_JUST HOW THE FISH ARE CAUGHT_
[Illustration: Boat returning from the Trap full of Fish.]
Cod (Gadus) = goad or rod fish—called in Norway stick or stock fish,
or in Spanish “baccalhao,” in Italian “mazza,” a club or rod—all of
which synonyms imply that a rod or stick is used in preserving the
fish. In Norway two are tied tail to tail, and then slung over a stick,
being then exposed to sun and air so many days—prescribed by law. The
Eskimo largely hang them from a rod by the gills after splitting and
salting them, but Newfoundlanders spread them out on poles, called
“flakes,” or on the natural rocks, called “bournes.” But “you must
first catch your hare, then cook him,” and seasons suitable being
very brief in these Arctic climates, the most rapid methods must be
adopted; and in cod-catching Newfoundland has eclipsed all her rivals.
In spring, nets only are used, for the fish are in shoals, feeding on
the myriads of caplin, a fish the size of a sardine, which are inshore
then to spawn. The most successful net is the cod-trap. Practically it
is a submerged parlour of net without a roof, but with a large door,
into which the cod are invited to walk by a long net leading to the
nearest headland of rock, and ending at the centre of the door. It is
all kept in position by heavy anchors. The distance from the rock is
from a hundred to a hundred and fifty yards. Cod are gregarious fish,
and, like sheep, follow a leader. When, therefore, one comes up against
the net as he swims near the rocks, he turns out into deeper water to
circumvent it, and so leads his confiding following directly into the
net. Here, being a platonic fish, he remains, indolently browsing on
the infusoria and ocean slime which collect about the twiny walls of
his prison. Suddenly a boat appears overhead, and a long telescope,
with a plain glass bottom—the fish glass—is pushed down into the
room, through which the trap-master is peering to see how many finny
prisoners there are. Now the door is pulled up, and now the floor is
rising—rising—rising, being passed along under the boat, until all
the frightened captives are huddled together in one seething mass near
the surface. Now a dipper is put in, and the jumping, struggling fish
are heaved into the boat. Soon the boat is full to the gunwale, and
still there are more prisoners. Large bags of net are produced and
filled with the rest of the fish. These, after being buoyed, are thrown
overboard to wait till they are “wanted.”
I have seen fifty to sixty hundredweight of fish taken in the same
trap time after time. Sometimes more are caught than the curers can
keep pace with. Then the fortunate trap-master allows his neighbours
to “haul the trap,” receiving in return a small proportion of cured
fish. Now certain positions are thought better than others for setting
these traps, with the result that there is every spring a race from
Newfoundland to get them, like our members of parliament race for
seats. The law does not allow traps to be set till a certain day, and
the leading net must be put out to secure the berth—a top hat on a
bench is not sufficient—and unless within four days the whole trap
is set, the claim becomes void. Thus, while the ice was still on the
shores of Labrador, a steamer was sent ahead with numbers of men, each
armed with “a trap leader,” to get ahead of the sailing schooners which
were working their perilous way along inside the floe ice. In one case,
after the best berths had thus been taken, the nets to complete the
traps did not turn up till after the prescribed four days. Meanwhile
another crew had pulled up their nets and pounced on the coveted
prizes. Again, some men were landed with “leaders” on one station late
at night. “No sail in sight. We’ll secure our berths to-morrow
morning.” During the night, however, a southerly wind brought in two
schooners, and during the hours of darkness these secured the prize
while the others slept.
[Illustration: Snug Harbour.]
The “cod-seine” ranks second in importance among nets in Labrador. It
is of prodigious size, up to 60 feet deep, requiring seven men to work
it, and is used either to bar an inlet, or to shoot round a shoal of
cod in deep water. The seine master stands, fish-glass in hand, high on
the bow of the seine skiff, as his stalwart crew, with eight huge pine
oars, drive the boat along, perhaps hour after hour. The vast net is
piled up on the stern, while one man stands on the thwarts, steering
with his oar like an Italian gondolier. Suddenly “Easy all!” is cried;
“Hold her up!” and the seine master peers down into the water with
his glass. A school of fish is on the bottom. Swiftly the net anchor
is dropped, and the net is paid out astern as the willing backs bend
to the oars and force the skiff round and home to the starting place,
marked by a gaily-painted buoy. Thus the whole school are enclosed. Now
the weighted foot rope is “gathered” together, the net has become one
vast bag, and the prisoners are dealt with as before, _i.e._ dipped out
and bagged off.
