THE DEEP SEA’S TOLL
[Illustration: “’Tis Tommie I’m after,” hollers back the Skipper.
--See page 34.]
THE DEEP
SEA’S TOLL
BY
JAMES B. CONNOLLY
AUTHOR OF “OUT OF GLOUCESTER,”
“THE SEINERS,” ETC.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
_W. J. Aylward & H. Reuterdahl_
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
NEW YORK :::::::: 1905
COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
Published, September, 1905
TROW DIRECTORY
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY
NEW YORK
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE SAIL-CARRIERS 1
THE WICKED “CELESTINE” 41
THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 71
STRATEGY AND SEAMANSHIP 133
DORY-MATES 159
THE SALVING OF THE BARK FULLER 199
ON GEORGES SHOALS 243
PATSIE ODDIE’S BLACK NIGHT 273
ILLUSTRATIONS
“’Tis Tommie I’m after,” hollers back the Skipper _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
“All the looseness in my oil-pants is ketched tight” 26
What’s that a-drivin’ in from sea, like a ghost from out 32
Stood by and took them as they came down 64
A tug bore down and hailed them 68
He was having another mug-up for himself 114
The _Lucy_ was acting like a vessel trying to coax the other 152
“You just try it--just let me see you try it, Sam Leary” 234
The Sail-Carriers
It was a howling gale outside, but howling gales were common things to
Peter, and he did not see why this one need hinder his taking a little
stroll along the docks. Something in the appearance of the vessel just
rounding the Point helped to give new life to the idea he had been
entertaining for some minutes now--that a little trip along the harbor
front wouldn’t be a half bad notion.
Exactly what that something was Peter could not say. Queer inner
workings were not to be argued as if they were Trust or Tariff
questions; but this vessel--and she certainly was an able vessel--and
the vessel just before her was an able vessel too--both these vessels,
he might say, tearing around the Point, rails buried and booms dragging,
did suggest in some way Peter couldn’t quite reason out, that his
intended little voyage was a good idea.
It had been ever so with Peter. Never one of his favorites came swinging
in before a breeze that he did not begin to get nervous. So, having
made a note of the _Colleen Bawn_, Tom O’Donnell master, under a note
of the _Nannie O_, Tommie Ohlsen master, and seeing nothing further to
hinder he just the same as conferred a decoration on the most
meritorious of his volunteer staff by giving him full charge of the
tower while he should be gone. Then, with conscience clear, he climbed
down the winding back stairs and out onto the street.
In and about among the wharves did Peter jog under easy sail until he
felt somewhat more rested. He was, indeed, about to return to Crow’s
Nest, but happening to glance down Duncan’s Dock, he made out Dexter
Warren painting dories under the lee of the long shed. “Miracles!”
murmured Peter, “Dexter’s workin’.” Picking his course over the planks
of the dock, tacking in and out among the fish flakes, empty hogsheads
and old broken spars, Peter noticed Dexter step away from his dories,
raise his hands to his eyes, take a squint across the harbor, shake his
head sadly, come back and resume his dory-painting.
But resumed it leisurely, for Dexter, as everybody in Gloucester that
knew him knew, was not the man to do things in a bull-headed way. That
some men painted portraits with less care than Dexter painted bankers’
dories was readily believed by anyone who had ever seen Dexter painting
dories. Dexter would have told you that the dories were the more useful.
He was now putting in the discriminating touches that distinguish the
type of man who works for something other than the money there is in it.
It was the precise little dab of the brush here and a deft little flirt
of the wrist there, and the holding of the head first to one side and
then the other, that caught the eye of Peter when he rounded to under
Dexter’s quarter and hailed.
“Hulloh, Dexter-boy, and what’s it you’re paintin’?”
“Miniachoors--miniachoors on iv’ry,” responded Dexter, with brush
suspended at arm’s length, and himself swinging slowly around. He had
some more little repartee on the tip of his tongue, but seeing who it
was he forgot it, and “Hulloh, Peter,” he said instead, “and what ever
druv you out this mornin’?”
“I dunno. The confinement, maybe.”
“Ah, that’s bad--too much confinement.”
“That’s what I was thinkin’ myself. For who are the dories?”
“Captain O’Donnell.”
“For the _Colleen Bawn_? A man’d think’d be a new vessel and not new
dories he’d be gettin’--the old one’s that wracked apart. Red bottoms,
yeller sides, and green gunnels--m’m--but they’ll be swell-lookin’
dories when you get ’em done, won’t they?”
“They’ll be the prettiest dories that was ever put aboard a trawler out
of Gloucester,” said Dexter, appreciatively.
“I’ll bet. And he’ll be pleased with ’em, I know--’specially the green
gunnels--and he ought t’ be along soon.”
“Who along soon?--not the _Colleen Bawn_?”
“Sure. She was comin’ around the Point just as I left Crow’s Nest.”
“No! Well, I’m glad,” breathed Dexter. “I’m glad he’s home again. And
so’ll his wife be, too. There was that gale just after she left. His
wife, I’ll bet, ain’t slept a wink since.”
Peter straddled the sheer of a broken topmast. “Whose wife, Dexter?--not
meanin’ to be inquisitive.”
“Why, Jimmie Johnson’s. He’s on the _Colleen_ this trip.”
“Him? The little fellow lumps around here sometimes? Why, we used to
scare him ’most to death up in Crow’s Nest tellin’-- How came it he got
it into his head to go fishin’?”
“Oh, it was what the papers’d call a little matrimonial difference. I
expect that him and his wife ain’t got real well acquainted with each
other yet. He’s pretty young yet, and she don’t know too much about the
world. I know, because she’s my first cousin. Young married couples, I
s’pose, got to have ’bout so many arguments before they find each other
out. I ain’t married myself, but ain’t it about that way, Peter?”
“Well, gen’rally, Dexter, though not always.” Peter jabbed the point of
his knife-blade into his spar. “You see, Dexter, it’s a good deal like
vessels. You don’t always know how to take them at first. There’s some
sails best down by the head, and some by the stern. There’s some’ll come
about in the wildest gale under headsail alone, and others you have to
drive around with the trys’l or a bit of the mains’l and that, too, when
a minute too late means the vessel gone up on the rocks. Some you c’n
find all about how they trim the first trip, and some you c’n never find
out about; and some fine day they rolls over or goes under, and the
whole gang’s lost. But about Jimmie, Dexter--how’d Tom O’Donnell ever
come to ship him?”
