll know if it’s weal or woe as soon as I get to land.

For a man who can catch the swing,

Of a dory--mischievous thing--

Has certainly grit to capture a chit of a maid about to spring.

_Dory here an’ Dora there!

They keep a man a-guessin’,

An’ here’s a prayer for a full-bin fare, Then home for the parson’s blessin’._ [Illustration: 0091]

WE FELLERS DIGGIN’ CLAMS

Pluck, pluck,

Pluck, pluck!

Stubbin’ acrost the clam-flat muck!

Ev’ry time I lift my huck,

--Hearin’ the heel of my old boot suck,

It seems to me that a word plops out,

And I’ve listened so often there ain’t no doubt

It’s pluck, pluck, pluck.

And pluck and the job they jest agree --Dig clams, my lad, for a while and see!

It’s a stiddy kind of bus’ness an’ it ain’t for shiny boots,

But still--ye know,’tain’t bad!

It ain’t an occurpation for the millionaire ga- loots,

But’tain’t so mighty wuss, my lad.

It’s a stiddy kind of bus’ness where there ain’t no room for doubt

As to what’ull be the profit and where ye’re cornin’ out.

For there ain’t no books and ledgers, and no botherin’ with deals,

No dodgin’ law and lawyers and no stock con- trivin’ steals.

Simply take a leaky dory and a basket and a hoe,

And you’re fixed for doin’ bus’ness--ev’ry fel- ler has a show.

When the old Atlantic ocean pulls away his swashin’ tide

Why, the bank is there ‘before you and the doors are opened wide;

The flats are there etarnal and you never find the sign

Sayin’, “Bank has shet up business--pres’- dent’s skipped acrost the line.”

Shuck away yer co’t and weskit, grab the clam- hoe’s muddy haft,

And endorsed by grit and muscle you’ll get cash on ev’ry draft.

For yer check-book’s there, the clam flat; and yer pen, sir, is the hoe,

And accounts are balanced daily by the ocean’s ebb and flow.

Then the climbin’, crawlin’ water rubs the dig- gin’ marks away,

And the clams are jest as plenty when you come another day.

And the sleep that follers labor kind of smooths’- us, as the tide

Smooths the nickin’s on the clam-flats where our busy hoes have pried.

So the nights are nights of comfort and I mostly can forget

That the days are days of diggin’,--cold and muddy, lame and wet.

For Fd rather have a backache than a rattled, burnin’ brain,

And I guess I’m fair contented with the clam flats here in Maine.

For I’m thinkin’ worried critters in the rushin’, pushin’ jams

Likely’nough ain’t nigh so happy as we fellers diggin’ clams.

DAN’L AND DUNK

Dan’l and Dunk and the yaller dog were the owners and crew of the Pollywog,

A hand-line smack that cuffed the seas’twixt ’Tinicus Head and Point Quahaug.

Dunk owned half and Dan owned half, and the yaller dog was also joint,

They fished and ate and swapped their bait and always agreed on every point.

--Dunk to Dan and Dan to Dunk,-- Whenever he chawed would pass the hunk;

Never a “hitch” more friendly than That of the dog and Dunk and Dan.

They labored steady and labored square, fairly dividing every fare,

And never could anything break their bonds, each to the other would often swear.

But alas, one day in a joking way they fell on the topic of years and age,

And tackled the subject of boughten teeth, and spirited argument they did wage.

For Dan insisted that sets of teeth were glued to the sides of the wearers’ jaws,

--Never had seen ’em, he frankly owned, but he knew ’twas so, “wal, jest because.” While Dunk, with notions fully as firm, clawed at his frosty whisker fringe,

And allowed that he knew that sets of teeth were hitched together with spring and hinge.

So, still perverse, they argued on--the quarrel, you see, was their very first;

’Twas as though they had taken a sip of brine; the more they quaffed, the worse their thirst.

They argued early and argued late and the dog surveyed them with wistful look For, the more they talked the worse they balked, and forgot to fish or eat or cook.

Dan at Dunk and Dunk at Dan,

--On contention ran and ran,

And rancor spread its sullen fog ‘Twixt Dunk and Dan and the yaller dog.

At last old Dunk uprose and cried, “Say old hoss-mack’ril, blast yer hide,

I’m sick of clack and fuss and gab; it’s time, I reckin, that we divide.

An’ seein’ as how I’ve spoke the fust, I’ll take the starn-end here for mine.”

