After three days' hard fishing, they cleaned up the fish on their
first "berth," and when it "thinned out" they hoisted sail and anchor
and shifted to the northward. Every day was not a good fishing day.
Sometimes they got a mere handful of cod or haddock, and there were
other days when the April fogs were so dense that Captain Nickerson
had to keep the dories aboard, in spite of his desire to get "a trip
of fish" quickly. These were the days when Donald experienced the grey
terror of the Banks--the soaking, impenetrable fog which would steal
up apparently from nowhere and settle over the sea in a heavy pall of
finely atomized mist which defied sight and played strange tricks with
sound. The fishermen hated fog, and well they might. McKenzie got an
idea of their antipathy one day when a huge New York liner almost
"got" them as she whirled past them in the vapor. So close was she,
that they had to let the main-boom run to the end of the sheet or the
steamer would have struck it as it lay in the crotch. All hands were
frightened, and standing on the rolling schooner's deck, they shook
their fists at the receding liner and howled picturesque oaths.
"Half-speed on the telegraph, half speed in the log, but the engines
turning up their maximum revolutions," growled the skipper, and Donald
thought of how his father had to drive his ship through these foggy
wastes and possibly just escape destroying a schooner as this steamer
had narrowly missed sending the _West Wind_ to the bottom. During
thick weather, while at anchor on the Banks, in daytime, they kept the
bell tolling and fired a shot-gun when steamers were heard blowing in
the vicinity. At night, they kept torches alight. When under way, they
relied on sharp ears and eyes and a mechanical fog-horn, which emitted
a sound a trifle more audible than the buzz of a bee.
Fog, however, did not always keep the fishermen aboard. If it was
thin, or if there were signs that it would dissipate shortly, the
dories went over the rail, and the fishermen pulled into the mist with
only a kerosene torch, a tin trumpet or a conch-shell, rudely cut at
the end of the spiral to make a bugle-like blast when blown, to
protect them. Donald had only been a week at sea on a fisherman when
he learned of what calibre these Banksmen were. He saw them pull off
in their frail dories in mists; in sharp March and April snow-squalls,
and in moderately heavy breezes, when the seas were cresting and the
spring rains were pelting down. They went over the rail in the dark of
early morning, with brooding sky and a hint of storm in the air, and
with torches aflare on their dory gunnels, they set and hauled their
gear, until the wind and sea decreed that it was dangerous to defy it
longer. Were it not for their skipper's signal to come aboard, they
would have fished until the most timid of their gang buoyed the gear
and pulled for the schooner, but there were no timid men in the _West
Wind's_ crowd.
They fished hard on the _West Wind_, harder than they would have
ordinarily, but there was a bet to be won, and it was safe to assume
that Ira Burton on the _Annie Brown_, was working "double-tides" and
"wetting his salt" as fast as he could. Captain Nickerson kept his men
at it, and he did not spare himself. He worked harder than any of
them, and called up all his sea-lore and fish-lore to bring the finny
spoils aboard. At odd intervals, he produced blue-books and pamphlets
on icthyological subjects from his bunk shelf and studied the
migrations of fish and the distribution of plankton and the various
other marine minutiæ upon which the cod, haddock and other demersal
species are supposed to feed. Two or three times a day, he lashed a
thermometer to the lead-line and recorded bottom temperatures.
Temperatures and salinity of the surface waters were taken by him
regularly and recorded in his private log. Donald attempted to assist
him in this work, and the two of them pored over the scientific
literature and incidentally cursed the writers for recording their
researches in language beyond their common school educational
understanding.
The men looked upon this scientific work with scorn. "A blame'
thermometer ain't agoin' to tell him whar' th' fish are," they said.
"Let him fix a camerar to that there lead an' photygraft th' bottom to
tell us whar' th' fish an' th' rough spots are. That's th' ticket. Ira
Burton don't fish thataway. No, siree! That guy hez th' mind of a cod,
an' they say he jest picks one up aout o' th' pen an' he goes below
with it an' talks to it, an' he'll come up a while after an' say:
'We'll fish araound here some more. They're thick on th' bottom in
this here spot!' That's Burton's way." And some joker would raise a
laugh by picking up a big codfish in his arms and asking it the
whereabouts of the main body of its family.