“Lord, I dunno. I only know I came down on the dock that mornin’, and he
was standin’ right where I am now, just goin’ to begin on a new set of
dories for the _Scarrabee_ that was fittin’ out to go halibutin’. When I
came along I was wonderin’ where I could get about a week’s work. I
didn’t want more’n a week, because I’d been promised a job in the glue
factory the first of the month, and I never did see the use of wearin’
yourself out beforehand when you’re goin’ to start in soon on a steady
job, would you, Peter?”
“Well,”-- Peter made a few more thoughtful jabs into the topmast--“well,
no, maybe not--more especially if ’t was a glue factory job.”
“That’s what I say. Well, I notices something was wrong, and I asks what
the matter was. ‘Tired of work?’ I says, thinkin’ to cheer him up.”
“‘Tired of everything,’ says Jimmie, and I see he was ’most ready to
cry. Well, you know the kind he is, Peter. He ain’t one of them fellows
that’ll go out and have a few drinks for himself and forget it. No; he
thinks over things that don’t amount to nothin’ till he’s near
crazy--you’ve met them kind? Yes? Well, Jimmie was that way this
mornin’. I drew it out of him that he’d had a scrap up home. He told me,
knowin’ I wouldn’t tell it all over the place, and----”
“And he wound up by shippin’ with Tom O’Donnell? How’d Jimmie ever get a
chance with that gang? They’re an able crew.”
“Lord, I dunno. I went away, and warn’t gone more than an hour when the
boy from the office came huntin’ for me and says that Jimmie Johnson’d
gone a haddockin’ trip in the _Colleen Bawn_ and did I want his job? And
I came back and went to work thinkin’ I had a week ahead of me or so,
and here it’s the fourteenth day--not countin’ Sundays--and I’m glad
he’s back, and I hope he hurries ashore as soon’s they come to anchor.
Fourteen days now paintin’ dories and lumpin’ around this dock, and----”
“And that poor boy out in the _Colleen Bawn_ in that last blow! Well,
maybe it’ll do him good. Your cousin, you say, Dexter? I think I’ve seen
her--and a nice little woman, too--though I expect there was a little to
blame on both sides. There gen’rally is. But I must be gettin’ back. I
left a lad in charge of Crow’s Nest that I’m afeard ain’t able to pick
out a Georgesman from an Eyetalian barque loaded with salt till they’re
under his nose, and maybe he won’t be reportin’ one or two to the office
till after they know it themselves, and then somebody’ll ketch the
devil--me, most likely. So, so long, Dexter.”
Regretfully relinquishing his old topmast, and leaving Dexter and his
dories in his wake, Peter gradually gathered steerage-way, and headed up
the dock, from where, in time, he managed to work into the street, and
then, with Duncan’s office to port and a good beam wind, he bore away
for Crow’s Nest. He had it in mind to go by way of the Anchorage, and
laying his course therefor--no’west by nothe--he hauled up for the
Anchorage corner.
Luffing the least bit to clear the brass railings outside the Anchorage
windows, and having in mind all the while how fine it would be once he
was around with a fair wind at his back, and bending his head at the
same time to the breeze, Peter ran plump into somebody coming the other
way.
“I say, matey, but could you swing her off a half-point or so?” sung out
the other cheerfully.
“Swing off? Why, of course, but gen’rally a vessel close-hauled is
s’posed to have right of way where I come from.”
“Close-hauled are you? Well, so’m I--or I thought I was.”
“And so maybe y’are, if you’re so round-bowed and flat-bottomed a craft
you can’t sail closer than seven or eight points. Anyway, I’m starb’d
tack.”
“Well, who in--” The other peered up. “Why, hello-o, Peter!”
“What! Well, well, Tommie Clancy! the _Colleen Bawn_ in already?”
“To anchor in the stream not two minutes ago. I hurried ashore on an
errand for her.”
“And what kind of a trip did y’ have?”
“Oh, nothing extra so far as the fish went, but good and lively every
other way. Stayed out in that breeze week before last and left Georges
last night with that latest spoon-bow model and I guess she’s still
a-comin’. Some wind last night comin’ home, Peter.”
“M-m-- I’ll bet she came a-howlin’.”
“Oh, maybe she didn’t. Peter boy, but if you only could’ve seen her
hoppin’ over the shoals last night and comin’ up to Cape Ann this
mornin’! But let’s step inside, and have a little touch.”
“Well, I don’t mind, seein’ the kind of a day it is, Tommie. And I want
to ask you about that little fellow you shipped-- Jimmie Johnson.”
“Ho, ho--‘Your oilskins are too loose,’ says the Skipper to him. Ho,
ho--wait and I’ll tell you about him, Peter--‘Your oilskins too loose--’
ho, ho.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“Wait, till I tell you, Peter-boy. But let’s sit down and drink in
comfort. There y’are. Here’s a shoot. G-g-g-h-! m-m-! but ain’t it fine
to feel that soaking into your inside planking after you’ve been
carryin’ a dry hold for sixteen days? Ain’t it? What? You bet! And about
the little lumper-man--it was funny from the start. I was down the end
of the dock the mornin’ we left, with the dory, waiting for the
Skipper, when along comes this little fellow lookin’ like something
sad’d happened. I kind of half knew him from seein’ him around the dock
now and again. He seemed to be lookin’ for some good sympathetic party
to tell his troubles to and I let him pour them into me. He talks away
and I listens and before he’s through I begin to see what the trouble
was. ‘What you need is a couple of drinks,’ I says--‘What d’y’ say if we
step up the dock and have a litle touch?’
“‘No, no,’ says he, ‘I ain’t drunk a drop since I got married--and I
never will whilst I am married.’
“‘Then if you don’t hurry up and get a divorce, I can see that you are
goin’ to carry around an awful thirst,’ I says, but the way he took it I
see he didn’t want any foolin’. And then, to soothe him, I asked why he
didn’t go a haddockin’ trip, and forget it.”
