FISHING AND OTHER MARINE INDUSTRIES
The grandest sea-chase is that after the whale—the most gigantic of
mammals, the most extraordinary in appearance and habits, and the most
valuable to man, for the capture of one may mean ten times as much
reward as the ivory of an elephant or the rarest otter-skin would
afford, and perhaps a hundred times as much, if ambergris be found
within its body.
Men have had the hardihood to chase these huge and often savage
creatures in their own turbulent element, and with the most primitive
weapons, ever since the art of navigation was acquired.
The Japanese and other Asiatics of the western shore of the North
Pacific have dared to go out in rowboats and attack the largest
whales since the origin of their traditions, and they had a method of
entangling these leviathans in nets, which must have produced exciting
scenes, as the monster struggled amid the bloody turmoil of waters to
free himself from the innumerable connected cords that embarrassed his
movements, rather than subdued his strength, until his life ebbed away
through a hundred wounds.
[Illustration: AN OLD WHALER.]
On the Alaskan coast, and southward as far as Oregon, the Indians, and
especially those of the Queen Charlotte Islands and the coasts of the
Strait of Juan de Fuca, were accustomed, hundreds, perhaps thousands
of years ago, to go far away into the ocean in their dug-out canoes,
searching for and spearing the whales with lances made of flint or
bone, having detachable barbed heads. These were attached to shafts by
rawhide lines, and to the shafts were attached buoys of large inflated
bladders. When the animal was struck, the heavy pole would drive the
lancehead through the skin and then fall off. The barbs would not only
hold the instrument there, but cause it to work deeper and deeper, and
the whale, darting away or diving, would be so impeded by dragging
the poles and buoys after him, that he would soon return to receive
other darts, and so, between loss of blood and exhaustion, would
ultimately be killed. It is extremely interesting to read the stories,
gathered by early travelers from the lips of the Indians,—old Haidas
or Makahs are living yet who have taken part in such nerve-testing
canoe-chases,—of their fights with this gigantic foe far from land, and
their hair’s-breadth escapes; and it is not strange that many quaint
ceremonies were devised to placate the waters and the power of the
whale-god in advance, and to honor the sea-hunters when they returned.
The Greenlanders and Eastern Eskimos do not seem to have been able
in their small skin boats to conquer the largest sort of whales, but
the smaller ones, such as the white whale, fell to their spears in a
similar way; and they took great pains to secure any dead or stranded
cetacean that came within their reach, the bones of which were as
valuable to them, in the absence of wood, as were the flesh, oil, and
sinews.
The history of European whaling begins with the excursions of the
Basques, who, as long ago at least as the tenth century, were
accustomed to go out from their shore-towns in search of the southern
right whale which frequents the Bay of Biscay and its offing. Doubtless
their boats were small, half-decked, lugger-rigged “shyppes,” carrying
ten to fifteen men, and looking much like many of the Channel fishermen
of to-day. This “fishery” supplied all Europe during the Middle Ages
with the whalebone and oil which were among the luxuries of the rich at
that time; but by the time the sixteenth century had arrived, whales
had become so scarce in the Eastern Atlantic—where now they are almost
extinct—that this industry must have ceased had not the Cabots shown
the way to Newfoundland, to whose shores the Basques at once extended
their voyages with excellent results, for in those days whales were
commonly seen all along the American shore of the North Atlantic. But
this remote fishery would have been too precarious and costly to be
of great consequence had it not been for the early efforts, related
in Chapter V, to find a passage to the East north of the continents.
The earliest of these failed, but they brought back reports that the
edge of the frozen sea abounded in whales, and men rushed into this
newly discovered field of wealth, as, centuries later, they abandoned
everything in headlong haste to go to the gold-fields of California,
Australia, South Africa or the Yukon Valley.
