THE FIRST NIGHT WITH THE HERRINGS
The sun went down, and a smart breeze rose off the land as the
"Ben-my-Chree," with the fleet behind her, rounded Contrary Head, and
crossed the two streams that flow there. For an hour afterward there was
still light enough to see the coast-line curved into covelets and
promontories, and to look for miles over the hills with their moles of
gorse, and tussocks of lush grass. The twilight deepened as the fleet
rounded Niarbyl Point, and left the islet on their lee, with
Cronk-ny-Irey-Lhaa towering into the gloomy sky. When they sailed across
Fleshwick Bay the night gradually darkened, and nothing was seen of
Ennyn Mooar. But after an hour of darkness the heavens lightened again,
and glistened with stars, and when old Billy Quilleash brought his boat
head to the wind in six fathoms of water outside Port Erin, the moon had
risen behind Bradda, and the rugged headland showed clear against the
sky. One after another the boats and the fleet brought to about the
"Ben-my-Chree."
Dan asked old Billy if he had found the herrings on this ground at the
same time in former seasons.
"Not for seven years," said the old man.
"Then why try now?"
Billy stretched out his hand to where a flight of sea-gulls were dipping
and sailing in the moonlight. "See the gull there?" he said. "She's
skipper to-night; she's showing us the fish."
Davy Fayle had been leaning over the bow, rapping with a stick at the
timbers near the water's edge.
"Any signs?" shouted Billy Quilleash.
"Ay," said Davy, "the mar-fire's risin'."
The wind had dropped, and luminous patches of phosphorescent light in
the water were showing that the herrings were stirring.
"Let's make a shot; up with the gear," said Quilleash, and preparations
were made for shooting the nets over the quarter.
"Ned Teare, you see to the line. Crennel, look after the corks.
Davy--where's that lad?--look to the seizings, d'ye hear?"
Then the nets were hauled from below, and passed over a bank-board
placed between the hatchway and the top of the bulwark. Teare and
Crennel shot the gear, and as the seizings came up, Davy ran aft with
them, and made them fast to the warp near the taffrail.
When the nets were all paid out, every net in the drift being tied to
the next, and a solid wall of meshes nine feet deep had been swept away
along the sea for half a mile behind them, Quilleash shouted, "Down with
the sheets."
The ropes were hauled, the sails were taken in, the mainmast--which was
so made as to lower backward--was dropped, and only the drift-mizzen was
left, and that was to keep the boat head on to the wind.
"Up with the light there," said Quilleash.
At this word Davy Fayle popped his head out of the hatchways.
"Aw, to be sure, that lad's never ready. Get out of that, quick."
Davy jumped on deck, took a lantern, and fixed it to the top of the
mitch board. Then vessel and nets drifted together, and Dan and Ewan,
who had kept the deck until now, went below together.
It was now a calm, clear night, with just light enough to show two or
three of the buoys on the back of the net nearest to the boat, as they
floated under water. Old Billy had not mistaken his ground. Large white
patches came moving out of the surrounding pavement of deep black,
lightened only by the image of a star where the vanishing ripples left
the dark sea smooth. Once or twice countless faint popping sounds were
to be heard, and minute points of shooting silver were to be seen on the
water around. The herrings were at play, and shoals on shoals soon broke
the black sea into a glistening foam.
But no "strike" was made, and after an hour's time Dan popped his head
over the hatchways and asked the skipper to try the "look-on" net. The
warp was hauled in until the first net was reached. It came up as black
as coal, save for a single dogfish or two that had broken a mesh here
and there.
"Too much moon to-night," said Quilleash; "they see the nets, and 'cute
they are extraordinary."
But half an hour later the moon went out behind a thick ridge of cloud
that floated over the land; the sky became gray and leaden, and a rising
breeze ruffled the sea. Then hour after hour wore on, and not a fish
came to the look-on net. Toward one o'clock in the morning, the moon
broke out again. "There'll be a heavy strike now," said Quilleash, and
in another instant a luminous patch floated across the line of the nets,
sank, disappeared, and finally pulled three of the buoys down with them.