“‘Do you think I’d forget it?’ he asks, eager-like.
“‘Well,’ I said, ‘I can’t say. Some people remember things a long time,
but you go a trip with Tom O’Donnell, and you’ll stand a pretty good
chance ’specially ’bout this time o’ year,’ I says. ‘And maybe it’ll
teach people a lesson,’ I insinuates. And just then down the dock comes
the Skipper, with big Jerry Sullivan. Ain’t he a whale though--big
Jerry?”
“Yes, and gettin’ bigger every day.”
“Yes. Well, the Skipper was layin’ down the law to big Jerry, and you
could hear him the length of the dock. He was sayin’, ‘I told him we’d
leave at nine o’clock, and it’s quarter-past now, and I told him above
all the others, knowin’ his failin’. He knows me, and he oughter know
that when I say nine o’clock that ’tis nine o’clock I mean, and not ten,
or eleven, or two in the afternoon; and we’ve been in two nights now,
and he’s had plenty o’ time to loosen up since.”
“‘That’s right enough, Skipper,’ says Jerry. ‘I heard you myself, and I
said myself, “Now, mind, Bartley, what the Skipper’s tellin’ you.” But
you see, Skipper, it was a weddin’ last night, and a wake the night
before----’
“‘A wake and a weddin’! And whose weddin’--his?’ roars the Skipper.
“‘Why, no,’ says Jerry.
“‘Was it his wake, then?’
“‘Why, Skipper, don’t you know it couldn’t been his wake?’
“‘Not his wake and not his weddin’? Then what the divil reason has he?’
“‘Why,’ said Jerry, ‘I ain’t sayin’ he’s got any good reason. But you
know what he thinks of you and of the vessel. He’s been in the
_Colleen_ ever since she was built, and he’s a fisherman--a fisherman,
Skipper, stem to stern a fisherman--and he knows your ways and the
vessel’s ways,’ says Jerry.
“‘Indeed, and I’m not sure he knows my ways too well,’ says the Skipper.
‘It’s so proud he should be to sail in the _Colleen Bawn_, the fastest,
ablest vessel out of Gloucester, if I do say it myself, that-- But no
more talk. To the divil with him. There’s the dory--jump in and go
aboard.’
“‘But what’ll I do for a dory-mate?’ says Jerry.
“‘Oh, I’ll get you a dory-mate. When we put into Boston for bait
there’ll be plenty to pick up on T wharf.’
“Well, just there I nudges the little lumper, and he sets his jaws and
steps up: ‘Captain, could you give me a chance? I’d like to ship with
you for a trip.’
“The Skipper looks down at him. ‘And who are you?’
“And right away he begins to tell his troubles to the Skipper, and the
Skipper--you know the Skipper--listens like a father. But he near
spoiled it all by windin’ up, ‘Oh, I’ve been workin’ around the dock
lately, but I used to be quartermaster on a harbor steamer in Boston
one time,’ to let the Skipper know he wouldn’t have a passenger on his
hands.
“The Skipper looks him up and looks him down. ‘Quartermaster on a harbor
steamer once, was you? Think of that, now. It’s the proud man you
oughter be! And about as big as a pair of good woolen mitts! But’--and
he looks over at Jerry sideways--‘you’ll have a mate that’s big enough.
Jerry,’ and he begins to smile sly-like, ‘Jerry, here’s the dory-mate
you’ve been screechin’ for.’
“‘What!’ howls Jerry, ‘him--him! Why, I could slip him into one of my
red-jacks. That little shrimp! A shrimp? No--a minim!’
“It was scandalous, of course, to speak out like that to the little man
to his face, but Jerry and Bartley were great friends, you see; and
Jerry’d kept on, but the Skipper puts an end to it quick, and we went
aboard.
“Well, we puts into Boston for the bait, gets it up to T wharf and puts
out. Coming down the harbor it was Jerry and the little man’s watch on
deck. Jerry put him to the wheel. ‘Bein’ quartermaster of a harbor
steamer here once, of course you know the channel,’ says Jerry, and
leaves him and goes for’ard. Well, we went along till we were pretty
near the little light-house on the thin iron legs that sets up like it
was on stilts. Well, you know how the channel is there, Peter, and this
time it was blowin’ some--wind abeam. I mind the little man askin’ Jerry
afore this if it warn’t pretty bad weather to be puttin’ to sea and
Jerry sayin’ maybe it would be for harbor steamers. We were crowdin’
along at this time, Jerry for’ard by the windlass, me in the waist, and
the little man to the wheel. We gets near to the little
light-house--like a spider on long legs it was-- Bug Light is the name of
it, and a good name for it, too. We were crowdin’ through, and I was
thinkin’ of askin’ Jerry if he hadn’t better take the wheel himself, and
then I thought I wouldn’t. It warn’t my watch, and you don’t like to be
hintin’ to a man that he don’t know his business, you know, not even to
a man that was green as this one might be in handlin’ a fisherman. Well,
we gets nearer and I noticed the little man beginnin’ to fidget like he
was nervous or something. At last he hollers out to Jerry, ‘I say,
matey, what’ll I do? I don’t know’s I c’n keep her away from the light,
and there’s rocks on the other side. What’ll I do, matey?’
“Jerry turns around. ‘Whatever you do, don’t call me matey. And whatever
you do again, don’t put this vessel up on the rocks or the Skipper’ll
swing you from the fore-gaff peak and let this fine no’therly blow
through you.’
“‘But we won’t go by,’ hollers the little man; ‘we’re goin’ to hit it.’
“‘Well, hit it if you want to,’ says Jerry--‘it’s your wheel. You
shipped in Bartley Campbell’s place, now do Bartley Campbell’s work.
Anyway,’ goes on Jerry, ‘you won’t do any great harm if you do. It’s
bent to one side anyway here where some old coaster or other hit it a
clip last fall. Maybe you c’n straighten it out.’
