Two very reckless fellows used always to go fishing together, and used
also to spend their leisure together. One was known as Roughit; and the
other was called Lance. Roughit was big, with heavy limbs and a rather
brutal face. He wore his hair and beard very long, and his eyes looked
morosely from under thick reddish eyebrows. He scarcely ever spoke to
anybody; and some of the superstitious fishermen did not like to meet
him in the morning, because they thought he always brought them bad
luck. Lance was a handsome man, with small hands and feet. He was not
like the shaggy giants of the village--and, indeed, it had been said
that some people at the Hall knew more about his parentage than might at
first sight be supposed. The two men never talked much, and never
exchanged any kind of greeting when they met and parted. Both of them
were such expert boatmen that excepting on very dark nights they
scarcely needed to communicate except by signs.
On summer afternoons when the herrings were coming southward Roughit
would knock at Lance's door and pass on without a word. Presently Lance
would come out, with his oilskins over one arm and his water-bottle
swung by his side. The coble was lifted on to the launching-wheels and
run down to the water; then the two men took their places, and the boat
stole away northward over the bay. They never carried their fish to any
big port, because their boat was so small that it was not worth their
while. They always ran back to their own village and sold their catch to
the farmers and labourers in their own neighbourhood. When the boat was
beached, Roughit and Lance had their nets driven up to the great green
and then spread in the sun for an hour or two. They sat smoking and
listening to the larks that sung against one another over the common.
About one o'clock they strode home together and went to bed until it was
time to go north once more.
The herring season is the pleasantest for fishermen. It is their
harvest; and they have little real hardship and a good deal of
excitement. On calm nights, after the nets are shot, there are hours of
keen expectancy, until the oily flicker on the surface of the water
tells that the great shoal is moving to its fate; then there is the wild
bustle among the whole fleet while the nets are hauled in; and then
comes the pleasant morning lounge after the fish are sold.
Roughit and Lance were always lucky, and made lots of money during the
summer and autumn. In winter times were harder for them. They mostly did
all their work in the daytime, and sent their fish round to their
customers in the afternoons. In the evenings they sat on the bench in
the tavern and smoked silently until the time came for expeditions of
another sort. The friends were great poachers, and they carried on
their operations like a pair of vicious and well-trained lurchers.
Roughit had a small lightly built dog, bred between a collie and
greyhound; Lance had a big Bedlington terrier; and these two dogs were
certain to be the death of any hare they made up their minds to catch.
Lance and Roughit would sit down by the fence beside a gate; the lurcher
lay quietly down beside the gate-post, while the terrier slipped through
the gap in the hedge and sneaked quietly round to the top of the field.
When he had reached the furthermost hedge, he began to beat slowly down
towards his confederate: there would come a quick thud, thud of feet;
then a scraping on the bars of the gate; then a shrill squeak; and the
lurcher cantered quietly up with his game to the place where the two
fishermen sat. If old Sam, the Squire's gamekeeper, had ever had a
chance of putting a charge of shot into either of the dogs he would not
have thrown it away. But the brutes usually stayed indoors all day, and
never went rummaging the coverts on their own account. Roughit showed no
signs of sporting instinct; but Lance really liked the fun, and was
willing to run all kinds of risks.
Year after year the friends lived their silent life, dividing their time
between fishing, poaching, and drinking. Sometimes a spell of bad
weather came, and all day long the spray flew over the cottages and the
cold breeze covered the sand with foam. The waters roared drearily, and
the nights were bad enough to prevent the most inveterate poacher from
turning out. During the daytime Lance and Roughit would lounge on the
rock-tops, and look grimly out at the horizon, where the grey clouds
laid their shoulders to the sea. Their companionship was much like that
of lower animals: it was quite sufficient for one to know that the other
was near. They did once separate for a short time, Roughit shipped in a
merchant brig that was going round to Plymouth. The vessel made the run
in about a week; but Roughit felt very wretched during the whole time,
without knowing exactly why. At Plymouth he deserted, leaving his box
behind him, and set off on foot northwards.
One evening Lance was sitting sulkily on the ground, when he saw a man
crossing the moor. A vague curiosity caused him to walk out to meet the
stranger, and presently Roughit came up looking very dirty, and wearing
only an old sleeved waistcoat and a ragged pair of canvas trousers. He
was barefooted too, and limped a good deal. The two men simply nodded
and turned back to the village together. Neither of them asked any
questions, but they sat drinking until a late hour, and went home less
steadily than might have been wished. The people in the Row took but
little notice of this eccentric couple; for, after all, the friends did
harm to nothing except the Squire's ground-game.
When the two men were growing grizzled with advancing years the coble
which belonged to them had gone away from the fishing-ground one black
night, before a strong north-easterly gale: she shot between the Great
Farne Island and the Bird's Rock. The tide was going like a millrace,
and the solemn roar of the vast stream made very terrible music in the
dark. The men might have got into their own haven by an easy passage,
despite the gale. But both of them seemed to be always possessed by a
gloomy kind of recklessness, and when they made the village lights they
determined upon trying an entrance which was desperately difficult. In
the centre of a gap which was twenty feet wide stood a rock which was
known as "The Tailor's Needle." It stood 400 yards south of "The
Cobbler." This rock was clad in sea-weed around its base; but eight feet
of the upper part of it was bare of weeds and covered only with tiny
shells which tore the hands. On the top of the rock was a very small
platform of about one foot square, and in fine weather daring boys would
stand upright on this summit and wave to the people ashore. The rock was
covered two feet by an ordinary spring tide; but on the night when
Roughit and Lance decided to try and pass it, about a foot was above
water. There was not a great deal of sea on; indeed, there was hardly
more than what the fishermen call a "northerly lipper;" but the tide was
running with extraordinary swiftness. Roughit put the helm down and
guessed at his bearings. The boat lay hard down and tore in through the
gap. There was a long grinding crash; the weather-side lifted clean out
of the water; she dropped off the rock, and the two men were pitched
overboard. Roughit scrambled to the top, at the expense of torn hands.
He hung on as well as he could; but the spray from the combings of the
seas cut his face and blinded him. Still, he could easily have held on
till dawn, because the tide had no further to rise. He, like too many of
the fishermen, could not swim. He got hold of the edge of the rock.
There was not room for him on the ledge; so presently he said, "I am
going." Roughit answered: "No, don't do that; let me give you a haul up
here." As Lance went up on one side Roughit went off on the other. The
waves buffeted him away towards the shore, and he cried out
"Good-night!" when he had swum a few yards westward.
At dawn Lance was picked off "The Tailor's Needle," but Roughit was
found dead on the sand. Lance never forgave himself for having taken his
comrade's offer; he disliked the village, he hated the sea; and before
long he went away inland to work down in the pits.