"The whitefish," Hans pronounced, "cannot last in numbers such as you
find them in now. That is because so many of them are being caught. For
maybe ten thousand years they are filling the lake until now no fish is
more numerous. Yaah, for many years they were a food staple of the
Indians. I myself have seen Indians spearing them, or shooting them with
bows and arrows. Tribes came from as far as the Mississippi River to
fish here. But a net fisherman takes more in one season than a whole
tribe of Indians used to, and often the fishermen cannot even take care
of what they catch. I have seen whitefish, good eating whitefish,
stacked like cordwood along the beach and left to rot there. I have seen
them fed to pigs. The best fishing along Lake Erie is already gone, due
to such excesses. That is why fishermen from Ohio come here."
"Will fishing end?" Ramsay inquired.
"That I do not think. Considering it from all angles. Now a fisherman
will catch perhaps a thousand whitefish, and maybe a hundred sturgeon,
for every trout. Why? Because the whitefish and sturgeon eat trout spawn
is part of the reason. When the whitefish and sturgeon are gone, the
trout will multiply until they are the big catch. If the trout are taken
or die out, there will be something else. No. There will always be
fishing here, but it will be better when men learn to fish wisely and
not to take anything in the spawning season."
"When is that?" Ramsay inquired.
"Whitefish and trout both spawn in the fall, from the fifteenth of
October until the fifteenth of December. The sturgeon, I think they are
a river fish and that they go up the rivers to spawn. If ever the rivers
are closed, there will be many fewer sturgeon."
The gloomy little road swerved back toward the lake. They broke out of
the trees, and Ramsay saw the water again. Built into it, at this point,
was a rambling wooden pier. There was a house and a fishing shanty. Tied
to a stake in a patch of green grass, a sad-eyed brown cow munched
placidly on a five-pound whitefish. Tied to the pier, a saucy
twenty-six-foot Mackinaw boat, much like the _Spray_, bobbed up and
down. Nearer the beach was another boat, evidently a sadly worn one.
Nets of various kinds were strung on reels close to the lake.
The house's door opened, and a ferocious little black dog snarled
toward them. Showing white teeth, foaming at the mouth, he hurled
himself straight at the visitors. Hans laughed and swung down from the
cart, and as soon as he did the little black dog leaped about him to wag
an almost furious welcome. Hans grinned and knelt to tickle the dog's
ears.
"Like most Frenchmen, you can do nothing unless you do it violently," he
soothed. "Where is your master?"
The house's door opened and a man, whom at first Ramsay thought was a
boy, flung himself out. Barely five feet tall, he was dressed in
breeches, leather leggings with colored fringes and a shirt that seemed
to sport every color in the rainbow. He threw himself at Hans.
"_Mon ami!_" he screamed. "My friend! It has been so long, so very long
since you honored us with a visit! Tell me what has kept you away for so
very long?"
"Baptiste," Hans said, "meet one of my new partners, Ramsay Cartou.
Ramsay, Baptiste LeClaire."
Baptiste wrung Ramsay's arm as though it were a pump handle and in spite
of his small size, he was very strong. He looked frankly at the boy.
"You have," he asked, "bought an interest in the _Spray_?"
"The _Spray_ is no more," Hans informed him. "She went back to the
lake."
"Oh."
For a moment Baptiste was very sober. Then both men laughed, as though
they shared some huge secret which nobody else could ever understand.
Baptiste exploded.
"What is it you need, my friend? My boats, my nets, my pier, my life?
Name it and it is yours!"
"No," Hans said. "What we need is barrels. Good oaken barrels with
pliant black ash hoops. We also need salt. We have a net and we have a
boat."
"That is all you need?" Baptiste seemed disappointed.
"That is all."
Baptiste turned and in rapid-fire French directed orders at three men
who were lingering near. At once they began to take barrels built to
hold two hundred pounds of fish from a huge pile near the fishing shanty
and to stack them on Baptiste's boat. Ramsay read her name, _Bon Homme_.
Baptiste LeClaire turned to his visitors.
"Now that you are here," he said, "share the hospitality of my poor
home."
"With pleasure," Hans agreed.
They went into the house to meet Baptiste's wife, a sparkling little
black-eyed French woman. Producing the inevitable jug, Baptiste filled
three gourds with fiery whisky. Hans and Baptiste drained theirs with
one gulp. Ramsay nursed his, both men laughed at him. But the boy could
partake of the delicious fish stew which Baptiste's wife prepared.
A half-hour after Ramsay and Hans returned to the Van Hooven farm, a
white sail bloomed out in the bay. She was the _Bon Homme_, loaded
halfway up the mast with barrels and salt. Hans Van Doorst rubbed his
hands in undisguised glee.
"Now," he chuckled, "we go fishing!"