With chalk he zoned the dingy deck and roared, “Git for’rard acrost that line!”

He lighted his pipe and twirled the wheel and calmly then he crossed his knees.

“Go for’rard,” said he, “this end is mine an’ I’ll steer jest where I gol-durn please.” For’rard went Dan with never a word, never protested, never demurred,

But as soon as he reached the cat-head bolt the sound of hammer on steel was heard. Splash! went the anchor, and there they swung, fast to the bottom on Doghead shoal;

“The bow-end’s mine,” yelled Dan to Dunk, “now steer if ye want to, blast yer soul!”

Dunk to Dan, and Dan to Dunk-- Swore they’d sit there till she sunk. Neither to compromise would incline, And the dog stood straddling the mid- dle line.

I’ll frankly own I cannot state how long en- dured that sullen wait,

I only know they never returned and no one ever has learned their fate.

Perhaps a gale with a lashing tail, champing and roaring and frothing wild,

Clawed them tinder, as there they rode, or a hooting liner over them piled.

But known it is that for days and weeks the schooner swayed and sogged and tossed, Straining her rusty cable-chains, before all trace of her was lost.

No one knows how they met their death, but certain it is that Dunk and Dan,

Each decided he’d rather die than surrender a point to the other man.

Perhaps, at the end of a month or so, Dunk de- cided he’d sink his half,

Or Dan touched match and burned his end, then went to death with a scornful laugh. However it was, this much is sure, that out from the Grand Banks’ sombre fog,

Never came back the Pollywog smack, or Dunk or Dan or the yaller dog.

THE AWFUL WAH-HOOH-WOW

_She’s ashore in Gloucester harbor, with a weary, lear y list,

An’ the mud is creepin’, creepin’ to her rail;

She’s sound in ev’ry timber--is the Mary of the Mist,

But the broom is at her mast-head as a sign that she’s for sale.

Yet no one wants to try her,

She cannot find a buyer--

The Hoodoo is upon her, an’ here I give the tale.

(The story has a warnin’ that’s as plain as plain can be,

An’’tis: Never go to triflin’ with the secrets of the sea.)_

Peter Perkinson, a P. I. from Prince Edward Island, signed

With Foster’s folks of Gloucester for a “chancin’ trip,” hand-lined;

An’ when we counted noses as we rounded Giant’s Grist

We found the chap among us on the Mary of the Mist.

An’ we sized him for a “conjer” ere we’d fairly got to sea;

The wind was whiffin’ crooked, jest as mean as mean could be;

“_P. I.” is colloquial term for Prince Edward Islander_.

Then the skipper spied the P. I. fubbin’ secret at the mast,

An’ at once he got suspicious an’ he overhauled him fast.

The chap had made some markin’s an’ he’d driven in a nail--

Oh, we understood him perfect--he was raisin’ up a gale.

The skipper gave him tophet, but the damage then was done--

The gale came up a-roarin’ with the settin’ of the sun.

Then we wallered to the west’ard an’ we wal- lered to the east,

An’ we seemed the core an’ bowels of a gob of wind an’ yeast.

We smashed our way to suth’ard, an’ we clawed an’ ratched to west,

There was scarcely time for eatin’; there was never chance for rest,

With the liners slammin’ past us through the fog an’ spume an’ rain,

An’ the Mary dodgin’ passers like a puppy in a lane.

The third day found us flappin’ with a mighty ragged wash,

The lee rail runnin’ under an’ the trawl tubs all a-swash,

An’ at last the plummet told us we were backin’ to’ards the shoals,

Yet we couldn’t ratch an’ leave ’em with our canvas rags an’ holes.

T ack--tack--tack--

Still a-slippin’ back;

‘Twas a time for meditatin’ on the prospects for our souls.

Then up spoke Isaac Innis, with a starin’, glarin’ glance,

An’ he says: “My friends, I’m lookin’

where I look!

I hain’t a saint in no way, an’ I’ll give a man a chance,

But I think I see a Jonah if I hain’t a lot mistook.

I reckon ye discern him,

Now over goes he, durn him,

Unless he squares the Hoodoo that he’s brought, by hook or crook.”

(We stood there, grim an’ solemn, an’ we bent our gaze upon

The stranger “conjer” sailor, that P. I.-- Perkinson.)

He never flinched nor quivered, though we’d reckoned that he would,

He simply turned an’ faced us, an’ he says: “I meant ye good.