They were doing very well, however, and when an ugly easterly sprung
up, they took advantage of the break in the weather to run into port
and secure more bait. On the run-in, the men caught up on sleep, and
the skipper and Donald sailed the vessel the fifty or sixty miles to
port under a reefed mains'l and through a spiteful wind and sea. They
only remained long enough to secure bait and some supplies, and shot
out again on the last of the easterly blow.
Working the grounds around Sable Island, they swung off for Eastville
Harbor with over a thousand quintals of fish in salt below, and
arrived in the home port on May 10th, after nearly two months'
absence. Ira Burton had been in and was gone again, and nobody knew
how much he had landed. The fish had been weighed by his own men, and
the tally was kept a secret. It was a good "jag" gossipers averred,
and various estimates were given--none of which could be credited.
"We'll git aour fish aout, salt an' supplies aboard, an' we'll skin
aout too," said the skipper. "An' we'll see what's what at the end of
the season."
It was early morning when they arrived in Eastville Harbor, and the
skipper and Donald surprised the Nickerson family by stamping into the
house before a soul was stirring. The first one downstairs was Ruth,
who greeted them both warmly, and asked excited questions about the
_West Wind's_ catch. "Will you beat Captain Burton, Juddy?" she cried.
"He's landed his spring trip and people say it was a record one--" She
broke off and turned to Donald. "And how do you like the fishing, Mr.
McKenzie?" she enquired interestedly. "I suppose you're glad to get
back. Are you going to stick at it?"
McKenzie answered enthusiastically, "I surely do like the fishing life
and I intend to stick at it. I've enjoyed myself immensely. Of course,
I'm glad to get back for a spell--"
"It ain't agoin' to be a long spell though," interrupted Judson, who
was worrying about Ira Burton. It was not the chance of losing five
hundred dollars that caused him anxiety, but rather the blow to his
prestige--the horror of losing and being called a "windy bluff."
Masterful men of the Nickerson type cannot stand ridicule. "We'll skip
aout again to-morrow morning, I cal'late."
The girl's face fell at his announcement. "Why do you want to run away
like this, Juddy, dear," she asked plaintively. "Surely one day won't
make much difference between now and September?"
Her brother laughed. "Won't it?" He patted her on the shoulder. "It
might put us in the hole. A pile o' fish can be salted down in one
day, Ruthie. No, no, Sis, we can't stay longer--much as we'd like to."
Donald, feasting his eyes on Ruth's pretty face and lithe figure,
mentally echoed her desire and anathematized Ira Burton and his wager.
He regretted for a moment his fertile imagination in suggesting such a
scheme to Judson.
When the skipper left to go upstairs to see his parents, Donald sat
and chatted with Ruth, who was engaged in laying the table for
breakfast. "You'll be interested to know that Miss Stuart is staying
with us just now," said the girl. "I left her in bed fast asleep--"
"No you didn't, Ruth," came a laughing voice from the stair. "Here I
am wide-awake." And Helena came down into the room and greeted
McKenzie cordially. "This is indeed a pleasant surprise. Did Captain
Nickerson win his bet?" Donald explained to her that the wager would
not be decided until the end of the season in September.
It was very pleasant sitting in the sun-flooded dining room and
chatting with two pretty girls--very pleasant indeed. After weeks in
the intimate society of hairy-chested men, whose conversation was
red-blooded and direct, it was distinctly refreshing to be talking
"nice" and listening to soft musical voices. Donald's artistic eye
appreciated the soft hair, clear skins and sweetly moulded figures of
the two young women, and when he gazed at Ruth there was a light in
his eyes which told of the loveflame kindling in his heart. It was
spring, and through the windows and the open door, the sunshine was
streaming in and the birds were singing and chirping in all the
joyousness of the season's warmth. The trees were breaking into leaf
and the grass was bright green and goodly to look upon by eyes weary
with the monotony of eternal leagues of sea. The sky stretched
faultlessly blue overhead and the waters of the harbor gleamed gold in
the sun, while the air was as clear as a bell and redolent of warm
earth and the scent of balsam and spruce. When old mother earth breaks
from the thraldom of winter, the heart grows light and fancies turn to
love.
Ruth had finished laying the table. "Now, Helena," she said, "you can
go in the kitchen and fry up some eggs and bacon and make some coffee.
When Juddy comes downstairs he'll help you. I want to show Mr.
McKenzie the dear little bird's nest we found yesterday." And turning
to Donald, she continued, "There are four beautiful little eggs in
it. Come on, Mr. Fisherman!" And nothing loath, Donald followed her
out into the sunshine, feeling favored and happy. This was a girl for
his heart! A girl who appreciated Nature in all her loveliness, and
when she pointed out the hidden nest in a hushed voice there was a
tenderness in her tones which betrayed affections, deep, true, and
worth winning.
