THE ISLAND DECIDES
In Freekirk Head, next morning, painted signs nailed to telegraph-poles
at intervals along the King's Road as far as Castalia read:
MASS-MEETING TO-NIGHT
ODD FELLOWS HALL
8 O'CLOCK ALL COME
Who had issued this pronunciamento, what it signified, and what was
the reason for a town meeting nobody knew; and as the men trudged down
to their dories drawn up on the stony beach near the burned wharfs,
discussion was intense.
Finally the fact became known that a half-dozen of the wealthiest and
best-educated men in the village, including Squire Hardy and the Rev.
Adelbert Bysshe, rector of the Church of England chapel, had held a
secret conclave the night before at the squire's house.
It was believed that the signs were the result, and intimated in
certain obscure quarters that Pete Ellinwood, who had always claimed
literary aspirations, had printed them.
Odd Fellows' Hall was the biggest and most pretentious building in
Freekirk Head. It was of two stories height, and on its gray-painted
front bore the three great gilt links of the society. To one side of
it stood a wreck of a former factory, and behind it was the tiny
village "lockup."
It marked the spot where the highway turned south at right angles on
its wild journey southwest, a journey that ended in a leap into space
from the three hundred foot cliffs of gull-haunted, perpendicular
Southern Head.
The interior of the hall was in its gala attire. Two rows of huge
oil-lamps extended down the middle from back to front; others were in
brackets down the side walls, and three more above the low rostrum at
the far end. The chairs were in place, the windows open, and the two
young fishermen who acted as janitors of the hall stood at the rear,
greeting those that arrived with familiar jocularity.
Into the hall, meant to accommodate two hundred, three hundred people
were packed. The men in their rusty black, the women in their simple
white or flowered dresses, the children brushed and pig-tailed, had
all brought their Sunday manners and serious, attentive faces.
On the low platform presently appeared the Rev. Adelbert Bysshe
and Squire Hardy. The rector was a young man with a thin, ascetic
face. His mouth was pursed into a small line, and he wore large,
round spectacles to aid his faded blue eyes. His clerical garb
could not conceal the hesitating awkwardness of his manner, and
the embarrassment his hands and feet caused him seemed to be his
special cross in life.
When the audience had become quiet he rose and took his stand before
them, lowering his head and peering over his glasses.
"Friends," he said, "we have gathered here to-night to discuss the
welfare of Grande Mignon Island and the village of Freekirk Head."
A look of startled uncertainty swept over the simple, weather-beaten
faces in front of him.
"You know that I am not exaggerating," he continued, "when I say that
we are face to face with the gravest problem that has ever confronted
us. It has pleased God in His infinite Providence so to direct the
finny tribes that the denizens of the deep have altered the location
of their usual fishing-grounds.
"Day after day you men have gone forth with nets and lines like the
fishers of old; day after day, also like some of the fishers of old,
you have returned empty-handed. The salting-bins are not filled, the
drying-frames are bare, the shipments to St. John's have practically
ceased.
"I do not need to tell you that this spells destitution. This island
depends on its fish, and, since cod and hake and pollock have left us,
we must cast about for other means of support.
"This meeting, then, after due deliberation last night and earnest
supplication of the Almighty for guidance, has been called to
determine what course we shall pursue."
Mr. Bysshe, warm now and perspiring freely, retired to his seat and
mopped his face. Across the audience, which had listened intently,
there swept a murmur of low speech.
It is not given to most fisherfolk to know any more than the bare
comforts of life. Theirs is an existence of ceaseless toiling,
ceaseless danger, and very poor reward. Hardship is their daily lot,
and it requires a great incentive to bring them to a full stop in
consideration of their future.
Here, then, in Freekirk Head were three hundred fishermen with their
backs against the wall--mutely brave because it is bred in the
bone--quietly preparing for a final stand against their hereditary
enemies, hunger and poverty.
The low murmur of awestruck conversation suddenly stopped, for Squire
Hardy, with his fringe of white whiskers violently mussed, had risen
to speak.
"Mr. Bysshe has just about got the lobster in the pot," he declared,
"but I want to say one thing more. Things were bad enough up to a week
ago, but since the fire they have been a great deal worse. Mr. Nailor
and Mr. Thomas, who owned the fish stand that burned, have been
cleaned out. They gave employment to about twenty of you men.