I asked a breeze from suth’ard, but it slipped an’ got away;

Still, you needn’t worry, shipmates! When I owe a debt I’ll pay.”

He reeved a coil of hawser that the Mary car- ried spare,

An’ fastened on a gang-hook an’ baited it with care.

Then he took a magic vial an’ he sprinkled on the bait

A charm that Splithoof gave him, it is safe to calkerlate.

He hitched a dagon-sinker an’ he let the line run free,

An’ overboard he fired it, kersplasho, in the sea,

We didn’t get the language of the secret spells he said,

But we gathered he was fishin’ on the deepest ocean bed.

We heard him as he muttered an’ it seemed that he could tell

What kind of fish was bitin’, with an eyesight straight from hell.

“Ah, brim,” he sort o’ chanted as he gave the line a twig--

An’ must pay his lawful tribute to the awful Wah-hooh-wow.

We saw Its neck a-curvin’ an’ we heard Its red tongue lick

As It drooled an’ swoofed the drippin’s, and then, as one might pick

A ripe an’ juicy cherry, It grabbed that “con- jer” man

An’ sank with coils a-flashin’ in the light from old Cape Ann,

An’ we--we towed with dories till we got to Gloucester shore--

An’ you’ll never get a Banksman on the Mary any more.

No--no--no!

Not a man will go,

For her towage fee hain’t settled till the Wah- hooh-wow takes four.

She’s ashore in Gloucester harbor with a weary, leary list,

An’ the mud is creepin’, creepin’ to her rail;

She’s sound in ev’ry timber--is the Mary of the Mist,

But the broom is at her mast-head as a sign that she’s for sale.

Yet no one wants to try her,

She cannot find a buyer--

The Hoodoo is upon her, an’ I’ve given you the tale.

(The story has a Warnin’ that’s as plain as plain can be,

An’’tis: Never go to triflin’ with the secrets of the sea.)

SKIPPER JASON ELLISON

His nose was like a liver hung against a Hub- bard squash,

--That nose of Jason Ellison, the skipper of the “Hanks.”

His nose was like a liver and the color wouldn’t wash,

But the men that “chanced” on trips with him, they always got the dosh,.

For there wa’n’t another skipper who could touch him on the Banks.

Whether biz was tight or slack,

--When Jase came sailin’ back

A gang was always coaxin’ for a berth upon his smack.

Not another Gloucester skipper Had sech easy job to ship a

Topper-notcher fishin’ crew, with ev’ry man a crack.

For, you see, he was a wizard;--he did won- ders with that nose,

He could sniff and tell the weather-sign of ev’ry gust that rose;

You could figure from its color’twas a most uncommon snoot,

And whenever he predicted no one ventured to dispute.

His eye could nail a fish-slick off a league or so away,

--He could look around a corner, so his fel- lows used to say;

But the thing’twas most uncommon--where our whole dependence hung,

Was his long and round and peak-ed champion taster of a tongue.

’Twas always out and chasin’ round the edges of his lip;

When a nasty time was brewin’

It was always out and doin’

Like as though it felt responsible for helpin’ handle ship.

It had tasted ev’ry bottom soil from Quero to the Cow,

It knew the taste and savor, the place and where and how.

--Darkest night or wildest hurricane that ever ramped or blew,

We never lost our bearin’s, for old Jason always knew.

We would take some mutton taller and we’d fill the hollowed head

Of the plummet, smooth and even, then a man would throw the lead.

And we’d pass her back to Jason and he’d turn the plummet up,

Taste the scrimp of soil that stuck there on the taller in the cup,

And he’d tell us where we headed, though the night be black’s a coal,

For he knew the taste of bottoms from the Cow to Quero Shoal.

--Told us easy, off the reel,

What was underneath our keel,

--Didn’t need the sun or quadrant with old Jason at the wheel;

He was only once mistaken in the memory of men,

--And we’ve always kept insistin’ that he wa’n’t mistaken then.

The storm came down upon us from the nor’- nor’east by east,

--’Twas an equinoctial pealer,

A reg’lar ring-tail squealer,

The sky was hasty puddin’ and the sea beneath was yeast.

When the Hanks went tossin’ up’ards it really seemed we flew,

And the sky seemed splittin’ open for to let our vessel through;

When we wallowed down wher-rooshin’ in the gulf that gawped beneath,

We’d’a’ left our hearts behind us if we hadn’t clinched our teeth.

We’d really seem to feel Old Hankses’ battered keel