At the breakfast table, he spent a happy hour. Ruth waited upon him
assiduously, and in thinking about her, he gave vague answers to old
Mr. and Mrs. Nickerson's questionings regarding his fishing
experiences. What Ruth was doing for him, Helena was doing for Judson,
and when he glanced at the smiling, laughing, joking skipper, McKenzie
blessed the day that saw him a member of the _Kelvinhaugh's_ ship's
company under such a man. In those days he little dreamed of such
present hours.
When Donald had finished his fourth cup of coffee, Ruth jumped to her
feet with an exclamation. "Oh! I almost forgot. Here's a letter that
came for you while you were away. I must apologize for not giving it
to you before. We'll excuse you while you go and read it."
It was from his mother, and it was a long epistle full of loving
expressions and scarcely veiled fears. She was appalled at his
experiences aboard the _Kelvinhaugh_, and extremely nervous about his
voyage in the _Helen Starbuck_, and when his letters came from Halifax
and Eastville announcing his safe arrival, a great load had been
lifted from her heart. "You know, dear laddie, you are all I have now,
and if anything happened to you I would not care to live," it read.
"And, oh, my bonny, but I'm lonesome for you and longing for the day
when we'll be together again.... I'm so pleased you have found such a
friend in Captain Nickerson. I'm sure he is a splendid gentleman, and
I hope your step in going into the Canadian fisheries will be
successful and promising. I am longing for the time when I shall come
out to Nova Scotia and make a home for you there. Your remittance of
$150 came to hand safely, but I am sorry to confess, dear, that I had
to break into it. Your uncle wrote me the enclosed letter, telling me
of your death by drowning--which, of course, I knew was not true, as
you explained the circumstances in your letter from British
Columbia--but shortly afterwards I was dismissed from the Hydropathic
for some unknown reason, and I feel sure David McKenzie was at the
bottom of it. I found some little difficulty in getting another place,
and it was during this period that I had to use the money you sent me.
Now, do not worry about me. I have since secured a position as night
matron in the Davidson Home for the Aged and Infirm--a lovely place
just outside of Glasgow--and I am very comfortable here." The letter
concluded with those affectionate paragraphs which only mothers can
write.
He turned his attention to the enclosed letter from his uncle. It was
typical of the man--abrupt in phraseology and entirely lacking in
courtesy or sympathy.
"Dear Madam," it ran, "the master of the _Kelvinhaugh_ advises
me that your son, Donald McKenzie, was drowned while fishing in
Vancouver harbor on the evening of Sept. 30th, 189--. His body
was not recovered. Yours truly, DAVID MCKENZIE & CO., per D.
McK."
Donald smiled bitterly. "Short, sweet and utterly damnable!" he
muttered, and he crushed it savagely in his strong fingers. He opened
his mother's letter again and perused it thoughtfully, trying to read
between the lines. There was a lot left unsaid in that letter, and he
knew his mother was hard put to it when she was forced to use the
passage-money. David McKenzie was apparently as vindictive as ever, he
ruminated grimly. The beast! Curtly announcing Donald's death to his
mother and then having her discharged. How had she fared after leaving
the Hydro? His imagination pictured fearful things and he stared out
of the window unseeing and unconsciously gritted his teeth. Put him
before David McKenzie again and let the swine treat his mother as he
did before and he would tear the heart out of the hound with his bare
hands! The perspiration broke out on his forehead in excess of silent
rage as the old fury of Highland blood boiled within him thirsting for
revenge....
A hand was placed on his shoulder and a girl's voice roused him. "I
hope you had good news from home, Mr. McKenzie?" It was Ruth, and she
was looking at him with an expression of concern in her deep blue
eyes.
"We-e-ell, yes," he answered cheerfully--the old passion dying
instantly at the sound of her voice. "It is not bad news. Mother is
well and happy."
She smiled. "I was afraid by the look on your face when you read your
letter that something unpleasant was troubling you." Donald laughed
and crumpled the letter into his pocket.
"Are you going to be here this evening?" asked Helena, coming over.
"If you are, we might have some music and a little dance. What do you
say, Ruth?"
"Surely, surely," answered the other, "and I'm going to ask Mr.
McKenzie to look over some of my recent daubs in the painting line.
