A week in a Fishing Smack—Fisherman—A beautiful morning at sea—A day at
Nantucket—Wreck of a ship—Night on the Sound.
Norwich. August.
On a pleasant Monday morning I started from Norwich, bound to New
London, and from thence to any other portion of the world where I might
have some sport in the way of salt-water fishing. In less than an hour
after landing from the steam-boat, I had boarded the handsome smack
Orleans, Captain Keeney, and by dint of much persuasion, secured a berth
on board, to accompany him on a fishing voyage. In addition to my
previous preparations, I had only to purchase a Guernsey shirt and
tarpaulin; and by the time I was regularly equipped, the sails were
hoisted, and we were on our course for Nantucket. An intimate
acquaintance was soon formed between myself and crew, which consisted of
the master, two sailors, and the cook. The whole time that I spent in
their company was six days, as I reached home on the following Saturday
evening. The incidents that I met with were somewhat new, as a matter of
course, and I employed a few moments of every evening during my absence,
in briefly recording the events of the past day; and that medley I now
put together as a literary chowder.
_Monday Evening._—My observations to-day have been limited to our little
vessel, in consequence of a dense fog, which drenched us to the skin,
and seems likely to continue. I have obtained some information, however,
concerning the character of an interesting class of men. Smack-fishermen
are a brave, hardy, honest, and simple-hearted race, and as my captain
tells me, spend nine-tenths of their time “rocked in the cradle of the
deep.” Their vessels, or smacks, are generally of about forty tons
burthen; the number of those which supply New York and Boston with fish
is said to be near a thousand, and they are all at home anywhere on the
coast between the Kennebeck and the Delaware. Of the perils which these
fishermen endure, and the privations they suffer, how little is known or
thought by the great world at large! Yet I believe there is as much true
happiness in their lives, as in those of any other class. Their fathers
were fishermen before them, and as they themselves have mostly been born
within hearing of the surf, they look upon the unsounded deep as their
fitting home—their only home, and would not part with it for a palace or
a crown. Four is the usual number of a smack’s crew, and the master is
invariably called a skipper. Most of them are worthy husbands and
fathers, whose families are snugly harboured in some convenient
sea-port, with enough and to spare of the good things of life. They are
a jovial set of men, hailing each other upon the ocean as friends, and
meeting upon land as brothers. Each skipper thinks his craft the
handsomest and swiftest that floats, and very exciting are the races
they sometimes run. Their affection for their own vessel is like that of
the Arab for his steed, and like the Arab, too, they have been known to
weep over the grave of their darling and their pride.
The kinds of fish which they mostly bring to market are shad, salmon,
lobsters, mackerel, cod, bluefish, haddock, black-fish, pangies, bass,
and halibut. The first three are generally purchased of local fishermen,
but all the rest are caught by themselves. The haunts of the black-fish
are rocky reefs, those of the bass and bluefish, in the vicinity of
sandy shoals or tide rips, and those of the remainder in about fifteen
fathom water. These are the varieties they capture by way of business;
but when in a frolicsome mood, they frequently attack a sword-fish, a
shark, or black whale; and soul-thrilling indeed, and laughable withal,
are the yarns they spin concerning these exploits.
As to their mode of living, while at sea, it is just what it should be,
and what they would have it, although it would be positively shocking to
a Bond Street gentleman. But they always possess a good appetite, which
is what money cannot purchase, and without which the greatest delicacy
in the world would be insipid or loathsome. Fish, sea-biscuit,
corned-beef, and pork, potatoes, onions, and pancakes, constitute their
provisions, and what besides these would a reasonable man desire? It is
with a mixture of some of these, that a _chowder_ is concocted, and
where can anything more delicious be found? And with these ingredients,
moreover, they manage very well to keep body and soul together, unless a
storm on a rock-bound coast happens to make a sudden separation.
I have just been on deck, and must say that I resume my pen with a
heavier heart. The fog has not dispersed in the least, a regular gale of
wind is blowing from the north, and the waves, seemingly in a revengeful
mood, are tossing our bark about, as if the skipper, like the Ancient
Mariner, had shot another albatros. But, like a fearless man as he is,
he stands at the helm, watching the sails with a steady eye, and the men
with their storm-jackets on are standing by, muttering something about
the coming darkness, and a reef somewhere on our lee. Never before have
I so distinctly understood the force of the Psalmist’s simile, when he
compares a wave to a drunken man reeling to and fro. Both have it in
their power to cause a mighty mischief, and both become exhausted and
perish—one upon a sandy beach, and the other sweeping over the peninsula
of time, finds a grave on the shore of oblivion. Heavens! how the wind
whistles, and the waters roar! Ay, but a still small voice salutes my
ear, and I lay me down to sleep, with a prayer upon my lips, and a
feeling of security at my heart, as I place implicit confidence in Him
who holdeth the ocean in the hollow of his hand.
_Tuesday Evening._—I was awakened out of a deep sleep this morning by
the following salutation from the skipper, as he patted me on the
shoulder,
“It’s a beautiful morning, and you ought to be up—the fog is gone, and
the wind is down; won’t you come up and take the helm awhile—so that the
boys and I may obtain a little sleep before reaching the fishing-ground,
which will be about, ten o’clock?”