"Pull up now," shouted Quilleash, in another tone.
Then the nets were hauled. Davy, the boy, led the warp through a
snatch-block fixed to the mast-hole on to the capstan. Ned Teare
disconnected the nets from the warps, and Crennel and Corlett pulled the
nets over the gunwale. They came up silver-white in the moonlight, a
solid block of fish. Billy Quilleash and Dan passed them over the
scudding-pole and shook the herrings into the hold.
"Five maze at least," said Quilleash, with a chuckle of satisfaction.
"Try again." And once more the nets were shot. The other boats of the
fleet were signaled, by a blue light run up the drift-mizzen, that the
"Ben-my-Chree" had struck a scale of fish. In a few minutes more the
blue light was answered by other blue lights on every side, and these
reported that the fishery was everywhere faring well.
One, two, three o'clock came and went. The night was wearing on; the
moon went out once more, and in the darkness which preceded the dawn the
lanterns burning on the fleet of drifting boats gave out an eerie glow
across the waters that lay black and flat around. The gray light came at
length in the east, and the sun rose over the land. Then the nets were
hauled in for the last time and that night's fishing was done.
The mast was lifted, but before the boat was brought about the skipper
shouted, "Men, let us do as we're used of," and instantly the admiral's
flag was run up to the masthead, and at this sign the men dropped on one
knee, with their faces in their caps, and old Billy offered up a short
and simple prayer of thanks for the blessings of the sea.
When this was done every man leaped to his feet, and all was work,
bustle, shouting, singing out, and some lusty curses.
"Tumble up the sheets--bear a hand there--d---- the lad," bawled
Quilleash; "get out of the way, or I'll make you walk handsome over the
bricks."
In five minutes more the "Ben-my-Chree," with the herring fleet behind
her, was running home before a stiff breeze.
"Nine maze--not bad for the first night," said Dan to Ewan.
"Souse them well," said Quilleash, and Ned Teare sprinkled salt on the
herrings as they lay in the hold.
Crennel, the cook, better known as the "slushy," came up the hatchways
with a huge saucepan, which he filled with the fish. As he did so there
was a faint "cheep, cheep" from below--the herrings were still alive.
All hands went down for a smoke except Corlett, who stood at the tiller,
Davy, who counted for nobody and stretched himself out at the bow, and
Ewan. The young parson, who had been taking note of the lad during the
night, now seated himself on a coil of rope near where Davy lay. The
"cheep, cheep" was the only sound in the air except the plash of the
waters at the boat's bow, and with an inclination of the head in the
direction of the fish in the hold, Ewan said, "It seems cruel, Davy,
doesn't it?"
"Cruel? Well, pozzible, pozzible. Och, 'deed now, they've got their
feelings same as anybody else."
The parson had taken the lad's measure at a glance.
"You should see the shoals of them lying round the nets, watching the
others--their mothers and sisters, as you might say--who've got their
gills 'tangled. And when you haul the net up, away they go at a slant in
millions and millions, just the same as lightning going through the
water. Och, yes, yes, leave them alone for having their feelings."
"It does seem cruel, Davy, eh?"
Davy looked puzzled; he was reasoning out a grave problem.
"Well, sir, that's the mortal strange part of it. It does look cruel to
catch them, sarten sure; but then the herrings themselves catch the
sand-eels, and the cod catch the herring, and the porpoises and
grampuses catch the cod."
Ewan did his best to look astonished.
"Aw, that's the truth, sir. It's terrible, wonderful strange, but I
suppose it's all nathur. You see, sir, we do the same ourselves."
"How do you mean, Davy? We don't eat each other, I hope," said the young
parson.
"Och, don't we, though? Lave us alone for that."
Ewan tried to look appalled.
