_LIFE AT JOHN’S COTTAGE--THE FISHING_
I have told the reader a little about Sandie’s new master and his
landlady, John’s wife, and a glimpse at the cottage itself may not be
uninteresting.
John’s residence, then, was what a house-factor would have described as
pleasantly situated by the sea-shore, and as far as the situation went
he would have been right.
The house itself stood with one of its gables towards the sea, as if it
had fallen out with the sea and was giving it the cold shoulder. It was
separated from high-water mark by about three square yards of green
sward, or, as a recent poet says--
“The sea washing up to the door,
The bay running down to the boat.”
There, of a summer’s evening, John and his wife might have been seen
mending their nets or preparing the bait for lobster creels or deep-sea
lines. John used to say that there never was any woman whatever who
could render bait so tempting to the eye or nose of fish or lobster as
his Eppie could, and there must have been a good deal of truth in what
he said, for often when fishermen drew in their lines, or drew up their
creels empty, John’s draught of fishes would be but a little short of
miraculous. In the winter-time, at spring tides the sea used often to
despise the boundaries set to it, inundate the bit of green sward, wash
the clay from the foundations of the hut, and dash in angry spray over
the chimney itself. This east-end chimney had accordingly a very
dilapidated appearance, being plastered up with boards, old tarpaulin,
and ropes of straw, which, however, were constantly coming to grief, so
that John’s constant employment, whenever he had nothing else to do, was
to sit cross-legged upon the roof and repair it. The other chimney was
quite a respectable affair in comparison.
The front of the little building, however, was quite a picture of
neatness and cleanliness. The causeway in front of it was always swept
and tidy, for Eppie made it a law that neither murlin nor creel should
lie about her door. She had a small hut for all such gear, and there
they were placed when not in use.
In the front side of John’s house were a door and two small windows,
from which statement the reader may easily infer that the accommodation
consisted only of two rooms, “a butt and a ben.” And the amount of
whitewash expended every month on both the outside walls and the inside
must have been something very considerable indeed.
From sea, John’s house was therefore by day a very good mark to the
helmsman, and on a clear night was as good as many a lighthouse.
Small though the building was, John’s best room, now given up to Sandie,
was as snug and well furnished as any fisherman’s need be. The bed at
one end, with its snowy counterpane and white calico curtains, would
have made you drowsy to look at. Then there was a chest of drawers, an
old-fashioned grandfather’s clock, and a real mahogany table with
chairs, besides a little bookcase filled with the most motley collection
of books ever seen, and a large sea-chest well stocked, nay, even
crammed, with everything appertaining to male or female wearing apparel.
And all these articles of use and luxury John and his wife had gathered
by their own untiring industry. But this room, you may be sure, was only
dwelt in upon high days and holidays, such as John’s birthday, or “my
ain,” Eppie would say, “which comes but once a year, ye ken.”
The portals of this sacred chamber were likewise thrown open wide on
Halloween and Fasterseen, called in England Shrove Tuesday, and until
the advent of one or other of those festive occasions, let us leave it.
The best room was called _butt_ the house. It was ben the house,
however, where you found John and Eppie when really at home. This was
the apartment next the sea, and in addition to its front window, it
could also boast of a little six-paned gable window, with a very broad
sill. Alongside this window stood John’s easy-chair, a vast
chintz-covered edifice, which one would imagine had been built on the
premises. And on the window sill, within easy reach, lay a large Family
Bible, a copy of the Shorter Catechism, Burns’ Poems, and a Life of Sir
William Wallace.
On stormy nights, when John’s boat was far out in the bay, rocked in the
cradle of the deep, Eppie used to burn a bright light in the wee window,
to keep up the spirits of her little man, and guide him safe to shore.
The window was, moreover, fitted with a strong shutter, which was
shipped when the tides were high or the weather threatening.