I was delighted to accept the invitation, and in a very short time the
sailors were asleep, and I in my new station, proud as a king, and happy
as a sinless boy. And, oh! that I could describe the scene that
fascinated my eyes as I lay there upon the deck, with one arm reposing
on the rudder, and my other hand grasping a Claude glass! I felt as I
once felt before, when standing on the famous precipice of Niagara, that
then, more than ever, I desired God to be my friend. I also felt, that
if the world did not demand the feeble services of my life, I should
wish to remain upon the ocean for ever, provided I could have “one fair
being for my minister.” More earnestly than ever did I long for a
complete mastery of my art. The fact of being out of sight of land,
where the blue element announced that the ocean was soundless, filled my
soul with that “lone, lost feeling,” which is supposed to be the
eagle’s, when journeying to the zenith of the sky. The sun had just
risen above the waves, and the whole eastern portion of the heavens was
flooded with the most exquisite colouring I ever beheld—from the deepest
crimson to the faintest and most delicate purple, from the darkest
yellow to an almost invisible green; and all blended, too, in forms of
marvellous loveliness. A reflection of this scene was also visible in
the remaining quarters of the horizon. Around me the illimitable deep,
whose bosom is studded with many a gallant and glittering ship,
that have the plain
Of ocean for their own domain.
The waves are lulling themselves to rest, and a balmy breeze is
wandering by, as if seeking its old grandfather, who kicked up the grand
“rumpus” last night; whereby I learn, that the offspring of a “rough and
stormy sire,” are sometimes very beautiful and affectionate to the
children of men. But look, even the dwellers in the sea and of the sea
are participating in the hilarity of this bright morning! Here, a school
of herrings are skipping along like a frolicsome party of vagabonds as
they are—and yonder a shark has leaped out of the water, to display the
symmetry of his form, and the largeness of his jaw, and looking as if he
thought “that land-lubber would make me a first-rate breakfast;” there,
a lot of porpoises are playing “leap-frog,” or some other outlandish
game; and, a little beyond them, a gentleman sword-fish is swaggering
along to parts unknown, to fight a duel in cold blood with some equally
cold-blooded native of the Atlantic; and now, a flock of gulls are
cleaving their course to the south, to the floating body, perhaps, of a
drowned mariner, which their sagacity has discovered a league or two
away—and now, again, I notice a flock of petrels, hastening onward to
where the winds blow, and the waves are white. Such are the pictures I
beheld in my brief period of command. It may have been but fancy, but I
thought my little vessel was trying to eclipse her former beauty, and
her former speed. One thing I know, that she “walked the water like a
thing of life.”
I fancied, too, that I was the identical last man whom Campbell saw in
his vision, and that I was then bound to the haven of eternal rest. But
my shipmates returning from the land of Nod, and a certain clamour
within my own body having caught my ear, I became convinced that to
break my fast would make me happier than anything else just at that
time, and I was soon as contented as an alderman at five P.M. About two
hours after this, we reached our fishing-place, which was twenty miles
east of Nantucket. We then lowered the jib and topsail, and having
luffed, and fastened the main-sheet, so that the smack could easily
float, we hauled out our lines, and commenced fishing, baiting our hooks
with clams, of which we had some ten bushels on board. Cod fishing (for
we were on a codding cruise) is rather dull sport; it is, in fact, what
I would call hard labour. In six hours we had caught all the skipper
wanted, or that the well would hold, so we made sail again, bound to New
York; and at supper-time the deck of our smack was as clean and dry, as
if it had never been pressed save by the feet of ladies. At sunset,
however, a fierce southerly wind sprang up, so that we were compelled to
make a harbour; and just as I am closing this record, we are anchoring
at Nantucket, with a score of storm-beaten whales on our starboard bow.
_Wednesday Evening._ The weather to-day has been threatening, and the
skipper thought it best to remain at our moorings; but with me the day
has not been devoid of interest; for, in my sailor garb, I have been
strolling about the town, studying the solemn drama of life, while
playfully acting a subordinate part myself. This morning, as it
happened, I went into the public cemetery, and spent an hour conning
over the rude inscriptions to the memory of the departed. In that city
of the dead, I saw a number of the living walking to and fro, but there
was one who attracted my particular attention. He was a seaman of noble
presence, seated upon an unmarked mound, with his feet resting upon a
smaller one beside it, his head reclined upon one hand, while the other
was occasionally passed across his face, as if wiping away a tear. I
hailed him with a few kind questions, and my answer was the following
brief tale.