“Jerry no more than got that out than the vessel got way from the little
man and ran into the light. She hit it fair as could be, with her
bowsprit against one of the long, thin iron legs, and she did give it a
wallop. There was a man climbin’ up the ladder the other side of the
light--to fill his lamps, I s’pose--and when we hit the light he shook
off like an apple from a tree, and drops into the water. The vessel
bounces off where we hit, and the Skipper and the rest of the gang comes
rushin’ up on deck. ‘What the divil’s that?’ says the Skipper; and
seein’ the man in the water, he rushes to the side and gaffs him in nice
and handy.
“‘What the devil do you mean?’ says the man the Skipper’d gaffed, soon’s
he’d got his mouth clear of salt water.
“‘What the divil do _you_ mean?’ says our Skipper, ‘by comin’ aboard
this vessel?’ He’s about as quick a man to see a thing--that Tom
O’Donnell--as ever I saw in my life.
“‘What do I mean?’ says the man. ‘What do you mean by running that gaff
into me the way you did?’
“‘Holy Mother!’ says the Skipper, ‘but will you listen to him? It’s gold
medals we should be gettin’ from the Humane Societies for savin’ the
life of him, and now it’s nothin’ but growling because we did save it.’
“‘Saved my life!’ sputters the light-house lad. ‘My boat was right there
when I fell. Why, it ain’t your vessel’s length away now under the
light’--the _Colleen_ was beginnin’ to slide away again--‘and I want you
to know I c’n swim like a fish.’
“‘Then swim, ye divil ye, swim!’ says the Skipper quick’s a wink, and
picks him up and heaves him over the rail. ‘Yes,’ says big Jerry, ‘swim,
you lobster, swim!’ and he pushes him along with an oar he’d grabbed out
the top dory. And he did swim, too.
“And then the Skipper comes aft. ‘Who the divil,’ says he, ‘was to the
wheel?’ and spots the little man, who was lookin’ more surprised than
the light-keeper in the water. ‘And where’d you ever steer a vessel
before?’ says the Skipper.
“‘I dunno’s I did so very bad,’ answers the little man. ‘I used to be
quartermaster on a harbor steamer once, and I kept her off the rocks.’
“The Skipper looked at him like he was a new kind of fish. ‘Indeed, was
you now? And you kept her off the rocks? And did you ship for a
fisherman or what?’ And the Skipper looks at him a little more, then
laughs and takes the wheel himself. ‘Maybe,’ says he, ‘the insurance
company would like it better if I took her the rest of the way out of
the harbor myself. And I don’t want to lose her myself. She’s too good a
vessel--the fastest and the ablest out o’ Gloucester. But go below now,
boy, and have your supper.’
“Well, that passed by all right, but outside the harbor, off Minot’s, we
ran foul of the _Superba_--that’s the new one, the latest spoon-bow
model. He sees her comin’ and sways up, but she comes on and goes on
by--goes on by nice and easy. ‘And she used to be a good vessel once,’
says Dick Mason, her skipper, to some of his gang standing aft. We could
hear him--he meant us to hear him--‘of course, a good vessel once, the
_Colleen Bawn_, but she’s been wracked so she can’t carry sail no
longer.’
“Imagine Tom O’Donnell, Peter, havin’ to stand on the quarter of his
own vessel and take that from Dick Mason--imagine it, Peter, and from
Dick Mason that, standing on deck and wide-awake, couldn’t sail a vessel
like Tom O’Donnell could from his bunk below and half asleep. The
Skipper looked after her, then he turns us to, and it was sway up and no
end to the trimmin’ of sheets. But no use. The _Superba_ kept goin’ on
away, and the Skipper couldn’t make it out. He stood with one foot on
the house, his chin in his hand, and his elbow on his knee, and tried to
figure it out as he looked after her. It was by the wind, and plenty of
it--the rail nice and wet--couldn’t been better for our vessel. ‘There’s
something wrong,’ says he. And there was something wrong. We found it
after awhile. It was one of the iron bands that was holdin’ her
together--the one for’ard was loose and draggin’ under her bottom. The
Skipper was tickled to death when he found what it was. ‘Troth, and I
knew there was something wrong with her,’ he says; and puts into
Provincetown and has it bolted on again. ‘Now,’ he says, ‘she’ll be nice
and tight again when we wants to drive her. And if we runs foul of that
spoon-bow again, we’ll see.’ We warn’t out the harbor hardly before the
wind gettin’ at her, she begins to leak for’ard, but the Skipper
pretended he didn’t see it, puts around the Cape and off for Georges,
where we got to just about in time to ketch that no’west gale that was
riotin’ out there the week before last. We were blowed off, but banged
her back, blowed off and banged her back again, tryin’ to hang on to
shoal water so’s to be handy to good fishin’ when it moderated. But it
was a week before it did moderate, and by that time the _Colleen_ was
pretty well shook up, with the water sizzlin’ through her like she was a
lobster-pot for’ard, and the gang makin’ guesses on how long before
she’d come apart altogether. The Skipper, he didn’t seem to mind. ‘She’s
a little loose,’ says he, ‘but don’t let it worry ye. Keep your rubber
boots on, and don’t mind. So long as the iron bands hangs to her planks,
she’s all right.’
“Well, as I said, it moderated, and we got a chance to fish a little on
and off for another week, and the troubles of Jerry with his dory-mate
would fill a book that week. ‘It’s two men’s work you have now, Jerry,’
I says to him. ‘’Tisn’t two but three,’ says Jerry. ‘It’s my own work
and his work and another man’s work to see he don’t get tangled up in
the trawls or capsize the dory or fall over himself and get lost.’
However, fishin’ on and off brought us to yesterday, when, with the wind
makin’ all the time, it got too rough toward the evenin’ to put the
dories out, and we used the time up till along toward dark in dressin’
what fish we had on deck and cuttin’ fresh bait for next day--to-day
that’d be. We’d done all that, and was gettin’ ready to make ourselves
comfortable for the night with the Skipper sayin’: ‘Ten thousand more,
and I’d swing her off for Gloucester, I would. But another set, and,
with any kind of luck, we’ll get that, and then we’ll swing her off.’
He’d only just said that--he was havin’ a mug-up for’ard at the
time--when whoever was on watch sticks his head down the gangway, and
calls out: ‘Captain, here’s the _Superba_, and she’s goin’ home, I
think.’