The English did their best to monopolize the whale fishery at once, but
the Dutch sent war-vessels, and in a fleet action almost at the edge of
the ice in 1618 the Dutch conquered and opened the seas to all comers,
while separate districts on the coast of Spitzbergen were assigned to
each nationality. The English interest in the fishery declined, but the
Dutch increased their attention to it, taking over one thousand whales
each year. “About 1680,” we read, “they had two hundred and sixty
vessels and fourteen thousand seamen employed. Their fishery continued
to flourish on almost as extensive a scale until 1770, when it began
to decline, and finally, owing to the war, came to an end before the
end of the century.” The Germans were always associated with them, and
continued to send a whaling fleet to Barentz Sea and the Jan Mayen
waters until 1873. Meanwhile the Greenland whaling-grounds had begun to
attract British whalemen, followed by the Danes in the early part of
the last century; then this local industry fell off, but was revived
about 1800, remained prosperous for many years, and is still the
support of Peterhead and a few other Scotch ports.
[Illustration: WHALERS TRYING OIL OUT OF BLUBBER.]
The abundance of whales near the coast was one of the prime
inducements held out to colonists by North America, where whales
often appeared close to the shore, or in harbors, as occasionally they
do yet. Here, at first, whale-fishing was pursued wholly in rowboats
launched from the beach. Many shore towns owned whaleboats and gear,
each with its trained crew, and some kept a regular lookout, day by
day, whose duty it was promptly to announce the appearance of any whale
in the offing. Such was the case at Southampton, Long Island, for many
years, and even now, occasionally, the town-crew there rushes away
through the breakers after some stray visitor amid the excitement of
the whole neighborhood, but this happens only at intervals of several
years.
Before the end of the seventeenth century, however, the people of
Nantucket Island were wont to cruise about the neighboring ocean for
right whales, their voyage lasting six weeks or so as a rule, and
now and then they would pick up a sperm whale. By the middle of the
eighteenth century, however, sperm whaling was no longer profitable
in the Northern Atlantic, while the Greenland grounds were overrun by
European ships. American fishermen therefore turned their attention to
the West, and for many years confined themselves mainly to catching the
sperm whale, finding at first their best “grounds” in the south-middle
Pacific. When the War of Independence came on, Nantucket was the
leading whaling-port of the country, but all the New England towns
were more or less engaged, and no less than three hundred and sixty
vessels, large and small, were out. The Revolutionary War nearly
destroyed the industry, and before it could well revive, the War of
1812 again subjected the whaling-ships to capture by English privateers
and men-of-war all over the world. After that, however, they spread
all over the Southern seas, and between 1840 and 1850 more than seven
hundred were flying the flag of the United States.
The whaling vessels were large, stanch craft, usually bark-rigged,
distinguished by their old-fashioned shape, weather-stained, smoky
appearance, enormous boats swinging from end to end of the ship from
lofty davits, and try-works forward. They kept longer than any one
else many relics of rigging, custom, and language, belonging to the
seamanship of earlier generations; and no sea-peril could daunt either
the vessel or its crew. They would sail on voyages lasting two or
three years, and sometimes would circumnavigate the globe and return
without having touched at a port. As a rule, however, they would gain
part of a cargo, and then go to some port, ship it to London or New
York, and refit for a new voyage. The profits of a trip were thus very
great sometimes, but other trips were attended only by expense and
misfortune.
[Illustration:
DRAWN BY W. TABER.
A RACE FOR A WHALE.]
The capture of whales in those days had more danger if not more
excitement than now, for the only method was by rowing after them,
helped by the sails, in the 28-foot, double-ended rowboats made for the
purpose (of which every vessel carried six or eight), and sinking into
their vitals darts and lances until they died. They were then towed
to the vessel’s side, held by tackle from the yard-arms in a suitable
position, and cut up. The oil in early days was packed in casks, but
later has been run into iron tanks built into the hold, after having
been tried out of the blubber in the great caldrons set in brick on the
forward deck, which gave a whaler so peculiar an appearance, at all
times, and would lead any one to suppose her on fire while the process
of trying-out was going on, and the great volumes of black smoke caused
by the use of whale-fat and waste as fuel were drifting to leeward.
One of the best accounts of a chase published is that by the late
Temple Brown, of the United States Fish Commission, in an article in
“The Century” for February, 1893, from which I am permitted to make an
extract:
While cruising on the coast of New Zealand, one day about 11.30
A. M., the lookout at the main hailed the deck with: “Thar sh’
b-l-o-w-s! Thar sh’ b-l-o-w-s! Blows! B-l-o-w-s!”
