Michael Penguyne made ample use of his new boat. Nelly proposed that
she should be called the "Dove."
"You see she was sent to us when all around seemed so dark and gloomy,
just as the dove returned to Noah, to show that God had not forgotten
him."
"Then we will call her the `Dove'," said Michael; and the "Dove" from
henceforth became the name of Michael's new boat.
Early and late Michael was in his boat, though he took good care not to
be caught to leeward of his port again by a gale of wind. When ashore
he was employed mending his nets and refitting his boat's gear or his
fishing-lines. Never for a moment was he idle, for he always found
something which ought to be done; each rope's-end was pointed; his
rigging was never chafed; and the moment any service was wanted he put
it on.
Thus a couple of years passed by, Dame Lanreath and Nelly setting out
day after day to sell the fish or lobsters and crabs he caught, for
which they seldom failed to obtain a good price.
At length, however, he found that he could do better with a mate.
"I must get David Treloar, as I said some time ago," he observed to
Nelly. "He is twice as strong as I am, though it would not do to trust
him alone in a boat, as he never seems to know which way the wind is, or
how the tide is running; but he is honest and good-natured, and staunch
as steel, and he will do what I tell him. That's all I want. If he had
been with me in the little `Duck,' we might have gained the harbour and
saved her, and though I take all the care I can, yet I may be caught
again in the same way."
David Treloar was a nephew of old Reuben Lanaherne, who had done his
best to bring up the poor lad, and make a fisherman of him. His father
had been lost at sea, and his mother had gone out of her mind, and soon
afterwards died.
Michael found him near his uncle's house, attempting, though not very
expertly, to mend a net.
He was a broad-shouldered, heavy-looking youth, with an expression of
countenance which at first sight appeared far from prepossessing; but
when spoken to kindly, or told to do anything he liked--and he was ready
to do most things--it brightened up, and even a stranger would have said
he was a trustworthy fellow, though he might be lacking in intelligence.
"So glad you are come, Michael," he said. "Here have I been working
away at these meshes, and cannot make them come even; the more I pull at
them the worse they are. Just do you use your fingers and settle the
job for me, and I will do anything for you."
"I know you will, David, and so I am pretty certain that you will come
and work in my boat."
"What, this afternoon?" asked David.
"No, but always. I want you to be my mate."
"Hurra! hurra! that I will, lad, with all my heart. Uncle Reuben has
got enough lads of his own, he does not want me, and the rest are always
making fun at me; but you won't do that, Michael, I know. We will soon
show them that we can catch as many fish as they can, you and I
together; and uncle often says I am as strong as a grown man, and
stronger than many." And the young Hercules stretched out his brawny
arms.
Michael had not expected to obtain a mate so easily, for David never
thought of making terms; provided he got food enough for the day, that
was all he thought about. Michael, however, intended to settle that
matter with Uncle Reuben. His wish was to act justly towards all men,
and pay David fully as much as he was worth.
Able now to use his nets, Michael could look forward to the pilchard
season, when he might hope to reap a rich harvest from the sea.
Soon after this he fell in with Eban Cowan.
"So I see you have got that dolt David Treloar as your mate," observed
Eban. "If you had asked me, I would have advised you to take a chap
worth two of him. He is big and strong enough, but he has no sense. I
wonder, indeed, Michael, that you can go on year after year content to
catch a few fish and lobsters, when you might make no end of money and
live at home most days in the week enjoying your comfort and doing
nothing. Just see how father and I live. You don't suppose the mill,
and the fish, and our few acres of ground enable us to do that."
"I don't ask how you get your living--I do not wish to interfere with my
neighbours; but I know that it is my duty to work hard every day that
the weather will let me," answered Michael.
"That may be your taste; but I wonder you like to see Nelly wearing her
old frock and hood which have become far too small for her, and Aunt
Lanreath's old jacket and petticoat are well-nigh worn out."
Michael acknowledged that such was the case, and observed that he hoped
they would soon get new garments.