“‘What!’ says he, and gulps his coffee and leaps for the gangway, and we
knew that our notions about a comfortable night might’s well be
forgotten. He takes a look at the vessel comin’. ‘That’s Dickie Mason,
sure enough. Shake the reef out the mains’l, and we’ll put after her.’
“‘Mason’s under a trys’l, Skipper,’ says big Jerry.
“‘And so would I be in that cigar-box,’ says the Skipper.
“We drives up and shoots under her stern. ‘Hi-i, Captain Mason!’ sings
out our Skipper.
“‘Hi-i, Captain O’Donnell,’ hollers Mason.
“‘Know me?’
“‘I sure do.’
“‘And this vessel?’
“‘That old wrack?-- I’d know her in a million.’
“‘Would you now? Then swing on your heel and follow her home.’ And then
he turns to us, ‘Boom her out now, boys--boom her out--no’west by west
and never a slack.’ And off he goes straight for the shoals, with a
livin’ south-easterly gale and the black night on us.
“‘Twarn’t more than an hour, or maybe two, runnin’ like that, when we
couldn’t make out the _Superba’s_ lights any more. The Skipper himself
went to the masthead and looked. ‘She’s put to the nothe’ard, I think,’
he said, comin’ down. ‘But then again maybe he isn’t. Maybe he’s put
them out. Anyway, we’ll keep on and make a holy show of her--the fine
_Superba_, indeed! that don’t dare to follow the _Colleen Bawn_, all
wracked as they say she is! Maybe he’ll get his courage up and come
after us later, but whatever she does we’ll keep this one as she is.’
“We were fair into the shoal water then with the Skipper keepin’ the
lead goin’ himself. ‘Billie Simms in the _Henry Parker_ showed me in the
_Lucy Foster_ the short course over these shoals,’ he says--‘and it cost
me twelve hundred and odd dollars, and I haven’t forgotten the road.’
He warn’t tellin’ anybody what water he was gettin’. It was pretty shoal
though, man, it was. Once or twice, I swear, we were real worried. But
he’s the lucky man, is Tom O’Donnell. The wind hauled and he swung her
fore-boom over and tried to spread a balloon. It carried away her
foretopm’st, which maybe was just as well. And all night long he kept
her goin’----”
“Lord, but you must’ve had it, Tommie. And Jimmie Johnson--how was he
makin’ out?”
“Jimmie Johnson? Ho, ho! the little lumper. Let me tell you. In the
middle of the night, thinkin’ the worst of it was over, with the shoals
behind us, the gang went below and turned in, all but me. I gets my pipe
from my bunk and was havin’ a smoke, and thinkin’ of turnin’ in too,
when this Jimmie Johnson came down, lookin’ pretty well worried.
“‘Ain’t it awful?’ he says.
“‘Ain’t what awful?’ I asks.
“‘Why, the night--the vessel--the way she’s sailin’--and everything
else.’
“‘Why don’t you turn in?’ I asked.
“‘It’s no use turnin’ in now,’ he answers; ‘my watch comes in half an
hour or so.’
“‘Turn in,’ says I; ‘I’ll stand your watch.’
“‘Will you?’ he says, and looks like a load’d come off his chest.
“He was goin’ to turn in then, when he happened to think he’d like to
have a mug-up. So he gets a mug of coffee and a slice of pie, and takes
a seat on the wind’ard locker. There was plenty wind stirrin’ then, mind
you, but there he was havin’ a nice little mug-up for himself, sittin’
on the weather-locker and all oiled-up, leanin’ over the table, his mug
o’ coffee to one hand and a wide wedge o’ pie to the other. Man, I have
to laugh every time I think of him. ‘The cook of this vessel does make
the finest apple pie, don’t he?’ he says, and you could see his spirits
was beginnin’ to rise, with the hot coffee gettin’ inside of him. The
_Colleen_ was bumpin’ herself all this time, rollin’ over like she was
goin’ to lie down, and then gettin’ up again, rearin’ her head and
fannin’ herself with her forefeet, standin’ on her hind legs and then
comin’ down again, doin’ all those kind of things you gets used to on
her when the Skipper’s tryin’ to sail her in a blow. Well, I watches
this little Jimmie for awhile, till I happens to think that so long’s I
had another watch to stand I might’s well have another pipeful while I
was waitin’. I was thinkin’ of steppin’ over for a bit of tobacco out of
big Jerry’s bunk, which was right over where this Jimmie Johnson was
sittin’, when the _Colleen_ gave an extra good lurch, and with it all at
once this lad sank down about a foot or so, and Jerry at the same time
most comes through the bottom of his bunk. The lad, he gets pale, and
makes as if he was tryin’ to stand up but couldn’t. ‘What is it?’ I
said, and wonders what was wrong with him. ‘My oil-skins,’ said he. ‘All
the looseness in my oil-pants is ketched tight.’ And then Jerry woke up,
with the noise he made in fallin’, I s’pose, and the most surprised man
you ever saw. ‘Mother o’ mine!’ says Jerry, ‘what’s that?’ and just
for’ard of him Aleck McKenzie leaps a full three feet into the air,
hittin’ the deck beam so hard he must’ve left pieces of himself stickin’
to it. ‘What in the--!’ says Aleck, and when he got that far he sees
this Jimmie Johnson. ‘Did you do that?’ he says.
“‘No,’ says he, and tryin’ himself to get off the locker Aleck notices
him.
“‘What you doin’ there anyway?’ says Aleck.
“‘I dunno,’ says Jimmie, and just then the _Colleen_ falls the other way
and lets him loose again, and he leaps for the gangway and up on deck.
Man, he fair flew, and I went up after him, not knowin’ what might
happen to him, and Jerry and Aleck below swearin’ like crazy men.
“Up on the deck there was the Skipper just able to keep his feet and
talkin’ to Dal Skinner,
[Illustration: “All the looseness in my oil-pants is ketched tight.”]
who was to the wheel. It was dark enough, but you c’d make him out where
the light of the binnacle hit on his wet oil-skins. Up to him popped the
little man from somewhere. ‘My God, but it’s a wild night, ain’t it,
Captain?’ says he.