"Those men are now without any work at all because the owners of the
other fish stands have all the trawlers and dorymen they need. Even if
they didn't have, there are hardly enough fish to feed all hands on
the island.
"More than that--and now I hope you won't mind what I am going to say,
for we've all been in the same boat one time or another--Mr. Boughton
can't be our last hope much longer. You and I and all of us have got
long-standing credit at his store for supplies we paid for later from
our fishing. The fire of the other night cost Mr. Boughton a lot, and,
as most of his money is represented in outstanding credit, he cannot
advance any more goods.
"Mr. Boughton is not here himself, for he told me he would never say
that word to people he has always trusted and lived with all his life.
But I am saying it for him because I think I ought to, and you can see
for yourselves how fair it is.
"Now, that's about all I've got to add to what Mr. Bysshe has said to
you. Yes, there's one thing more. Great Harbor and Seal Cove below us
here are as bad if not worse off than we are. We cannot look for help
in that direction, and I will be a lot thinner man than I am now
before I ever appeal to the government.
"We're not paupers, and we don't want city newspapers starting
subscription-lists for us. So, as Mr. Bysshe has said, the only thing
for us to do is to get our eyes out of the heavens and see what we can
do for ourselves."
The squire sat down, pulling at his whiskers and looking apprehensively
at the rector, of whose polished periods he stood in some awe.
The audience was silent now. The squire had brought home to these men
and women some bald, hard facts that they had scarcely as yet admitted
even to themselves. There was scarcely one among them whose account
with Bill Boughton was fully satisfied, and now that this mainstay was
gone the situation took on an entirely different aspect.
For some minutes no one spoke. Then an old man, bearded to the waist,
got upon his feet.
"I've seen some pretty hard times on this island," he said, "but none
like this here. I've thought it over some, and I'd like to make a
suggestion. My son Will is over on the back of the island pickin'
dulce. The market fer that is good--he's even got ten cents a pound
this summer. This is the month of August and winter is consid'able
ways off. How about all hands turnin' to an' pickin' dulce?"
This idea was received in courteous silence. There were men there who
had spent their summers reaping the harvest of salty, brown kelp from
the rocks at low tide, and they knew how impractical the scheme was.
Although the island exported yearly fifteen thousand dollars' worth of
the strange stuff, it was plain that should all the men devote
themselves to it the return would by no means measure up to the
labor.
One after another, then, the fishermen got to their feet and discussed
this project. In this cause of common existence embarrassment was
forgotten and tongues were loosed that had never before addressed a
public gathering.
A proposition was put forward that the islanders should dispute the
porpoise-spearing monopoly of the Quoddy Indians that were already
sailing across the channel for their annual summer's sport, but this
likewise met with defeat.
A general exodus of men to the sardine canning-factories in Lubec and
Eastport was suggested, and met with some favor until it was pointed
out that the small sardine herring had fallen off vastly in numbers,
and that the factories were hard put to it to find enough work for
their regular employees.
Self-consciousness and restraint were forgotten in this struggle for
the common preservation, and above the buzz of general intense
discussion there rose always the voice of some speaker with an idea or
suggestion.
Code Schofield had come to the meeting with Pete Ellinwood and Jimmie
Thomas, both dory mates at different times. They sat fairly well
forward, and Code, glancing around during the proceedings, had caught
a friendly greeting from Elsa Mallaby, who, with some of her old
girlhood friends, sat farther back.
The solemn occasion for and spirit of the meeting had made a deep
impression on him; but, as the time passed and those supposedly older
and wiser delivered themselves merely of useless schemes, a plan that
had come into his mind early in the evening began to take definite
shape. As he sat there he pondered the matter over until it seemed to
him the only really feasible idea.
Finally, after almost two hours of discussion with no conclusion
reached, a pause occurred, and Code, to the amazement of his
companions, got upon his feet. As he did so he flushed, for he
wondered how many of those eyes suddenly fixed upon him were eyes of
hostility or doubt. The thought stung him to a greater determination.
"I don't want to be considered bold after so many older men have
spoken," he said, looking at the squire, "but I have a suggestion to
make."