“Where away?” promptly responded the officer of the deck.
“Four points off the lee bow! Blows sperm-whales! Blows! Blows!” came
from aloft.
“How far off?” shouted the captain, roused out of his cabin by the
alarm, as his head and shoulders appeared above deck. “Where are they
heading?” he continued, as he went up the rigging on all-fours.
“Blows about two miles and a half off, sir,” replied Mr. Braxton,
the mate, looking off the lee-bow with his glasses, “and coming to
windward, I believe.”
“Call all hands!” said the captain. “Haul up the mainsail, and back
your main-yards. Hurry up there! Get your boats ready, Mr. Braxton!”
At the first alarm the men came swarming up the companionway of the
forecastle, divesting themselves of superfluous articles of clothing,
and scattering them indiscriminately about the deck. Rolling up
their trousers, and girding their loins with their leather belts,
taking a double reef until supper-time, they flitted nervously
here and there in their bare legs and feet, observing every order
with the greatest alacrity, and holding themselves in readiness to
go over the side of the vessel at the word of command. There is
a certain order, systematic action, or red tape, observed on all
first-class whaling-vessels, however imperfectly disciplined some of
the boat-crews may be. The captain indicates the boats he wishes to
attack the whales; the boat-header (an officer) and the boat-steerer
(the harpooner) take their proper positions in the boat, the former
at the stern and the latter at the bow, while suspended in the
davits. At the proper moment the davit-tackles are run out by men on
deck, and the boats drop with a lively splash; the sprightly oarsmen
meantime leap the ship’s rail, and, swinging themselves down the
side of the vessel, tumble promiscuously into the boats just about
the time the latter strike the water. Although it may be said that
there is a general scramble, there is not the least confusion. Every
person and thing has the proper place assigned to it in a whaleboat;
the officer has full command, but he is subject to the orders of the
captain, who signals his instructions from the ship, usually by means
of the light sails. The manner of going on to a whale, the number of
men and their positions in the boat, and the kind of instruments and
the manner of using them, have been perpetuated in this fishery for
more than two centuries.
“Clear away the larboard and bow boats!” shouted the captain. “Get in
ahead of the whales, Mr. Braxton, if you can. Here, cook, you and
cooper lend a hand there with them davy-taycles. Are you ready? Hoist
and swing your boats.”
Down went the larboard boat and the bow boat almost simultaneously.
“Shove off! Up sail! Out oars! Pull ahead!” were the orders from
Mr. Braxton, the officer of the larboard boat, in rapid succession.
“Let’s get clear of the ship. Come, bear a hand with that sail, do,”
he added, coaxingly, with his eye on the third mate’s boat. “Don’t
let ’em get in ahead of us.”
“All right, sir; here you go, sheet,” replied Vera, the harpooner,
a well-developed and intelligent American-Portuguese, with his
accustomed good spirits.
Hastily laying aside his paddle, like a tiger couchant, with eager
eyes upon his prey, he picked up his harpoon, and stood erect, his
tall, muscular frame swaying above the head of the boat. He placed
his thigh in the clumsy-cleat,—a contrivance to steady the harpooner
against the motions of the waves,— and with his long, springy
arms turned and balanced the harpoon-pole previous to poising the
instrument in the air.... Under the motive power of sail and paddle
the space between the boat and whale was rapidly diminishing, and
apparently they would soon come into collision. The enormous head
of the cetacean, as it plowed a wide furrow in the ocean, and the
tall column of vapor rising from the blow-holes, as it spouted ten
or twelve feet in the air, were to be seen right ahead; the expired
air, as it rushed like steam from a valve, could be heard near by;
the bunch of the neck and the hump were plainly visible as they rose
and fell with the swell of the waves; and the terrible commotion of
the troubled waters, fanned by the gigantic flukes, left a swath of
foaming and dancing waves clearly outlined upon the surface of the
sea....
Mr. Braxton laid the boat off gracefully to starboard, and the
mastodonic head of a genuine spermaceti whale loomed up on our port
bow. The junk was seamed and scarred with many a wound received in
fierce and angry struggles for supremacy with individuals of its own
species, or perhaps with the kraken; the foaming waters ran up and
down the great shining black head, exposing from time to time the
long, rakish under-jaw; but what small eyes!