The gill net is rarely used in Labrador now. In Norway it is still a
favourite method. Twenty to twenty-four nets, eighty feet long and
about fifty feet deep, are “shot” in water of from twenty to sixty
fathoms, or even in ninety fathoms, as many as three to four thousand
cod being meshed at one time. Under certain circumstances nets are no
use, _e.g._, on the great banks, or late in the season in Labrador.
Lines must then be used, and it is advisable to use bait on the hook.
To us accustomed to row out and catch a few codling with a mussel, the
subject of “baits” has apparently little interest. But out here it has
become a subject of international importance. The fact is, mussels
are too soft, coming off the hook too readily, and also cod are a
fastidious fish, and will only condescend to swallow that “poisson”
which is in season. True, it is not essential to bait the hooks at
all. Instead you may take two large hooks, fix them back to back with
a piece of lead, which will act at once as bait and sinker. Lower this
to the bottom, and then keep jerking it up and down. Often you will
strike fish as fast as you can work, using one line in each hand. This
method, called “jigging,” eventually injures the fishery, probably
because numbers of fish escape after being wounded, and others follow
them, possibly to devour them, more than five being injured for one
caught. The fishermen say the injured warn their friends, but a fish’s
appreciation of pain is somewhat doubtful.
Sailors have told me of sharks which, after being caught and having
had their livers cut out, will continue to pursue and swallow the same
piece of pork as long as sufficient vitality remains in them to keep
pace with the vessel; nay, even that, after being cut in half, the “bow
end” will still wriggle after the bait, when the ship is becalmed in
the doldrums. But Jack is prejudiced against sharks.
Bait is necessary, however, in deep water, a fact that led the
Newfoundland Government to pass the famous “Bait Act,” rendering it
illegal to supply the French with bait in the hope of destroying their
banking industry. Alas! laws are easier to make than enforce, and the
worst sufferers were those who formerly made out of this supply an
honest livelihood.
Octopus and Squid is _facile princeps_ among baits for cod. Yet the
cod must be circumspect in indulging this weakness, and confine his
attention to those of tender years, for these cephalopods attain to
enormous size at times in these waters. Thus the Rev. Dr. Harvey
(F.R.S., Canada), of St. Johns, narrates how, while recently two
Newfoundlanders were out fishing in their little rowing boat, two
enormous arms rose out of the water, seized the boat, and endeavoured
to drag it below the surface. Fortunately a chopper lay at hand in the
boat, and the great beast, after losing two of his arms, sank amidst
volumes of black ink. The parts of arms cut off were nineteen feet
long, and are now preserved in St. Johns Museum. Shortly after another
was secured by Dr. Harvey, which had been found floating, dead. Its
grasp embraced forty feet. Again, in 1772 Cartwright caught one seven
feet long without head or tentacles. The beaks of these fish resemble
a parrot’s, and in large specimens are far more solid than human teeth.
Catching octopus is exciting work. A number of row-boats are anchored
close together outside some point of land, and the fishermen are lazily
jigging up and down a little bright red leaden weight, bristling with
wire spikes. Suddenly a stir—all are working with might and main. A
company of squids are passing and flying on the jiggers like vampires;
the red weights are being grabbed voraciously. Beware as you get him
on board. Suddenly he relaxes his grasp, and shoots out a jet of ink,
which smarts considerably in one’s eyes, and leaves weird patterns on
white linen. They swim backwards and at great pace after their prey.
Salted down, these squid fetch fifteen to fifty cents per hundred.
“Bankers” pay ten to twenty cents per hundred.
Caplin I have mentioned. They are taken in fine meshed seine nets or in
cast nets thrown from the shoulder like the “retiarius” of old threw
his.
Herrings form a very excellent bait. They are caught in gill nets
anchored out in likely spots, and these are emptied every day. Our
English drift nets are rendered impossible by the icebergs and sudden
storms, with no harbour lights in case of emergency at night, and
herring see the net in daytime. Herrings have been kept frozen, and
then found to serve as excellent bait. A new way to freeze these is to
half fill a barrel with broken ice, salt and herrings, and then roll
it well over and over. Thus a constant supply of bait at known places
might be maintained in fixed ice houses; a much needed arrangement, for
much time and money is lost by the uncertain supply of bait. Launce
or sand eels have often to be used, but can only be taken on sandy
bottoms, perhaps miles from a fishing station. Then several crews
club together, and lend men in turns to row the bait skiff as many as
twenty-four miles, sharing up the bait when it arrives. Occasionally
they pay shares for a small launch to keep up a regular supply. White
fish, a small fish taken in surface seines, are occasionally used, and
also sometimes whelks.
[Illustration: Cartwright Staff.]