And, now, coming down from the sublime to the ridiculous, Helena, come
and help me clear the table."
Lolling on the window-seat, McKenzie's thoughts flew back to his
mother in the Glasgow Home. He was anxious to see her again and to
have her with him. She must be lonely--very lonely. He was deeply
immersed in thought when Ruth, on her way to the kitchen with a pile
of dishes, stumbled over a rag mat and sent the crockery crashing to
the floor. Donald was on his feet in a second. "I'm so sorry," he said
apologetically. "I should have given you a hand to clear the things
away. I'm forgetting my manners. Allow me to pick the pieces up!" He
dropped to the floor while the girl regarded him with shining eyes.
Such chivalry in domestic mishaps was unusual.
He collected the broken dishes and carried them into the kitchen, and
when Ruth rolled her sleeves up to wash the breakfast things, he
smiled and held out his hand. "Give me the dish-rag, Miss Nickerson,
and I will wash up. You can dry the things." When she demurred, he
added, "Oh, I'm an old hand at this work. I used to do it for mother
many a time." And he took the dish-cloth gently away from her, while
she mentally remarked on his courtesy with something of regret. "This
delightful boy--a fisherman! Wasting his fragrance on the desert
air ... it's too bad." Fishing, as an occupation did not stand very high
in Ruth's estimation. She was of a romantic turn of mind and longed to
be a modern Una, but the thought of choosing her knight from among
sea-roving fish-killers did not appeal to her imagination. She rather
fancied this stalwart, dark-eyed, confident, cultured youth, but his
profession...? It was the fly in the ointment!
The others had vanished for the time being, and together in the
kitchen, Ruth and Donald washed and dried, chatting, teasing and
laughing until Judson stuck his head around the door. "Oh, there you
are," he cried. "Washin' dishes? Well, well! I cal'late, Ruthie,
you'll have to let your galley-help come along with me. We have a lot
to do an' darn small time to do it in. Come on, Don!" Donald
regretfully relinquished the dish-cloth and wiped his hands, while
Ruth voiced her indignation. "That's you, Judson Nickerson!" she
scolded jocularly. "Always spoiling a pleasant little party by
dragging my visitor off. You may boss him, but, thank goodness, you
can't boss me!"
Her brother looked humorously at her--pulling pensively at his
mustache. "No, by Jupiter, Ruthie-girl," he said, edging towards the
door as he spoke, "I could boss a whole shipload of roughnecks, but I
wouldn't attempt to boss a little spitfire like you."
As he passed through the door after Judson, McKenzie whispered, "This
is the first time I have really enjoyed dish-washing. I'll help you
to-night, if I may." And with the sparkling glance from her laughing
eyes envisioned in his memory, he strode down to the wharf with a
heart as light and care-free as though trouble never existed.
Down at the wharf they tallied the fish out, and kept the score
secret. Then supplies were hustled aboard, and Donald and the skipper
worked until afternoon sending up the _West Wind's_ fore-topmast and
bending the balloon jib. They dined on the vessel, and when tea-time
came, she was ready for the long summer trip with salt, fresh
victuals, and water aboard. "We'll get under way at six in the
morning," said the skipper finally, and he and Don went up to the
house.
Donald had been worrying considerably about his mother, and he
confided his troubles to the skipper. "I want to bring her out here,
captain," he said, "but I don't know if I can afford to keep her on my
wages. I am getting thirty dollars a month as spare hand on the _West
Wind_, and I own that is good money for a chap my age, but could I
keep mother on that out here?"
The other thought for a moment. "I'm afraid not, Don," he said. "You'd
need to earn at least forty-five dollars monthly to keep a home an'
your mother anyways comfortable. However, son, you jest plug along
this summer an' get on to the fishin' so's you kin go in a dory--then
you'll earn more money. This fall, I'm goin' to go master of a big
schooner running fish an' lumber to th' West Indies, an' I hope to
take you along as second mate. You'll get fifty a month then, an' next
spring you'll go in the dory as a fisherman, and ef we strike it right
there's no reason why you shouldn't make six to eight hundred dollars
for the season's work. Fishin' summers an' makin' West Indie voyages
in the winter ought to keep you pretty comfortable for a while. But I
hope in a year or two to see you skipper of your own vessel. With your
brains an' ability, there's no reason why you shouldn't."