"You might get them at once if you will join us in our business,"
answered Eban. "What with the fellows who have gone to sea, and some
few who have been taken and sent to prison, and those who have been
drowned or lost their lives in other ways, we have not as many men as we
want. There is good pay to be got, and other profits besides. You
would be perfectly safe, for you have a good character, and no one would
suspect you of being engaged in the free-trade service."
"I tell you, Eban, once for all, I will have nothing to do with
smuggling," answered Michael, firmly. "You say no one will suspect me,
but you forget that God sees and hears everything we do, or say, or
think. Though my fellow-men might not suspect me, He would know that I
was engaged in unlawful work. Darkness is no darkness to Him. Day and
night to Him are both alike."
"I don't let myself think about those sort of things," answered Eban
Cowan, in an angry tone. "I ask you again, will you be a sensible
fellow and unite with us as I have invited you?"
"No, I will not," said Michael. "I do not wish to be unfriendly with
you, but when you ask me to do what I know to be wrong I cannot look
upon you as a friend."
"Take your own way, then," exclaimed Eban, angrily. "You may think
better of the matter by-and-by: then all you have to do is to come to me
and say so."
Eban and Michael parted for the time. The former, however, was a
constant visitor at Dame Lanreath's cottage. He did not disguise his
admiration for Nelly Trefusis. She might have been flattered, for he
was a good-looking, fair-spoken youth, and as he dressed well and had
always plenty of money in his pocket, he was looked upon as one of the
principal young men in the neighbourhood.
Still Nelly did not consider him equal to Michael.
Time went on: she was becoming a young woman, and Michael was no longer
the little boy she had looked upon in her early days as her brother.
He, too, had ceased to treat her with the affectionate familiarity he
used to do when he supposed her to be his sister. Still he looked upon
her as the being of all others whom he was bound to love, and protect,
and support to the utmost of his power. Had, however, any young man
whom he esteemed, and whom Nelly liked, appeared and offered to become
her husband, he would possibly have advised her to accept him, though he
might have felt that the light of his home had departed. Indeed, he was
so occupied that the thought of marrying at some future time had never
entered his head.
Though Nelly gave Eban Cowan no encouragement, he still continued,
whenever he could get a fair pretence, to visit the cottage, and never
failed to walk by her side when he met her out. Generally he came
saying that he wished to see Michael, whom he always spoke of as his
most intimate friend, though Michael did not consider himself so. He
knew too much about Eban to desire his friendship; indeed, he doubted
very much that Eban really cared for him.
"Your friend Eban has been here again to-day," said Nelly, one evening
when Michael returned home late. "He waited and waited, and though I
told him I could not say when you would come back, he still sat on,
declaring that he must see you, as he wanted you to go somewhere with
him, or do something, though what it was he would not tell us. At last,
as it grew dark, he was obliged to be off, and neither granny nor I
invited him to stay longer."
"I am glad he did go," answered Michael; "but do not call him my friend.
If he was a true friend he would give me good advice and try to lead me
aright; instead of that he gives me bad advice, and tries to lead me to
do what I know is wrong. There--you now know what I think of Eban
Cowan."
"And you think very rightly," observed Dame Lanreath. "I do not trust
him, and perhaps you know more about him and have greater reasons for
not liking him than I have."
"Michael," said Nelly, looking up, "I will trust only those whom you
trust, and I do not wish to like any one whom you do not like."
Still, although Nelly took no care to show any preference for Eban, it
was not in her heart to be rude or unkind to him; but Dame Lanreath
tried to make him understand that his visits were not wished for. He,
however, fancied that she alone did not like him, and still flattered
himself that he was making his way with Nelly.
Thus matters went on month after month. Michael and David Treloar
succeeded together better even than at first expected. David was always
ready to do the hard work, and, placing perfect confidence in Michael's
skill and judgment, readily obeyed him.