“‘Who the divil’s that?’ says the Skipper, and he peeks along the deck
to where Jimmie was hangin’ to the weather rail. After takin’ another
peek and seein’ who it was, the Skipper don’t pay no more attention to
him, but goes on talkin’ to Dal.
“‘I’m thinkin’,’ says the Skipper, ‘that it’s moderatin’ a bit and maybe
she’d stand the stays’l pretty soon.’ Jimmie, I guess, was listenin’ to
that and couldn’t hold in any longer. ‘Oh, Captain, Captain,’ says he,
‘she’s fallin’ apart forward,’ and tells him what happened in the
forec’s’le. ‘How long you been sleepin’ for’ard?’ asks the Skipper.
“‘Four nights now,’ says Jimmie.
“‘Only four nights? That’s it, you’re not used to sleepin’ for’ard yet.
You mustn’t mind that. They all used to think that at first. But Lord
bless you, don’t you mind that. That’s just a little way she has. She
don’t mean any harm.’
“‘But Jerry fell through his bunk.’
“‘And why wouldn’t he? sure he weighs a ton.’
“‘But,’ says Jimmie, ‘she pinched my oil-pants, her planks opened up so
wide!’
“‘That so? And what size oil-skins do you wear?’
“‘I dunno,’ says he--‘these belong to Clancy.’
“‘There it is,’ said he, ‘Clancy’s a big man, and your oil-skins are too
loose. Go below and see if you can find some that are four sizes smaller
and get the loan of ’em. Go below anyway,’ says he, ‘and finish your
mug-up. You’ll feel better.’
“‘If you don’t mind, Captain,’ says he, ‘I’d rather stay on deck
awhile--it’s safer, I think.’
“‘All right,’ says the Skipper, ‘but don’t get in the way.’
“He hadn’t got that fair out, when ‘Hard down--hard down!’ comes ravin’
from the watch for’ard. ‘Down,’ hollers Dal, and the _Colleen_ makes a
shoot, and the booms start to come over. And just then the Skipper makes
a jump for the waist after this Jimmie and slings him out of the way of
the fore-boom. He saved Jimmie from having his head split open and
knocked overboard and lost, but he couldn’t save himself. Even a man
like Tom O’Donnell can’t sling a man out of the way on a wet and driving
deck with one hand like he was a feather, and the boom ketches him side
the head just as the vessel heels down again on the other tack and over
the railing he goes----”
“Not overboard, Tommie!”
“Yes, overboard and into the black sea, and me standing by couldn’t save
him from it. I jumped, but he was gone, and over on the other side the
clumsy ark of a vessel we had to turn out for went on by. The watch
must’ve been asleep aboard of her. I stood and cursed her lights as they
went away from us. Yes, sir, cursed ’em out between the times I was
hollering for the gang to come up.
“‘On deck everybody--all hands on deck!’ I roars it loud’s I could, and
had the gripes slashed off the nest of lee dories by the time they came
up flying.
“‘The Skipper is gone,’ says I--‘over with a dory!’ and we had one over
in no time, and Jerry and me jumps in-- Jerry in his stockin’ feet--and
out we goes. We couldn’t sees so much as a star in the sky, if there was
one--not even the white tops of the seas--but we drove her out, and
’twas all we could do to keep the dory from capsizin’ by the way. ‘To
looard!’ I says, and to looard we pushed her, and then, ‘Hi, the
_Colleen Bawn_! On your lee quarter.’ ’Twas the Skipper’s voice. And
maybe we didn’t row! But ’twas one thing to hear his voice, and another
in that night and sea and blackness to find him, and keep the dory
right side up at the same time. But he kept singin’ out and we kept
drivin’ away, and at last we got him. A hard job he must’ve had trying
to keep afloat with his big jack-boots on, and everything else on, for
the fifteen minutes or more it took us to find him.
“‘Lord!’ says he, ‘but I’m glad to see you. Paddling like a porpoise
I’ve been since I went over the side. But drive for the vessel--there’s
her port light--and I’ll keep bailin’, if one of ye’ll lend me your
sou’wester.’
“We got alongside, and the Skipper climbs over the rail. ‘Put her on her
course again,’ he says, and then starts to go below to overhaul his
head.
“And then Jimmie Johnson steps up. ‘How’d it come, Captain,’ he says,
‘you fell overboard?’ By the light from the cabin gangway the Skipper
sees him, and----
“‘You little-- I dunno what--but go below. Take him for’ard, somebody,’
he says, ‘and tie him in his bunk, or give him laudanum out of the
medicine-chest, afore we have all hands lost tryin’ to look after him.’
“Then he goes below to fix his head up--the side of his head was laid
clean open, with the blood runnin’ scuppers full from him.
“‘Och,’ says he, ‘but ’tis a great pickle--salt water,’ and he takes an
old cotton shirt and tears it up and wraps it ’round his head, and goes
on deck again.”
“And after that he kept her comin’ just the same, Tommie?”
“Just the same. All night long he kept her comin’, and payin’ attention
to nobody. In the early mornin’, I mind we passed Josh Bradley in the
_Tubal Cain_, him bangin’ along with a busted fores’l, remindin’ us of a
gull with a broken wing. We passed a whole fleet of old plugs anchored
off Highland Light, ripped by ’em roarin’, and they lookin’ over the
rails at the Skipper, his head all wrapped up. Imagine her, Peter, with
her four lowers and gaff topsail, and the wind makin’ if anything. And
then what should happen but he made out the _Nannie O_ ahead. ‘’Tis
Tommie Ohlsen,’ he says, ‘under four lowers. We’ll chase him.’ But
Tommie must’ve seen us, for soon we saw his tops’l break out. Then we
sent up the stays’l, and then Tommie sent up his. Then we came swingin’
round the Cape--and I’d like to had a photograph of her then--with the
Skipper standin’ between house and rail to wind’ard, squeezin’ the salt
water out of his beard, and Jerry below singin’:
‘What’s that a-drivin’ in from sea,
Like a ghost from out the dawn?
And who but Tom O’Donnell
And his flying _Colleen Bawn_.’