A low fire of peats and pinewood burned upon the hearth, and in winter
evenings, the stormier the night and the higher the waves, the bigger
was the fire that Eppie built, seating herself near it, with a bright
and cheery face to knit her stocking, while John, in his easy-chair
opposite, entertained her with wonderful stories from that seemingly
inexhaustible book, the Life of Wallace.
John, too, had other accomplishments besides that of reading, one of
which, and not the least clever either, was his ability to stamp a reel
or a strathspey on an old fiddle, that hung in its green baize bag on
the wall behind his chair; how he loved that old instrument too! It was
the only thing in the world that Eppie had ever had reason to be jealous
of. John called his violin by the not over-euphonious name of “Janet.”
“Isn’t she natural?” he would exclaim gleefully after playing a tune.
“Isn’t she na-a-tural?” and he would pat it on the back, and laughing,
kiss it, then hold it to his breast as if it were a favourite child.
Yet John never cared to perform for his own special delectation, but
rather for the happiness of others. Although himself childless, very
seldom indeed was John’s fireside not surrounded of an evening by little
curly heads and bright jubilant faces, listening mute and wondering to
the weird old-fashioned tales he had such a gift in relating. How, too,
would these little faces light up with smiles when, after a long story,
John would rise, and standing on a chair, take down the mysterious green
bag, and, after a series of tinkle-tankle-tum-tum, as he tuned up, and
which made expectancy itself a pleasure, launch forth into a lively
tune.
Then at once a reel would be formed on the floor, and never did feet of
fairies trip it more lightly, in moonlit glade, than did these laughing
children over the fisherman’s floor.
Thus did John spend his evenings at home, when the sea was too stormy to
permit of his going after his usual avocations. On clear nights,
however, the little boat bobbed up and down against the starry horizon,
and Eppie burned her little oil lamp in the gable window, albeit the
moon might be shining as bright as day.
There were times, however, when that bright little beacon lamp was
sorely needed, nights when the lonely fisherman was overtaken by sudden
storms, when clouds and darkness lowered around him, sea and sky met in
wildest fury; then did that light in the window steel his arm and nerve
his heart, telling as it did of the cosy wee cottage--his home, where
his good wife sat anxiously awaiting his return, though often and often,
strong-minded though she was, with womanly tears falling from her eyes.
But for all the dangers John had come through--and what fisherman on
that wild coast does not?--he had so far never yet met with any accident
worth mentioning, or out of the usual run common to his class. Many a
strong boat belonging to his neighbours had perished, and many a
stalwart fellow had left a widow and fatherless bairns to mourn, but
nothing had ever happened to John more distressing than the occasional
loss of his lines, or destruction of his gear by awkward and
obstreperous bottle-nosed whales, too eager in pursuit of the silvery
herrings to consider the little fisherman’s interest. Not a small
misfortune, either, to a poor man like him, to have a dozen of these
unwieldy brutes run their blunt noses through his nets, rending asunder
nearly all his worldly wealth, and carrying away the pieces on their
great greasy tails, to goodness knows where.
* * * * *
Still a few days would elapse before the launching of John’s great boat,
and the commencement of herring-fishing in earnest. Very busy days they
were for John and Eppie, making and mending nets, and completing all
preparations for the silver harvest.
First bursar at the University though he was, the making of a fishing
net was far beyond Sandie’s skill, but as his wages had already
commenced, he was determined he should not be idle. One lesson in the
management of the lobster creels was enough, so he took them in charge.
This left John free to go on with more important work.
So every evening Sandie broke up crabs, and baited the creels with the
pieces. Then one by one he would carry them to the little boat, then
launching the craft upon the salt sea, leap on board and seize the oars.
Sandie was by no means an awkward boatman. In handling an oar his
constant practice on the Don had made him quite an adept. And so, as the
sun was slowly sinking towards the green hills in the far west, and
hardly a ripple on the swelling sea, Sandie would row his boat far away
out to a rocky point of the coast, several miles from John’s cottage.