It was the height of summer-time. The pilchards in vast schools began
to visit the coast of Cornwall, and the fishermen in all directions were
preparing for their capture. The boats were got ready, the nets
thoroughly repaired, and corks and leads and tow lines and warps fitted.
_Huers_, as the men are called who watch for the fish, had taken their
stations on every height on the look-out for their approach. Each
_huer_ kept near him the "white bush," which is the name given to a mass
of furze covered with tow or white ribbons. This being raised aloft is
the sign that a school is in sight. The boats employed were of two
descriptions, the largest of from twenty to thirty tons, carrying seven
or eight men; and the smaller somewhat larger than the "Dove," having
only three or four men.
Michael had succeeded in obtaining another hand, so that, small as his
boat was, he was fully able to take a part in the work.
The pilchard belongs to the herring family, but is somewhat smaller, and
differs from that fish in external appearance, having a shorter head and
a more compact body; its scales, too, are rather longer than those of
the common herring. It is supposed to retire during the winter to the
deep water of the ocean, and to rise only as the summer approaches to
the surface, when it commences its travels and moves eastward towards
the English Channel.
At first it forms only small bands, but these increase till a large army
is collected, under the guidance, it is supposed, of a chief. Onward it
makes its way, pursued by birds of prey who pounce down and carry off
thousands of individuals, whose loss, however, scarcely diminishes the
size of the mighty host. Voracious fish, too, pursue the army as it
advances in close columns, and swallow immense numbers.
As it approaches the Land's End it divides, one portion making its way
northward along the west coast, while the other moves forward along the
south coast towards the Start.
The huers can distinguish the approach of a school by a change in the
colour of the sea. As it draws near, the water appears to leap and boil
like a cauldron, while at night the ocean is spread over, as it were,
with a sheet of liquid light, brilliant as when the moonbeams play on
the surface rippled by a gentle breeze.
From early dawn a number of boats had been waiting off the shore,
keeping their position by an occasional pull at the oars as necessity
required, with their nets ready to cast at a moment's warning.
Michael's boat was among them. He and his companions cast their eyes
constantly at the huers on the summit of the cliffs above, anxiously
expecting the signal that a school had been seen in the far distance.
But whether it would approach the shore near enough to enable them to
encircle it was uncertain. It might come towards them, but then it
might suddenly sweep round to a different part of the coast or dart back
again into deep water. Hour after hour passed by.
The crews of the boats had their provisions with them, and no one at
that time would think of returning to the shore for breakfast or dinner.
They kept laughing and talking together, or occasionally exchanging a
word with those in the boats on either side of them.
"I hope we shall have better luck than yesterday," said David Treloar.
"I had made up my mind that we should have the schools if they came near
us, and yet they got off again just at the time I thought we had them
secured."
"You must have patience, David; trust to Him Who helped the fishermen of
Galilee when they had toiled all day and caught nothing," answered
Michael. "I do not see that we should expect to be better off than they
were; He Who taught the pilchards to visit our shores will send them
into our nets if He thinks fit. Our business is to toil on and to trust
to His kindness."
"Ah, Michael! you are always right; I do not see things as clearly as
you do," said David.
"If you do not, still you know that God cares for you as much as He does
for me or anyone else; and so do you trust to Him, and depend upon it
all will turn out right. That's what Uncle Paul used to say, and your
Uncle Reuben says."
Michael had for some time past taken pains to let it be known that he
was not, as supposed to be, the son of Paul Trefusis, and had told all
his friends and acquaintances the history which Paul had given him.
Many of the elder people, indeed, were well acquainted with the
circumstances of the case, and were able to corroborate what he said.
Eban Cowan, however, had hitherto been ignorant of the fact, and had
always supposed that Michael was Nelly's brother. This had originally
made him anxious to gain Michael's friendship for her sake. Almost from
his boyhood he had admired her, and his admiration increased with his
growth, till he entertained for her as much affection as it was in his
nature to feel.
