THE FIRST OF "THE HERRINGS"
Later in the day the final preparations were being made for the
departure of the herring fleet. Tommy-Bill-beg, the harbor-master, in
his short petticoat, was bawling all over the quay, first at this man in
the harbor and then at that. Bill Kisseck was also there in his capacity
as admiral of the fleet--an insular office for which he had been duly
sworn in, and for which he received his five pounds a year. Bill was a
big black-bearded creature in top-boots--a relic of the reign of the
Norseman in Man. Tommy-Bill-beg was chaffed about the light going out on
the pier. He looked grave, declared there was "something in it."
Something supernatural, Tommy meant. Tommy-Bill-beg believed in his
heart it was "all along of the spite of Gentleman Johnny"--now a bogy,
erst a thief who in the flesh had been put into a spiked barrel and
rolled over the pier into the sea, swearing furiously, as long as he
could be heard, that to prove his innocence it was his fixed intention
to haunt forever the scene of his martyrdom.
Kerruish Kinvig was standing by, and heard the harbor-master's
explanation of the going out of the light.
"It's middling strange," shouted Kinvig, "that the ghost should potter
about only when the Government cutter happens to be out of the way, and
Tommy-Bill-beg is yelping and screeching at the 'Jolly Herrings.' I'd
have a law on such bogies, and clap them in Castle Rushen," bawled
Kinvig, "and all the fiddlers and carol-singers along with them," he
added.
The harbor-master shook his head, apparently more in sorrow than in
anger, and whispered Bill Kisseck that, as "the good ould book" says,
"Bad is the man that has never no music in his sowl."
It was one of Tommy-Bill-beg's peculiarities of mental twist that he was
full of quotations, and never by any chance failed to misascribe,
misquote, and misapply them.
The fishing-boats were rolling gently with the motion of the rising
tide. When everything had been made ready, and the flood was at hand,
the fishermen, to the number of several hundred men and boys, trooped
off to the shore of the bay. There they were joined by a great multitude
of women and children. Presently the vicar appeared, and, standing in an
open boat, he offered the customary prayer for the blessing of God on
the fishing expedition which was now setting out.
"Restore and continue to us the harvest of the sea!"
And the men, on their knees in the sand, with uncovered heads, and faces
in their hats, murmured "_Yn Meailley_."
Then they separated, the fishermen returning to their boats.
Bill Kisseck leaped aboard the lugger that lay at the mouth of the
harbor. His six men followed him. "See all clear," he shouted to Danny,
who sailed with him as boy. Danny stood on the quay with the duty of
clearing ropes from blocks, and then following in the dingey that was
moored to the steps.
Among the women who had come down to the harbor to see the departure of
the fleet were two who bore no very close resemblance to the great body
of the townswomen. One was an elderly woman, with a thin sad face. The
other was a young women, of perhaps two or three and twenty, tall and
muscular, with a pale cast of countenance, large brown eyes, and rich
auburn hair. The face, though strong and beautiful, was not radiant with
happiness, and yet it recalled very vividly a glint of human sunshine
that we have known before.
In another moment little Ruby, red with running, pranced up to their
side, crying, "Mona, come and see Danny Fayle's boat. Here, look, there;
that one with the color on the deck."
The admiral's boat was to carry a flag.
The two women were pulled along by the little sprite and stopped just
where Danny himself was untying a knot in a rope. Danny recognized them,
lifted his hat, blushed, looked confused, and seemed for the moment to
forget the cable.
"Tail on there!" shouted Bill Kisseck from the lugger. "Show a leg
there, if you don't want the rat's tail. D'ye hear?"
Danny was fumbling with his cap. That poor lagging lower lip was giving
a yearning look to the lad's simple face. He muttered some commonplace
to Mona, and then dropped his head. At that instant his eyes fell on the
lower part of her dress. The blue serge of her gown was bleached near
her feet. Danny, who could think of nothing else to say, mumbled
something about the salt water having taken the color out of Mona's
dress. The girl looked down, and then said quietly:
"Yes, I was caught by the tide last night--I mean to say, I was--"
She was clearly trying to recall her words, but poor Danny had hardly
heard them.
"You cursed booby!" cried Bill Kisseck, leaping ashore, "prating with a
pack of women when I'm a-waiting for you. I'll make you walk handsome
over the bricks, my man."
With that he struck Danny a terrible blow and felled him.
The lad got up abashed, and without a word turned to his work. Kisseck,
still in a tempest of wrath, was leaping back to the lugger, when the
young woman stepped up to him, looked fearlessly in his face, seemed
about to speak, checked herself, and turned away.
Kisseck stood measuring her from head to foot with his eyes, broke into
a little bitter laugh, and said:
"I'm right up and down like a yard of pumpwater; that's what I am."
He jumped aboard again. Danny ran the rope from the blocks, the
admiral's boat cleared away, and the flag shot up to the mast-head. The
other boats followed one after one to the number of nearly one hundred.
The bay was full of them.
When Kisseck's boat had cleared the harbor, Danny ran down the steps of
the pier with eyes still averted from the two women and the child, got
into the dingey, took an oar and began to scull after it.
"Sissy, Sissy," cried Ruby, tugging at Mona's dress, "look at Danny's
little boat. What's the name that is on it in red letters?"
"'Ben-my-Chree,'" the young woman answered.
Then the herring fleet sailed away under the glow of the setting sun.