"Well, of coorse, not to say _ate_, not 'xactly _ate;_ but the biggest
chap allis rigs the rest; and the next biggest chap allis rigs a littler
one, you know, and the littlest chap, he gets rigged by everybody all
round, doesn't he, sir?"
Davy had got a grip of the knotty problem, but the lad's poor, simple
face looked sadly burdened, and he came back to his old word.
"Seems to me it must be all nathur, sir."
Ewan began to feel some touch of shame at playing with this simple,
earnest, big little heart. "So you think it all nature, Davy?" he said,
with a lump gathering in his throat.
"Well, well, I do, you know, sir; it does make a fellow fit to cry a
bit, somehow; but it must be nathur, sir."
And Davy took off his blue worsted cap and fumbled it and gave his
troubled young head a grave shake.
Then there was some general talk about Davy's early history. Davy's
father had been pressed into the army before Davy was born, and had
afterward been no more heard of; then his mother had died, and Billy
Quilleash, being his mother's elder brother, had brought him up. Davy
had always sailed as boy with Uncle Billy, he was sailing as boy then,
and that was to the end that Uncle Billy might draw his share, but the
young master (Mastha Dan) had spoken up for him, so he had, and he knew
middlin' well what that would come to. "'He's a tidy lump of a lad now,'
says Mastha Dan, 'and he's well used of the boats, too,' says he, 'and
if he does well this time,' he says, 'he must sail man for himself next
season.' Aw, yes, sir, that was what Mastha Dan said."
It was clear that Dan was the boy's hero. When Dan was mentioned that
lagging lip gave a yearning look to Davy's simple face. Dan's doubtful
exploits and his dubious triumphs all looked glorious in Davy's eyes.
Davy had watched Dan, and listened to him, and though Dan might know
nothing of his silent worship, every word that Dan had spoken to him had
been hoarded up in the lad's heart like treasure. Davy had the dog's
soul, and Dan was his master.
"Uncle Billy and him's same as brothers," said Davy; "and Uncle Billy's
uncommon proud of the young master, and middlin' jealous, too. Aw, well!
who's wondering at it?"
Just then Crennel, the cook, came up to say that breakfast was ready,
and Ewan and Davy went below, the young parson's hand resting on the
boy's shoulder. In the cabin Dan was sitting by the stove, laughing
immoderately. Ewan saw at a glance that Dan had been drinking, and he
forthwith elbowed his way to Dan's side and lifted a brandy bottle from
the stove-top into the locker, under pretense of finding a place for his
hat. Then all hands sat down to the table. There was a huge dish of
potatoes boiled in their jackets, and a similar dish of herrings. Every
man dipped into the dishes with his hands, lifted his herring on to his
plate, ran his fingers from tail to head, swept all the flesh off the
fresh fish, and threw the bare backbone into the crock that stood
behind.
"Keep a corner for the Meailley at the 'Three Legs,'" said Dan.
There was to be a herring breakfast that morning at the "Three Legs of
Man," to celebrate the opening of the fishing season.
"You'll come, Ewan, eh?"
The young parson shook his head.
Dan was in great spirits, to which the spirits he had imbibed
contributed a more than common share. Ewan saw the too familiar light of
dangerous mischief dancing in Dan's eyes, and made twenty attempts to
keep the conversation within ordinary bounds of seriousness. But Dan was
not to be restrained, and breaking away into the homespun--a sure
indication that the old Adam was having the upper hand--he forthwith
plunged into some chaff that was started by the mate, Ned Teare, at Davy
Fayle's expense.
"Aw, ye wouldn't think it's true, would ye, now?" said Ned, with a wink
at Dan and a "glime" at Davy.
"And what's that?" said Dan, with another "glime" at the lad.
"Why, that the like o' yander is tackin' round the gels."
"D'ye raely mane it?" said Dan, dropping his herring and lifting his
eyes.
Ewan coughed with some volume, and said, "There, there, Dan--there,
there."
"Yes, though, and sniffin' and snuffin' abaft of them astonishin'," Ned
Teare put it again.