No sooner was he aware of the truth than jealousy of Michael sprang up
in his heart, and instead of putting it away, as he ought to have done,
he nourished it till his jealousy grew into a determined and deadly
hatred of one whom he chose to consider as his rival.
Michael, not aware of this, met him in the same frank way that he had
always been accustomed to do, and took no notice of the angry scowl
which Eban often cast at him.
Eban on this occasion had command of his father's boat. He was reputed
to be as good and bold a fisherman as anyone on the coast. Michael did
not observe the fierce look Eban cast at him as they were shoving off in
the morning when the two boats pulled out of the harbour together side
by side.
The boats had now been waiting several hours, and when the huers were
seen to raise their white boughs and point to a sandy beach to the north
of the harbour (a sign that a school of pilchards was directing its
course in that direction), instantly the cry of "_heva_" was raised by
the numerous watchers on the shore, and the crews of the boats, bending
to their oars, pulled away to get outside the school and prevent them
from turning back.
Two with nets on board, starting from the same point, began quick as
lightning to cast them out till they formed a vast circle.
Away the rowers pulled, straining their sinews to the utmost, till a
large circle was formed two thousand feet in circumference, within which
the shining fish could be seen leaping and struggling thickly together
on the surface. The seine, about twelve fathoms deep, thus formed a
wall beyond which the fish could not pass, the bottom being sunk by
heavy leads and the upper part supported by corks. In the meantime a
boat was employed in driving the fish towards the centre of the
enclosure, lest before the circle was completed they might alter their
course and escape.
Although the fish were thus enclosed, their enormous weight would
certainly have broken through the net had an attempt been made to drag
them on to the beach. The operation was not yet over. Warping or
dragging them into shallow water had now to be commenced. Gradually the
circle was drawn nearer and nearer the shore, till shallow water was
reached. The seine was then moored, that is, secured by grappling
hooks. It had next to be emptied. In bad weather this cannot be done,
as the work requires smooth water. On the present occasion, however,
the sea was calm, and several boats, supplied with smaller nets and
baskets, entered the circle and commenced what is called _tucking_. The
small nets were used to encircle as many fish as they could lift, which
were quickly hauled on board in the ordinary way, while other boats
ladled the pilchards out of the water with baskets. As soon as a boat
was laden she returned to the shore by the only passage left open, where
men stood ready to close it as soon as she had passed.
On the beach were collected numbers of women and lads, with creels on
their backs ready to be filled. As soon as this was done they carried
them up to the curing-house, situated on a convenient spot near the bay.
Among those on the beach were Dame Lanreath and Nelly, and as Michael
assisted to fill their creels he expressed his satisfaction at having
contributed so materially to the success of the undertaking, for his
boat had been one of the most actively employed.
As all engaged in the operation belonged to the same company, they
worked with a will, each person taking his allotted duty, and thus doing
their utmost to obtain success.
Some time was occupied in thus emptying the seine, for after the fish on
the surface had been caught many more which were swimming lower down and
making endeavours to escape, were obtained with the _tucking_ nets. The
whole net itself was then dragged up, and the remainder of the fish
which had been caught in the meshes, or had before escaped capture, were
taken out.
Such is the ordinary way of catching the pilchard on the coast of
Cornwall with seines.
The inhabitants of the village congratulated themselves on their
success.
Often, as has been said, tucking has to be delayed in consequence of a
heavy sea for several days, and sometimes, after all, the fish have been
lost.
"I mind, not long ago," observed Uncle Reuben, "when we were shooting a
net to the southward, it was caught by the tide and carried away against
the rocks, where, besides the fish getting free, it was so torn and
mangled that it took us many a long winter's evening to put to rights.
And you have heard tell, Michael, that at another time, when we had got
well-nigh a thousand pounds' worth of fish within our seine, they took
it into their heads to make a dash together at one point, and, capsizing
it, leaped clear over the top, and the greater number of them got free.
And only two seasons ago, just as we thought we had got a fine haul, and
the seine was securely moored, a ground swell set in from the westward,
where a heavy gale was blowing, and the net was rolled over and over
till every fish had escaped, and the net was worth little or nothing.