The cliffs here were for the most part steep and precipitous, and
afforded no landing for boat or skiff, while the water all around was
very deep. Yellow scented furze and stunted pine-trees grew on the
cliff-tops--these trees, more inland, deepening into a dark and gloomy
wood. Seagulls were for ever wheeling and screaming around this bold
promontory, and it was said that at one time even the golden-headed
eagle had had an eerie on the most inaccessible shelf of the rock.
But it was not birds Sandie was after, but crabs and lobsters; and here
the best on all the coast were to be found in abundance.
Having sunk his creel, Sandie would pull farther away from the rocks,
then taking out a book on mathematics, and hauling in his oars, he would
become wrapt in Elysium, till twilight deepened into night, and even his
young eyes could see no more.
By this time, too, Eppie’s lamp would be shining clear and beacon-like
across the heaving sea, as if inviting him home to supper.
Then he would “out-oars,” and pull rapidly shorewards, when he always
found little John waiting to beach the boat.
Now, I would not like to say that evening worship is the universal
custom in fisher villages in Scotland, but I know it is in a great many
of the cottages of these contented and industrious people, and it
certainly was so in John’s. John himself read a chapter, and said a
prayer, and a psalm was also sung to the sad and mournful music of some
such old tune as Martyrdom, Ballerma, or London New. Soon after this,
every one was sound asleep. Sandie used to open his window wide before
lying down, that he might breathe the balmy sea-breeze, and listen to
the musical monotone of the waves as they broke lazily on the golden
sand.
His first act of a morning was to dress negligently and hurry down to
the seaside, where, behind some dark rocks, he could enjoy a bath in a
deep pool, that the sun’s rays had not as yet reached.
* * * * *
All was right at last!
The herring had come to the coast in myriads. No one could remember a
more promising year.
Then, one evening, John’s crew were all assembled, and the great boat
was launched. With Eppie’s hearty blessing and prayers for success
ringing in his ears, John scrambled on board, and took his seat by the
tiller; sail was set, the night-wind blew from off the land, and ere
long the sturdy fishing-boat was bobbing and curtseying to each
advancing wave, far out beyond the waters of the bay.
There were very many more boats there besides John’s, quite a fleet
indeed, but in the friendly way common to fisher-folks, they had spread
themselves well out in a kind of skirmishing order, so that the one
would not interfere with the other’s take or chance.
The paying out of the nets seemed to Sandie and the Skyemen, who acted
as his mates, like mere child’s play.
But some time afterwards, when these nets came to be hauled in again,
nobody found it such easy work. It made even Sandie’s arms ache.
“I think, John,” said Sandie, “we are going to have a good haul this
time.”
“And thank the Lord for a’ His goodness,” responded little John
piously.
“Haul away, men,” he cried, as the Skyemen stopped for a moment to blow
on their hands.
“Haul away it is,” was the answering call, and up came the net.
“A miraculous draught!” cried John joyfully, as he saw the silver mass
moving in the boat’s well or bottom. “Why, Sandie M‘Crae, I believe it’s
a’ your luck.”
Again and again were the nets launched, again and again were they hauled
up well filled.
And now supper was placed upon the boards. And a right hearty supper all
hands made too, although there was nothing stronger to drink than
excellent coffee and milk served out in mugs.
But a fire had been lit over some stones, and in a huge frying-pan
herrings were cooked. Neither the salt, the pepper, the bread nor the
butter had been forgotten, and that meal, eaten on the bosom of the
rolling deep, long past the midnight hour, was one of the most enjoyable
Sandie could remember ever having partaken of.
At the “skreigh” of day, or, in plain English, at dawn, John’s boat,
well laden, sailed slowly tack and half tack, for the wind was still off
the shore, towards the land.
And a happy woman was Eppie when she saw the haul which, as she phrased
it, “the Lord had sent them.”
After an excellent breakfast Sandie went to bed, and dreamt he was
wandering, fishing-rod in hand, along the banks of the winding Don, with
Maggie May by his side, and Tyro, the dog, an interesting spectator of
the sport.