“Now!” shouted the officer, as if Vera was a half-mile off, instead
of about twenty-five feet. “Give him some, boy! Give him—!” But his
well-trained and faithful harpooner had already darted the harpoon
into the glistening black skin just abaft the fin; the boat was
enveloped in a foam-cloud—the “white water” of the whalemen, stirred
up by the tremendous flukes of the whale.
“Stern all!” shouted the officer; and the boat was quickly propelled
backward by the oarsmen, to clear it from the whale. “Are you fast,
boy?”
“Fust iron in, sir; can’t tell second,” replied Vera; but the
zip-zip-zip of the line as it fairly leaped from the tub and went
spinning round the loggerhead and through the chocks, sending up
a cloud of smoke produced by friction, indicated the presence of
healthy game.
“Wet line! wet line!” shouted Mr. Braxton, as he went forward to kill
the whale, and Vera came aft to steer the boat, unstepping the mast
on his way; for all whales are now struck under sail. The whale,
however, soon turned flukes, and went head first to the depths below.
Meantime, the other whales had taken the alarm, and with their noses
in the air, were showing a “clean pair of heels” to windward.
The boat lay by awaiting the “rising” of the cetacean. Twenty minutes
passed, twenty-five, stroke-oarsman began to feel hungry; thirty,
thirty-five, and still the line was either slowly running out or
taut; but soon it began to slacken. “Haul line! haul line!” said
the officer, peering into the water. “He’s stopped.” The line was
retrieved as fast as possible and carefully laid in loose coils on
the after platform. “Haul line, he’s coming! Coil line clear, Vera!”
said Mr. Braxton, shading his eyes with his hand and looking over the
gunwale at an immense opaque spot beginning to outline itself in the
depths below.
[Illustration:
DRAWN BY W. TABER. ENGRAVED BY J. W. EVANS.
FAST TO A WHALE.]
“Look out! Here he comes! Stern all! Look out for whale!”
But the mate’s injunctions were received too late. The whale, fairly
out of breath, came up with a bound and a puff, scattering the water
in all directions, and catching the keel of the boat on the bunch of
its neck. The boat bounded from this part of the whale’s anatomy to
the hump, and, careening to starboard, shot the crew first on the
whale’s side and then into the water. The stroke-oarsman now began
to feel wet. The whale, terrified beyond measure by the tickling
sensation of the little thirty-foot boat creeping down its back,
caught the frail cedar craft on one corner of its flukes, and tossed
it gracefully, but perhaps not intentionally, into the air, as one
would play with a light rubber ball. As the boat descended, with one
tremendous “side wipe” of the mighty caudal fin, and with a terrible
crash that was heard on the ship nearly two miles away, the whale
smashed it into kindling-wood.
[Illustration: A WHALE-BOAT CUT IN TWO.]
This is only one of the exciting tales Mr. Brown has to tell, and the
history of whaling in every country could add many more. He tells us
that approaching a whale at all times is like going into battle, and
says that many of the deeds remembered by old hands were purely heroic,
since the danger might have been avoided by declining to attack the
animal under the especially hazardous conditions that often present
themselves.
The persecution suffered by whales of all kinds in all parts of the
world made the more valuable kinds so scarce by the middle of the
present century that many voyages were almost fruitless, not only by
reason of small catches, but because the substitutes invented for
whalebone, and the constantly increasing use of mineral oils had
lowered prices to an almost ruinous level. The American fleets suffered
with the rest, until during the Civil War they were nearly swept from
the seas by the ravages of the _Shenandoah_ and other Confederate
privateers.
Since then there has been only a partial revival, accompanied by a good
many changes. A few Scotch and German whalers still go to the northern
seas, working in the ice, and some American vessels from the Eastern
States, and a greater number from California search the Pacific and
the waters off Alaska. All or nearly all of these whalers are provided
with steam-propellers, having an arrangement by which they can lift the
screw out of water and use their sails for ordinary purposes. Many of
them chase with a steam-launch instead of the old-fashioned whaleboats,
and save their men the back-straining labor of towing a prize perhaps
two or three miles to the ship. In place of the hand harpoon they have
several forms of swivel-guns and shoulder-guns discharging harpoons and
explosive darts by gunpowder, so that a large share of the danger as
well as the labor is saved to modern whalemen, who are also much better
housed and fed in their large iron steamships than those used to be who
wrestled with scurvy in the grim old hulks of half a century ago.