"Aw, well, well, well," said Dan, turning up afresh the whites of his
eyes.
There was not a sign from Davy; he broke his potato more carefully, and
took both hands and both eyes to strip away its jacket.
"Yes, yes, the craythur's doing somethin' in the spooney line," said
Billy Quilleash; "him as hasn't the hayseed out of his hair yet."
"Aw, well," said Dan, pretending to come to Davy's relief, "it isn't
raisonable but the lad should be coortin' some gel now."
"What's that?" shouted Quilleash, dropping the banter rather suddenly.
"What, and not a farthing at him? And owin' me fortune for the bringin'
up."
"No matter, Billy," said Dan, "and don't ride a man down like a
main-tack. One of these fine mornings Davy will be payin' his debt to
you with the foretopsail."
Davy's eyes were held very low, but it was not hard to see that they
were beginning to fill.
"That will do, Dan, that will do," said Ewan. The young parson's face
had grown suddenly pale, but Dan saw nothing of that.
"And look at him there," said Dan, reaching round Ewan to prod Davy in
the ribs--"look at him there, pretendin' he never knows nothin'."
The big tears were near to toppling out of Davy's eyes. He could have
borne the chaff from any one but Dan.
"Dan," said Ewan, with a constrained quietness, "stop it; I can't stand
it much longer."
At that Davy got up from the table, leaving his unfinished breakfast,
and began to climb the hatchways.
"Aw, now, look at that," said Dan, with affected solemnity, and so
saying, and not heeding the change in Ewan's manner, Dan got up too and
followed Davy out, put an arm round the lad's waist, and tried to draw
him back. "Don't mind the loblolly-boys, Davy veg," he said, coaxingly.
Davy pushed him away with an angry word.
"What's that he's after saying?" asked Quilleash.
"Nothin'; he only cussed a bit," said Dan.
"Cussed, did he? He'd better show a leg if he don't want the rat's
tail."
Then Ewan rose from the table, and his eyes flashed and his pale face
quivered.
"I'll tell you what it is," he said in a tense, tremulous voice,
"there's not a man among you. You're a lot of skulking cowards."
At that he was making for the deck; but Dan, whose face, full of the
fire of the liquor he had taken, grew in one moment old and ugly, leaped
to his feet in a tempest of wrath, overturned his stool, and rushed at
Ewan with eyes aflame and uplifted hand, and suddenly, instantly, like a
flash, his fist fell, and Ewan rolled on the floor.
Then the men jumped up and crowded round in confusion. "The parzon! the
parzon! God preserve me, the parzon!"
There stood Dan, with a ghastly countenance, white and convulsed, and
there at his feet lay Ewan.
"God A'mighty! Mastha Dan, Mastha Dan," cried Davy. Before the men had
found time to breathe, Davy had leaped back from the deck to the
cockpit, and had lifted Ewan's head on to his knee.
Ewan drew a long breath and opened his eyes. He was bleeding from a gash
above the temple, having fallen among some refuse of iron chain. Davy,
still moaning piteously, "Oh, Mastha Dan, God A'mighty, Mastha Dan,"
took a white handkerchief from Ewan's breast, and bound it about his
head over the wound. The blood oozed through and stained the
handkerchief.
Ewan rose to his feet pale and trembling, and without looking at any
one, steadied himself by Davy's shoulder, and clambered weakly to the
deck. There he stumbled forward, sat down on the coil of rope that had
been his seat before, and buried his uncovered head in his breast.
The sun had now risen above Contrary, and the fair young morning light
danced over the rippling waters far and near. A fresh breeze blew from
the land, and the boats of the fleet around and about scudded on before
the wind like a flight of happy birds, with outspread wings.
The "Ben-my-Chree" was then rounding the head, and the smoke was
beginning to coil up in many a slender shaft above the chimneys of the
little town of Peel. But Ewan saw nothing of this; with head on his
breast, and his heart cold within him, he sat at the bow.