“‘’Tis fine and gay they’re feelin’,’ says the Skipper, ‘with their
singin’, thinkin’ they’ll soon be home. In a minute, now, there’ll be
something to sing about. Look at what’s coming,’ and she gets it fair
and full. And it was too much for the gang. He floats them all out
below. From fore and aft they comes runnin’ up on deck. ‘For God’s sake,
Skipper, what is it?’ says they. ‘Don’t worry,’ says the Skipper, ‘’tis
only a little squall, and the _Nannie O_ ahead.’ ‘But what’re we goin’
to do, Skipper? We can’t stay below.’ ‘Oh, climb on the weather-rail,’
says the Skipper, ‘and if she goes over, ’tis only a mile to shore.’ And
then the face of little Jimmie! ‘My God, my God--my poor, poor wife!’ he
says. ‘Whisht, lad, whisht,’ says the Skipper, patting his head, ‘’tis
to your wife we’re takin’ you,’ and he keeps on chasin’ the _Nannie O_
across the bay.”
“And then?”
“And then? Why, he kept her goin’ across the bay. Half-way home, there
was a big white steam yacht layin’ to both anchors. She was big enough
to tow the _Colleen_ ten knots an hour.
[Illustration: What’s that a-drivin’ in from sea, like a ghost from out
the dawn?]
‘You’d think it was banshees we was, the way they look out from between
the lace curtains,’ says the Skipper, and we rips by her stern like the
express train goin’ by West Gloucester station.
“A little while after that we overhauled Eben Watkins. Eben, you know,
used to brag some about that vessel of his one time, but now he was
under a storm trys’l. ’Twas kind of thick--we’d lost sight of the
_Nannie_--and the Skipper was goin’ on by without intendin’ to say
anything, but Eben hails him.
“‘Where were you about two hours ago?’
“‘Roundin’ the Cape,’ says the Skipper.
“‘What sail d’y’ have on her?’
“‘What she’s got now.’
“‘That stays’l?’
“‘That stays’l--yes.’
“‘Get that squall?’
“‘Oh, a little puff.’
“‘A little puff?’ says Eben, and he stretches his head at us--‘a little
puff. And how’d she stand it?’
“‘Just wet our rail--just wet our rail.’
“‘Go to hell!’ says Eben--‘just wet your rail.’ And I don’t blame him,
for the _Colleen_ was down to her hatches then. ‘I s’pose Tommie Ohlsen
just wet his rail too,’ says Eben. ‘All we could see of him goin’ by a
while ago was the weather-side of his deck.’
“‘’Tis Tommie I’m after,’ hollers back the Skipper and gets out of
hearing.
“I don’t know whether we gained or lost on the _Nannie O_, but we
carried our stays’l every foot of the way from Cape Cod to Eastern Point
and we carried into the harbor just the same’s we came across the bay.
Did you see her beatin’ in? No? Well, it was a scandal. Her deck was
slidin’ back and forth under our feet--we could feel it, and you’ve seen
a soap-box with the top and bottom gone floatin’ about in the tide? Yes?
And how it lengthens out sometimes when a sea hits it broadside? Well,
that’s the way the _Colleen_ was shiftin’ back and forth comin’ in the
harbor. She was that loose ’twas immoral. ‘She’s ten feet longer when
she stretches herself real well,’ says Jerry. ‘She is a bit loose,’ says
the Skipper, ‘but she sails better loose. When she lengthens out like
that, she’s doin’ her best reachin’.’
“And that’s the way she came in. When we came to anchor the Skipper went
into her peak with a lantern, tryin’ to find out what it was. ‘I think
she’s a little more loose than ordinary this trip,’ he says--‘it must be
the calkin’. But before he got through he discovered that it was her
iron band had dropped off altogether. And then it was he told me to go
ashore to see about a place for her on the railway. And I guess I’d
better hurry along. But afore we go, Peter, just a little touch to the
_Colleen Bawn_, for God bless her, loose as she is, there’s nothing like
her out the port.”
“And are you goin’ to stay on her and she like that?”
“And she that way? And why not? He’s going to put four-inch joists in
her fore and aft this time on the railway, and then she’ll be all right.
She’ll leak a little maybe, but what’s a little leak? And anyway I’d
rather be lost in her with Tom O’Donnell than live a thousand years with
some. And so here’s to her, Peter-boy. One thing, you know you’re alive
on her--and here’s to the _Colleen Bawn_.”
“To the _Colleen Bawn_, Tommie, and I don’t know but what you’re right.”
When Peter came out of the Anchorage again, the atmosphere had cleared.
The blush of the sky was a marvellous thing for March. Peter could not
remember when he had ever seen so rosy a morning for that time of year.
And it was a fair wind, too--so fair that Peter could not but remark it.
“If we was comin’ home in the _Colleen Bawn_, or the _Nannie O_, in this
breeze, our wake’d be fair boilin’. The _Colleen Bawn_ with the
Irishman aboard, or the _Nannie O_ with Tommie Ohlsen--they’d be loggin’
fifteen knots--yes, and sixteen maybe.” He looked over his shoulder, and
for twenty fathoms back he could see the smooth, white log-line and the
brass-bound log whirling like mad. It was a rosy morning, and Peter
rolled along for Crow’s Nest.
Along the road he overhauled Dexter Warren, who seemed to be out taking
the air.
“Seen Jimmie Johnson yet, Dexter?” asked Peter.
Dexter took a hand out of one pocket to gesture. “Jimmie? Yes, and he’s
crazy. He came up the wharf like a ghost. ‘Hulloh, what kind of a trip’d
you have, Jimmie?’ I asked, ‘and how do you like Captain O’Donnell?’
“‘Yah,’ he says, ‘your oil-skins is too loose.’ ‘What?’ I hollers after
him--he goin’ up the dock like a streak. ‘Take to the weather-rail--it’s
only a mile to shore,’ he waves his hand and hollers back to me. And
then his wife popped around the corner. ‘Jimmie!’ says she. ‘Jennie!’
says he, and in a second it was all off. The pair of them flew up the
dock like a pair of gulls before a no’the-easter and I picked up my pots
and brushes and went up to the office and told the old man that I
guessed I’d quit.”
“And did you?”