“Yes, sir, four years ago, I shipped aboard that whaler yonder, leaving
behind me, in a sweet little cottage of my own, a mother, a wife, and an
only boy. They were all in the enjoyment of good health, and happy; and,
when we were under sail, and I saw from the mast-head how kindly they
waved their handkerchiefs beside my door, I too was happy, even in my
hour of grief. Since that time I have circumnavigated the globe, and
every rare curiosity I could obtain was intended for my darling ones at
home. Last Saturday our ship returned. I asked no questions of the pilot
for he was a stranger, but I landed, flew to my dwelling, and found it
locked. The flagging in my yard attracted my notice, and I thought it
strange that the rank grass had been suffered to grow over it so
thickly. The old minister passed by my gate, and running to him with
extended hand, I inquired for my family. ‘Oh Mr. B.,’ said he, ‘you must
bless the Lord,—he gave them to you, and he hath taken them away.’ And
as the thought stole into my brain, my suffering, sir, was intense, and
I longed to die. And there they are, my wife and darling child, and, a
step or two beyond, my dear old mother. Peace to their memories.”
Such was the simple story, and I have pondered much upon the world of
woe which must be hidden in the breast of that old mariner.
After dinner, to-day, I got into company with some fishermen who were
going after bass and bluefish, and in a short time I had captured, with
my own hands, two big bass and some dozen bluefish,—which I packed in
ice as a present to some New York friends.
At my present time of writing, which is near ten o’clock at night, we
are weighing anchor, and the skipper tells me we shall be in New York by
to-morrow’s sunset. An hour before coming on board this evening, I
lounged into a sailor boarding-house, and mingled as freely with a
company of whalemen there, as if I had been a _bonâ fide_ member of the
craft. I heard a great deal that interested me, and was sorry that I
could not remain longer. There were some in that company lately arrived
from every portion of the world, and yet they were engaged in the same
business, and had journeyed on the same mighty highway of nations. One
was descanting upon the coral islands of the Torrid zone, another upon
the ice-mountains of the Arctic Sea, a third was describing the coast of
California, and another the waters that lave the Eastern shore of Asia.
The more I listened to these men, the more did the immensity of ocean
expand before my mind, and in the same proportion was I led to wonder at
the wisdom of the Creator.
I have just been on deck, and find that we are on the way to our desired
haven, wafted by a steady and pleasant breeze. Our course is between
Martha’s Vineyard and Rhode Island, a route studded with islands and
seaports, that now appear in the cool starlight like the pictures of
fairy land.
_Thursday Evening._ Instead of coming through the Sound last night, we
headed our vessel outside of Long Island, and after a delightful sail
have realized our skipper’s promise, for we are now floating beside the
market in New York. The reason assigned for taking the outside course
was, that the fish would keep better, on account of the greater coldness
of the water. Nothing of peculiar interest has happened to us to-day,
except the meeting with a wreck off Sandy Hook. It was the hull of a
large ship, whose name we could not discern. It had a very old
appearance, and from the moss and sea-weed that covered it, we supposed
it must have been afloat for many months, the plaything of the waves.
“Man marks the earth with ruin,” but who is it that scatters such
splendid ruins upon the ocean? And a thousand remorseless surges echo
back the answer: “To us, belong the glory of those deeds.” If that wreck
had language, what a strange, eventful history would it reveal! Its
themes would be,—home and all its treasures lost; the sea, and all its
dangers; the soul, and all its agonies; the heart, and all its
sufferings. But when we multiply all this as fast as time is multiplying
it, we cannot but realize the idea, that human life is but a
probationary state, and that sorrow and sighing are our earthly
inheritance.
_Friday Evening._ After portioning out my fish this morning, and sending
them to my friends, I put on my usual dress, and having obtained a six
hours’ furlough, set off towards Broadway, where, between the reading
rooms and the studios of a few artists, I managed to spend my time very
pleasantly. At noon, we embarked for New London and had a delightful
time, passing through the East River and that pleasing panorama from the
city to the Sound, never before appeared more beautiful.
It is now late, and I have been on deck all the evening alone. In a
thoughtful mood I fixed my eyes upon the stars, and my spirits were
saddened by the continual murmur of the sea. Of what avail, thought I,
is all this excitement? Why was I created, and what is my destiny? Is it
to sail for a few brief years longer upon the ocean of life, and, when
the death-tempest overtakes me, to pass away unloved and unremembered by
a single human heart? If not an honoured name, can I not leave behind me
an humble memory, that will be cherished by a few, to whom I have laid
bare my innermost soul, when I was younger than I am, and a hundred-fold
more happy? What! O night! what is my destiny?
_Saturday Evening._ We anchored off New London to-day, in time for me to
take the evening steamer for Norwich. When I parted with my “shipmates,”
I shook each one affectionately by the hand, and thought that I might
travel many years without finding a brotherhood of nobler men. I reached
home as the eight o’clock bells were ringing, and was reminded that
another week of precious time was gone. That the past must be remembered
as an unprofitable week, I cannot believe, for I feel that my soul has
been enlarged, and my heart humbled by listening to the teachings of the
mighty deep.
Footnotes
[1]The word Schroon is bad English for the Indian word _Scaroon_, the
meaning of which is—“_Child of the Mountains_.” It was originally
named by an Algonquin Chief, after a favourite daughter.
THE END.
LONDON:
Printed by Schulze & Co., Poland Street
* * * * * *
Transcriber’s note:
--Obvious typographical errors were corrected.