"Go ahead, make it," bellowed the squire cordially. "I wish more young
men would give us their ideas."
"Thinking it over, I have come to this conclusion," proceeded
Schofield. "There is only one thing the men on this island do
perfectly, and that is fish. Therefore, it seems only common sense to
me that they ought to go on fishing."
A ripple of laughter ran around the room that was now hot and stuffy
from the glare and smell of the great oil-lamps. Code heard the laugh,
and his brows drew down into a scowl.
"Of course, they cannot go on fishing here. But there are any number
of places north and east of us where they can go on. I mean the Grand
Banks and the Cape Shore in the Gulf of St. Lawrence. We have
schooners and sloops, we have dories, and men, and can get provisions
on credit, I should think, for such a cruise.
"That, then, is my idea--that the captains of Grande Mignon fit out
their vessels, hire their crews on shares, and go out on the Banks for
fish like the Gloucester men and Frenchmen. If we do it we're going
against the best in the world, but I don't believe there is a
fisherman here who doesn't believe we can hold our own."
Suddenly far back in the room a woman arose.
She was young, and her face showed that once it might have been
beautiful. Her frame was large and angular, and her rusty black
clothes sat awkwardly upon it. But youth and beauty and girlish charm
had gone from her long since, as it does with those whose men battle
with the sea. She was a widow, and a little girl clung sleepily to her
dress.
"Code Schofield," she cried, "what about the women? Ye ain't goin' off
to leave us fight the winter all alone, are ye? Ye ain't goin' to sail
them winter gales on the shoals, are ye? How many of ye do you s'pose
will come back?" She shook off those near her who tried to pull her
down into her seat.
"Last year they lost a hundred an' five out o' Gloucester, an' every
year they make widders by the dozen. If it was set in India's coral
strand ye'd know it was a fishin' town by its widders; an' Freekirk
Head'll be just like it. I lost my man in a gale--" Her voice broke
and she paused. "D'ye want us all to be widders?
"How can ye go an' leave us? It's the women the sea kills with misery,
not the men. What can we do when you're gone? There ain't any money
nor much food. If there come a fire we'd all be cleaned out, for what
could we do? If you'll only think of us a little--us women--mebbe you
won't go." She sank down amid a profound silence.
"Poor thing!" rumbled Pete Ellinwood. "She shouldn't have come. Al
Green was her man." Sobbing sounded in another quarter of the hall,
and the men looked at one another, disconcerted. Still no one spoke.
The matter hung in the balance, for all saw instantly that could the
women be provided for this was the solution of the problem.
Though taken aback, Code stood to his guns and remained on his feet.
Suddenly in the middle of the hall another woman rose. Her motion was
accompanied by the rustle of silk, and instantly there was silence,
for Elsa Mallaby commanded considerable respect.
Code saw her with surprise as he turned. She noted his puzzled
expression and flashed him a dazzling smile that was not lost, even in
that thrilled and excited crowd. He answered it.
"I consider that Captain Schofield has solved the problem," she said
in a clear, level tone. "There is no question but that the men of
Grande Mignon should fit out their ships and fish on the Banks. There
is also no question but that the objection Mrs. Green raised makes
such a thing impossible. Now, I want to tell you something.
"I belong in Freekirk Head, and you have all known me since I was
little. Hard-luck Jim Mallaby belonged in Freekirk Head and made his
money out of the island. Jim's money is mine now, and you can rest
assured that while the men are away fishing no woman or child on
Grande Mignon shall go hungry while I am alive to hear of it.
"Some people hate me because I live in a big house and have
everything. It is only natural and I expect it, but ever since Jim
left me I have wondered how I could do the most good with his money
here. I would like to _give_ it; but if you won't have that, you can
borrow it on a long-time loan without interest or security. Now I will
go out and you can talk it over freely."
With a companion she walked up the aisle and to the door, but before
she reached it Code Schofield was standing on a chair, his hat in his
hand.
"Three cheers for Mrs. Mallaby!" he yelled, and the very building
shook with the tumultuous response.
It was five minutes before the squire, purple with shouting for order,
could be heard above the noise. Then, with hand upraised, he shouted:
"All in favor of Schofield's plan say ay!"
And the "ay" was the greatest vocal demonstration ever given in
Freekirk Head.