“Did I? And why wouldn’t I? Jimmie’s job is waitin’ for him if he ain’t
too crazy to take it, and if he is it don’t matter to me. There’s my
glue-factory job the first of the month. ‘Your oil-skins is too loose,’
says he. He must be crazy, Peter--plumb crazy.”
* * * * *
It was in the middle of the morning when the _Colleen Bawn_ came to
anchor. It was late in the afternoon, almost dark, and Peter was fillin’
his last pipe at Crow’s Nest, when the _Superba_ came to anchor in the
stream. By and by Dickie Mason came up the dock and hailed for
“twenty-five thousand haddock and ten thousand cod.”
“Twenty-five thousand haddock and ten thousand cod--aye, aye. Any news?”
“Well, yes; and, if it turns out to be true, it’s pretty bad.”
“That so, Captain? What is it?”
“I think we’ve seen the last of the _Colleen Bawn_ and Tom O’Donnell.
Last night, comin’ on dark, he left us on Georges for a short cut across
the shoals. The gale hit in right hard after, and I guess he’s gone--you
know how loose and wracked his vessel is--and the last we saw of her she
was swung out and goin’ before it--all four lowers, and a livin’ gale.
She couldn’t have lived through it. We swung off and came around. We
drove all the way and just got in. It’s too bad if it turns out to be
so--though maybe he’ll wiggle home in spite of it. Of course, he’d get
her to home if anybody could, but you know them shoals in a gale and how
loose and wracked his vessel was.”
“Yes,” said Peter. He leaned over the taffrail of Crow’s Nest and put it
as politely as he could. “Yes, she’s loose and wracked, Captain Mason,
but there’s a few planks of her left, and if you was up here, Captain
Mason, and could look over the tops of buildings same’s I can, you’d see
her main truck stickin’ up above the railway. I heard them sayin’ she
left the same time your vessel did, but she got home so long ago,
Captain, that her fish is out and her crew got their money, and if you
was to drop up to the Anchorage you’d probably find Tommie Clancy and a
few more of her gang havin’ a little touch--and maybe they’ll tell you
how they did it.”
Peter spoke with some moderation while his head was outside and his
voice within range of the astounded master of the _Superba_, but once
inside, with only his trusted staff to testify, he gave vent to less
restrained comment. “Them young skippers, and some of them late models,
give me a pain in the waist. ‘The last we see of her,’ says he, ‘she was
goin’ over the shoals, and you know how loose and wracked she was,
Peter.’ And so she is. But, Lord! I’d like to told him she’d be comin’
home trips yet when his fancy model’d be layin’ to an anchor. Lemme see
now--telephone one of you the _Superba’s_ trip--twenty-five thousand
haddock and ten thousand cod. And make a note on a slate of the _Colleen
Bawn’s_ trip. She don’t sail for the firm, but I do like to keep track
of her. Forty thousand haddock and ten thousand cod--loose she is, and
her deck crawly under your feet, and they have to wear rubber boots in
her forehold, when Tom O’Donnell starts to drive her, and iron bands
around her for’ard to hold her together. But, Lord she was an able
vessel once--an able vessel once. I think I’ll be goin’ along to supper
pretty soon--yes, sir, an able vessel was the _Colleen Bawn_.
“‘What’s that drivin’ in from sea,
Like a ghost from out the dawn?
And who but Tom O’Donnell
And the flying _Colleen Bawn_.’
M-m--the flyin’ _Colleen Bawn_.”
So hummed Peter, and closed in the hatches of Crow’s Nest with a feeling
that his little morning trip along the water front had not been without
its reward.
The Wicked “Celestine”
Sailing out of Boston is a fleet of fishing schooners that for beauty of
model, and speed, and stanchness in heavy weather are not to be
surpassed--their near admirers say equalled--by any class of vessels
that sail the seas; and, saying that, they do not bar the famous fleet
of Gloucester.
This Boston fleet is manned by a cosmopolitan lot, who are all very
proud of their vessels, particularly of their sailing qualities. Good
seamen all--some beyond compare-- Irishmen still with the beguiling
brogue of the south and west counties, Yankees from Maine and
Massachusetts, Portuguese from the Azores, with a strong infusion of
Nova Scotians and Newfoundlanders, and scattering French, English and
Scandinavians.
No class of men afloat worry less about heavy weather than do these men;
nowhere will you find men more deeply versed in the ways of vessels or
quicker to meet an emergency; none will carry sail longer, or, if out in
a dory, will hang on to their trawls longer if it comes to blow, or the
fog settles, or the sea kicks up. In the matter of courage, endurance
and skill, they are the limit.
The standard for this superb little navy was first raised by a lot of
men of Irish blood, from Galway and Waterford originally, who chose this
most hazardous way to make a living--and in other days, with the
old-class vessels, it was terribly hazardous--who chose his life,
tenderhearted men and men of family though most of them were, in
preference to taking orders from uncongenial peoples ashore.
They are still there, an unassuming lot of adventurers taking the most
desperate chances in the calmest way--great shipmates all, tenderness
embodied and greatness of soul beyond estimation. And it was one of the
best known of them, a dauntless little Irish-born, who, squaring his
shoulders and swinging his arms, spat right and left and moved up the
dock to a hail of salutations this beautiful winter morning.
“Good-morning, Captain,” and “How are you, Coleman?” and “Are you to
take the new one this trip, Skipper?” All this, and more, as Captain
Coleman Joyce, not above five feet in height nor a hundred and thirty
pounds in weight, but of a port to subdue Patagonians seven feet high,
as with a beard that curled and shoulders that heaved he rolled
gloriously up the dock.
An abstemious man was Captain Joyce; but there were times and
circumstances, say now, for instance, when before casting off for a
haddocking trip to Georges Banks it became necessary to consummate one
of the rites without which no man could conceive a fishing trip to be
lucky. These rites, incidentally, were two: One consisted of taking a
good drink before going out; the other was to take a good drink after
getting in. Simple, but not to be overlooked.
And now, when, after a beat up Atlantic Avenue to the saloon that is
nearest the south side of the wharf, Coleman found himself leaning
against the bar and looking at the barkeeper, that suave party, without
further orders, set before him a small glass of water and a small glass
empty and the same old bottle with the horse and rider on the outside.