The ships that go up through Davis Straits now frequently winter
there, in order to be on hand in May to meet the whales that appear in
the first open water, to which the men drag their boats over the ice
between their ships and the first open channels. For the same purpose
many vessels of the American fleet are accustomed to pass the winter in
company under the shelter of islands near the mouth of the Mackenzie
River. Here they have a rendezvous where buildings have been erected
and means for social comfort have been established, such as billiard
tables, books, etc. These western vessels do not force their way into
and through the ice, as do those among the eastern archipelagoes,
but operate in comparatively open water, as long as it lasts, along
the edge of the paleocrystic ice. Delaying the departure of those
who mean to return to the Pacific and home until the last moment, it
occasionally happens that some are caught and frozen in. These are
usually destroyed, but thus far their crews have managed to escape
either to more fortunate vessels or to the shore, where, at Point
Barrow, the government has built and keeps furnished a strong house,
with stores, fuel, and provisions, as a refuge for shipwrecked mariners.
Walrus-hunting is not much followed nowadays by civilized seamen,
though the animal is still of great value to the Eskimo and Siberians.
It has become very scarce in easily accessible waters, but is
occasionally taken by whalers, who find a market for the ivory of its
tusks.
Sealing is an industry which still claims considerable attention from
the Scandinavians and Scotchmen who go to the coasts and waters about
Spitzbergen, Jan Mayen, and Greenland, as well as to nearer resorts,
in pursuit of several species yielding oil and valuable hides; and in
the North Pacific the pursuit of the fur seal still occupies many small
vessels, but seems likely to come soon to an end. Antarctic seals are
practically extinct.
The industry of fishing is probably one of the oldest in the world,
and it remains among the most important, for the fisheries not only
furnish a vast amount of nutritious and pleasant, yet remarkably cheap,
food, but many other things useful to mankind. Hence it is not strange
to find that in all the early reports of the discovery of new lands
and waters that followed one another so rapidly from the fourteenth to
the eighteenth centuries, the fish and other sea-animals to be found
were always given a prominent place in the list of valuable assets
pertaining to each locality. Even the Spaniards and Portuguese, in
their insane rush for gold and silver, to the neglect and ruin of
everything else, had to pay some little attention to fishing and allied
industries in both the East and West Indies; while in the case of the
exploitations of new regions by the calmer, more prudent people of
western Europe—the British, French, Dutch and Scandinavians,—the value
of the harvest of the sea was really more in view, at first, than that
of the land, at least when they began to visit and colonize North
America. Take, as an example, the history of St. Pierre, Miquelon, and
the others that form a group of islets in the Gulf of Newfoundland,
half way between Prince Edward Island and Newfoundland. Mr. S. G.
W. Benjamin, in whose “Cruise of the _Alice May_” you may find many
interesting and picturesque materials for an account of them, tells
us a French settlement was begun on St. Pierre as early as 1604, and
that tradition says the islands were resorted to by the Basques two
centuries before that, as is very likely true.
In 1713 the colony numbered three thousand souls, and had become a
very important fishing port. In that very year St. Pierre was ceded
to Great Britain, together with Newfoundland, the French being merely
allowed permission to dry their fish on the adjacent shores. But when
the victory of Wolfe resulted in the loss of Canada to France, she
was once more awarded this little group of isles lying off Fortune
Bay, to serve as a depot for her fishermen. The French now gave
themselves in earnest to developing the cod-fisheries, determined,
apparently, that what they had lost on land should be made up by the
sea. In twelve years the average exportation of fish amounted to six
thousand quintals, giving employment to over two hundred smacks,
sailed by eight thousand seamen. The English recaptured the isles
in 1778, destroyed all the stages and store-houses, and forced the
inhabitants to go into exile. The peace of Versailles restored St.