Donald smiled. "That's what I hope, Skipper," he said, "but I want to
write mother to-night and give her something definite. I am thinking
of shipping over to Glasgow and bringing her out when we get back. Can
I do it?" "No reason why you can't," replied the other. "It'll only
take you a month to make the trip. S'pose you leave in October, you
can be back in time to sail with me in December. You should have a
couple of hundred dollars to draw come September. You'll be in good
trim then. That'll more than pay her passage out an' yours too." The
lad laughed happily. "That's right, Captain!" he exclaimed, "I'm just
longing to bring her out here. I love this country, and the people,
and I've never regretted going fishing. The past two months have been
a revelation to me, and I've enjoyed every bit of it. The work is hard
when it comes, but there are lots of slack spells to make up for the
hard drags; the living is first class, and there is an element of
hazard and gamble in this fishing game which seems to have got me in a
spell--"
Judson slapped him affectionately on the shoulder. "You've said it
there, Don! That's it! The gamble of it all; the hard work for hard
dollars, and the harder you work--the more you make. We have good
times, good quarters and good grub, and, better'n all, you sail in
able craft an' with able men. That's why I chucked up the other game.
I was fed up mucking about in lime-juicers an' tryin' to get work done
with the no-sailors an' sojers that go in them nowadays. I rushed
them, cursed them, and even banged them at times, but I didn't do that
for the fun of it. I did it--played the bucko--because I had to,
that's why! Your lazy lime-juice shell-backs give Yankee and Bluenose
ships a hard name. Why? Because in aour ships a man had to be what he
signed for. If he was an A.B., he had to do A.B.'s work. If he
couldn't, God help him! We wouldn't put up with sojerin' or slack lip
in aour ships, an' that's why we had the smartest wooden wind-jammers
in the world. Where did you find your best British seamen? In American
and Canadian ships--where they were appreciated and well-fed. No
Yankee or Bluenose officer ever man-handled a good seaman. It was the
bums, the hoodlums, an' the Paddy Westers who tried to run the ship,
that we booted an' belaying-pinned, for that was the only language
they understood and respected. I was long enough in British ships to
have been soured on them. I've seen sails blown away an' gear
destroyed simply because the crew shirked their duty and the
officers--good enough men--couldn't make them do it for fear of bein'
hailed afore a British Consul on the charge of misdemeanors against
the Merchant Shipping Act." He paused and spat disgustedly.
Continuing, he said, "Naow, take yourself! You maybe thought I was a
mite severe with you on th' _Kelvinhaugh_? I never ill-used you,
though I made you hustle. Why? Because I saw you had the makings of a
sailor in you an' I wanted to instill smartness in you. You'll never
forget my lessons, Don, and I'll guarantee when you get a command of
your own, you'll want your crew to skip araound lively an' work, and
ef they don't, you'll know haow to handle 'em!"
They were on the verandah of the Nickerson home by now, and were
greeted by Helena and Ruth. "Don't you believe all Juddy tells you,
Mr. McKenzie," said Ruth, smiling. "He'd make one believe he was a
terrible man at sea. I don't believe he would hurt a fly!" Donald
laughed heartily. His memory flashed back to _Kelvinhaugh_ days and he
recalled some incidents in "brother Juddy's" career which rather
belied his sister's opinion. The skipper himself grinned foolishly,
and glanced from Donald to Helena Stuart. "How did he treat you on
that Scotch ship, Mr. McKenzie?" enquired Ruth. "Was he kind to you?"
"He was my best friend," said Donald seriously, "and did a great deal
more for me than I can ever repay. Your brother, in my humble opinion,
is the most capable and the best-hearted man that I ever knew and--"
"Belay! belay!" cried the skipper, reddening somewhat as he saw
Helena's dark eyes staring at him. "These compliments are liable to
unship a fellow's modesty." And he caught his sister by the arm and
led her into the house, while Helena and Donald remained seated on the
veranda steps.
"Tell me," said the girl after an exchange of small talk. "What sort
of a man is Captain Nickerson at sea? You seem to have a great
admiration for him."
"I have," replied Donald enthusiastically. "He is the ablest man I
have ever known outside of my own father. He is fearless, but not
reckless. He has wonderful endurance and a cultivated mind, and he has
a heart as big as his body. He is a man's man all through!"
Helena made a mental addition, "but evidently not a woman's man."
Aloud, she asked quietly, "Has he--er--do you know if he is anything
of a ladies' man?" There was a curious note in her voice which caused
Donald to glance at her with a quizzical expression.