So I say we have reason to be thankful when we get a successful catch
like that we have had to-day."
It was not, however, the only successful catch which Michael and his
companions made that season. Still, as his boat and net were but small,
his share was less than that of the rest of the company, and, after all,
his share was not more than sufficient for his expenses.
A considerable number of the company were now employed in curing or
bulking the late catch of pilchards. This was carried on in a circular
court called a cellar. The fish which had been piled up within it were
now laid out on raised slabs which ran round the court. First a layer
of salt was spread, then a layer of pilchards, and so on, layers of
pilchards and salt alternating, till a vast mound was raised. Here they
remained for about a month or more. Below the slabs were gutters, which
conveyed the brine and oil which oozed out of the mass into a large pit
in the centre of the court. From three to four hundredweight of salt
was used for each hogshead.
After they had remained in bulk for sufficient time the pilchards were
cleansed from the salt and closely packed in hogsheads, each of which
contains about 2,400 fish, and weighs about 476 pounds. The pressure to
which they are subjected forces the oil out through the open joints of
the cask.
The pilchards are now familiarly called "fair maids," from _fermade_, a
corruption of _fumado_ (the Spanish word for _smoked_), as originally
they were cured by smoking, a method, however, which has long been
abandoned.
No portion of the prize is lost; the oil and blood is sold to the
curriers, the skimmings of the water in which the fish are washed before
packing is purchased by the soap-boilers, and the broken and refuse fish
are sold for manure. The oil when clarified forms an important item in
the profit.
The pilchards, however, are not always to be entrapped near the shore.
At most times they keep out at sea, where the hardy fishermen make use
of the drift-net.
Two sorts of boats are employed for this purpose; one is of about thirty
tons burden, the other much smaller. They use a number of nets called
_a set_, about twenty in all, joined together. Each net is about 170
feet long, and 40 deep. United lengthways they form a wall
three-quarters of a mile long, the lower part kept down by leads, the
upper floated on the surface by corks. Sometimes they are even much
longer.
Within the meshes of this net the fish, as they swim rapidly forward,
entangle themselves. They easily get their heads through, but cannot
withdraw them, as they are held by the gills, which open in the water
like the barbs of an arrow. Their bodies also being larger than the
meshes, they thus remain hanging, unable to extricate themselves.
The driving-boat is made fast to one end of the wall, where she hangs on
till the time for hauling the net arrives.
The fishermen prefer a thick foggy night and a loppy sea, as under those
circumstances the pilchards do not perceive the net in their way. At
times, however, when the water is phosphorescent, the creatures which
form the luminous appearance cover the meshes so that the whole net
becomes lighted up.
This is called "briming," and the pilchards, thus perceiving the trap in
their way, turn aside and escape its meshes.
As briming rarely occurs during twilight, and the ocean is at that time
dark enough to hide the wall of twine, the fishermen generally shoot
their nets soon after sunset and just before dawn, when the fine weather
makes it probable that they will be lighted up by the dreaded briming at
the other hours of the night.
The operation of hauling in nearly a mile of net, with its meshes full
of fish, is an arduous task, especially during a dark night, when the
boat is tossed about by a heavy sea, and at no time indeed can it be an
easy one. The hardy fishermen pursue this species of fishing during the
greater part of the year, for small schools of pilchards arrive in the
Channel as early as the month of May, and remain far into the winter,
till the water becomes too cool for their constitutions, when they
return eastwards to seek a warmer climate in the depths of the Atlantic,
or swim off to some unknown region, where they may deposit their spawn
or obtain the food on which they exist. Little, however, is known of
the causes which guide their movements, and the Cornish fishermen remain
satisfied by knowing the fact that the beautiful little fish which
enables them to support themselves and their families are sent annually
by their benignant Creator to visit their coasts, and seldom trouble
themselves to make any further inquiries on the subject.