Pierre to France in 1783, and the fugitives returned to the island
at the royal expense. The fisheries now became more prosperous than
ever, when the war of ’93 once more brought the English fleets to
St. Pierre. Again the inhabitants were forced to fly. By the peace
of Amiens, in 1802, France regained possession of this singularly
evanescent possession, and lost it the following year, when the town
was destroyed. In 1816 St. Pierre and Miquelon were finally re-ceded
to France, in whose power they have ever since remained.
[Illustration: CURING FISH AT ST. PIERRE.]
As these islands were of no use to any one for any other purpose, all
this struggle for their possession was in order to retain the privilege
and naval control of fishing in those waters. The French government has
carefully fostered this interest ever since, and now the islands not
only have a settled population of several thousand, but at the height
of the season sometimes as many as ten thousand strangers (sailors and
fishermen) congregate at the principal port, St. Pierre, which is one
of the most important centers in the world for the marketing, curing,
and export of sea-caught fish.
Of all waters those of the North Atlantic seem to excel in useful
fishes; from the oil-shark hand-lining off the coast of Lapland, or the
sardine-catching of Spain, to Yankee sword-fishing, this ocean is alive
with fish and fishermen, on both sides and at all seasons of the year.
The whole coast of Norway supports this industry, especially around the
far northern Lafoden Islands. The North Sea, shallow and cold, is the
home of many valuable species that are sought by extensive fleets from
Denmark, Holland, and the north of France, while thousands of British
sailors make a living along their own eastern coasts and among the
islands north of Scotland; but the waters on all sides of the British
Isles are fishing waters, especially the English and Irish channels
and the western lochs of Scotland; the herring-catch alone is worth
eight and a half millions of dollars a year, while Great Britain’s
mackerel-catch amounts to two millions, and her share of the codfishery
to another two millions. Nearly half of all the products of British
fisheries are obtained by the use of the beam-trawl—a huge dredge-like
bag-net, handled and towed by steamers in pretty deep water, which
scoops in everything near the bottom, where the most desirable
sea-fishes stay. Among the prizes are the turbot and sole—toothsome and
valuable species not known along American shores.
More southerly are the profitable fisheries for pilchards, sprats, and
especially sardines—little fishes taken in vast numbers and canned or
preserved in various ways. The abundance of sardines, a recent writer
tells us, may be inferred from the fact that the Spanish fishermen
take annually about one hundred thousand tons of these little fishes,
having a value of from $400,000 to $600,000. A peculiar method of
capturing the sardines at night prevails in the Adriatic. The location
of the shoals of fish is literally felt out by a light sounding-line,
and by means of the attraction of a fire of resinous pine the fish are
slowly coaxed into some creek or estuary and surrounded with a seine.
The demand for wood for use in this and other night fisheries causes a
serious drain on the neighboring pine-forests.
The _great_ fishery of the Mediterranean, however, is that for
tunnies—huge fishes allied to mackerel, sometimes weighing several
hundredweight, and regarded in America as poor food. They have been
taken by means of pounds and strong enclosing nets ever since classical
antiquity, and preserved tunny flesh is still popular in Spain, Italy,
and North Africa, while the same fish is the object of one of the
principal sea-industries of Japan.
But important as are the catching, preserving, and utilization of
these and many other European fishes, they are far outranked by the
marine fisheries for the cod and its relatives, the halibut, haddock,
hake, etc., in waters about Newfoundland, Labrador, and Iceland, where
also great quantities of mackerel, herring, and other food fishes
are regularly obtained. The principal grounds are on the Banks of
Newfoundland, which have been resorted to for more than three hundred
years by men from both continents.
[Illustration: HAND-LINE FISHING ON THE GRAND BANKS.]
The Banks of Newfoundland are a series of shoals—submerged islands,
in fact—which lie off the northeastern coast of America from Cape Cod
to the farther end of Newfoundland. The shallowness of the water over
them makes them advantageous places for fishing, because many of the
species caught remain near the bottom, and in deep water are therefore
beyond convenient reach. It is possible, also, to anchor there—often a
necessity.