Down below, Dan was then doing his best to make himself believe that he
was unconcerned. He whistled a little, and sang a little, and laughed a
good deal; but the whistle lost its tune, and the song stopped short,
and the laugh was loud and empty. When he first saw Ewan lie where he
fell, all the fire of his evil passion seemed to die away, and for the
instant his heart seemed to choke him, and he was prompted to drop down
and lift Ewan to his feet; but at that moment his stubborn knees would
not bend, and at the next moment the angel of God troubled the waters of
his heart no more. Then the fisher-fellows overcame their amazement, and
began to crow, and to side with him, and to talk of his pluck, and what
not.
"The parzons--och, the parzons--they think they may ride a man down for
half a word inside his gills."
"'Cowards'--och, 'skulking cowards,' if you plaize--right sarved, say
I!"
Dan tramped about the cabin restlessly, and sometimes chuckled aloud and
asked himself what did he care, and then laughed noisily, and sat down
to smoke, and presently jumped up, threw the pipe into the open stove,
and took the brandy bottle out of the locker. Where was Ewan? What was
he doing? What was he looking like? Dan would rather have died than
humbled himself to ask; but would none of these grinning boobies tell
him? When Teare, the mate, came down from the deck and said that sarten
sure the young parzon was afther sayin' his prayers up forrard Dan's
eyes flashed again, and he had almost lifted his hand to fell the
sniggering waistrel. He drank half a tumbler of brandy, and protested
afresh, though none had yet disputed it, that he cared nothing, not he,
let them say what they liked to the contrary.
In fifteen minutes from the time of the quarrel the fleet was running
into harbor. Dan had leaped on deck just as the "Ben-my-Chree" touched
the two streams outside Contrary. He first looked forward, and saw Ewan
sitting on the cable in the bow with his eyes shut and his pallid face
sunk deep in his breast. Then a strange, wild light shot into Dan's
eyes, and he reeled aft and plucked the tiller from the hand of Corlett,
and set it hard aport, and drove the boat head on for the narrow neck of
water that flowed between the mainland and the island-rock on which the
old castle stood.
"Hould hard," shouted old Billy Quilleash, "there's not water enough for
the like o' that--you'll run her on the rocks."
Then Dan laughed wildly, and his voice rang among the coves and caves of
the coast.
"Here's for the harbor or--hell," he screamed, and then another wild
peal of his mad laughter rang in the air and echoed from the land.
"What's agate of the young mastha?" the men muttered one to another; and
with eyes of fear they stood stock-still on the deck and saw themselves
driven on toward the shoals of the little sound.
In two minutes more they breathed freely. The "Ben-my-Chree" had shot
like an arrow through the belt of water and was putting about in the
harbor.
Dan dropped the tiller, reeled along the deck, scarcely able to bear
himself erect, and stumbled under the hatchways. Old Billy brought up
the boat to its moorings.
"Come, lay down, d'ye hear? Where's that lad?"
Davy was standing by the young parson.
"You idiot waistrel, why d'ye stand prating there? I'll pay you, you
beachcomber."
The skipper was making for Davy, when Ewan got up, stepped toward him,
looked him hard in the face, seemed about to speak, checked himself, and
turned away.
Old Billy broke into a bitter little laugh, and said, "I'm right up and
down like a yard o' pump-water, that's what I am."
The boat was now at the quay-side, and Ewan leaped ashore. Without a
word or a look more, he walked away, the white handkerchief, clotted
with blood, still about his forehead, and his hat carried in his hand.
On the quay there were numbers of women with baskets waiting to buy the
fish. Teare, the mate, and Crennel, the cook, counted the herrings and
sold them. The rest of the crew stepped ashore.
Dan went away with the rest. His face was livid in the soft morning
sunlight. He was still keeping up his brave outside, while the madness
was growing every moment fiercer within. As he stumbled along the paved
way with an unsteady step his hollow laugh grated on the quiet air.