But just here are presented some of the worst perils to which fishermen
are exposed. Nowhere are old ocean’s storms worse than on these Banks,
where the sand is sometimes stirred five hundred feet below the
surface. The best fishing comes in winter—the season of the heaviest
gales. The vessels must anchor close together, too, for the areas of
good fishing are small, and if one breaks its hawser, or the anchor
drags, there is great danger of drifting afoul of some neighbor, which
is likely to end in the destruction of both. Then there is ever present
the danger, in these latitudes of almost ceaseless fog, of being run
down by the transatlantic steamers, in whose track the fishing fleets
must anchor. The skipper keeps his bell tolling, or a great horn
blowing, but if a steamer comes down the wind her lookout will hardly
be able to hear it before it is too late to stop or change the course
of the monster rushing at full speed through the thickness of mist and
flying spray. “Before anything can be done the relentless iron prow
cuts into the schooner, which for a moment quivers and then disappears
into the depths.... One of these great iron ships might cut the bows
off a fishing schooner of sixty or eighty tons and not, perhaps,
experience a sufficient shock to alarm the passengers sleeping calmly
in their staterooms.”
The vessels which go upon this perilous quest are the stanchest,
swiftest, and withal handsomest little vessels that sail our seas.
Their rig is adapted to this purpose, and spreads almost as much canvas
as a racing-yacht, which, in fact, on this side of the Atlantic has
been modeled from Banks fishermen. The best of them probably are those
hailing from Gloucester, Mass., and these are never used for any other
purpose.
The old-fashioned hand-line fishing, such as still holds a place in the
mackerel fisheries—although even there it has given way in most vessels
to purse-netting,—is no longer practised in the American codfishery,
which now uses the trawl-line altogether, by which the men have added
to the hardship and danger of their adventurous life as well as to its
profits.
This trawl is not a huge dredge as is the beam-trawl of the North
Sea fishermen, from which it has unfortunately copied its name, but
is a strong rope between three and four hundred feet long, having at
each end an anchor and a flag-buoy. It is so arranged that when it is
stretched out and anchored the line will be several fathoms beneath the
surface. To this line, at intervals of six feet or so, are hung short
lines, each carrying a stout hook. When the fishing-ground has been
reached, the captain anchors his vessel, or, if the weather permits, he
sails gently to and fro. Previously, six trawls have been baited with
clams brought from home, and one put in each of the six small boats
which the vessel carries. Two men now put off in each of these boats
and anchor the trawls at convenient distances from each other, in such
a way that the trawl-line, with its fringe of hooks, shall be stretched
taut and at the proper depth. How long they stay down depends on the
weather—five or six hours, or from evening until morning, is the usual
period. Then the men go out, and taking up the anchors at one end, haul
each trawl into the boat, coiling it in the bottom and taking off the
hooks each captive fish as fast as they come to it.
[Illustration: A FISHING SCHOONER “HOVE TO” IN A GALE ON THE BANKS.]
Simple as this sounds, it is terribly hard work. The trawls are heavy
and stiff, and armed with dangerously sharp hooks. The busiest season
is midwinter, and no dread of cold or danger must stop the fisherman,
who boldly ventures in his little dory into the teeth of a howling
snow-storm and fast increasing gale, piling the water “mountain-high”
about him and encasing his body in a sheet of icy spray; this must
he do, in spite of discomfort and the imminent risk of death, if he
would save from destruction his valuable trawls and the booty they may
have hooked for him. A fine day on the Banks of Newfoundland is a rare
thing; fog and snow and icy gales are the rule, and only the boldest
courage, endurance, and skill will enable a man to resist that ocean
and wrest from it his self-support. A vivid picture of the hardships
and dangers of fishing on the Banks is to be found in Rudyard Kipling’s
story, “Captains Courageous.”
The intrepid and skilful voyages of our whalers and fishermen, daring
every fatigue and danger in the open sea, have been schools for the
best seamen of the world. Every nation is glad to draw these sailors
into their navies, and it is they who make the bravest yet most
cautious captains of our merchant marine, showing to their comrades
and to landsmen splendid examples of heroism and fortitude. _This_ is
the schooling I meant when I said that in its industries we get not
only food, but formation of character, from old Ocean,—and this is the
highest result attainable from either land or sea.
[Illustration: shipwreck]