August Gale (8 page)

The dorymen nodded and turned back to their task, scouring every inch of their vessels. They searched the fifteen-foot dories from stem to stern, looking for leaks or cracks between the planks; they checked the lines, straps, tholepins, and buoys, ensuring their boats were seaworthy and prepared for waves that could sink or flip the small dory in the frigid Atlantic Ocean.

A soft breeze swirled around the men as they worked, carrying the ever-present odor of fish that enveloped the village from spring to fall. It rose up from the schooner holds, where layer upon layer of salted fish awaited the market scales; from the cod livers fermenting in nearby puncheons; and from the shore rocks, where discarded entrails enticed seabirds that darted and pitched, fighting over the blood-red remains.

Oblivious to the pungent odors that hung in the warm summer air, captains and cooks stood on schooners alongside the wharf, bellowing orders to their crews as they hauled food supplies onto decks. Barrels of salted pork and flour rolled like thunder toward the fo'c'sle, sacks of peas and sugar, jugs of molasses, and bags of beans passed from one pair of thick hands to another down the stores' hatch.

Across the bay, a dory edged toward the pier. The ferry master pulled his oars, his strokes even and strong, as he transported his passenger from the south to the north side of Marys-town. The passenger's broad shoulders caught the fishermen's attention.

“Aye, there's Captain Paddy coming over.”

As the boat angled toward the pier, the men glimpsed Paddy's dark eyes beneath his cap.

“What kind of mood ye think he's in today?” one of the dorymen joked.

“No telling with Captain Paddy, he can turn like the wind, but one thing is certain: The skipper will be happier once he gets out to sea.”

“Aye, he's had a rough go this year not getting that commissioned boat.”

The dorymen remembered the talk around the north and south sides of Marystown at Paddy's fury over the lost government-built vessel. He had been promised shares in the schooner. A seventy-footer, she would have carried six dories and sixteen men. The vessel could have handled the monthlong trips to the Grand Banks and beyond, but after gathering a crew, Paddy learned that the government ran out of money before his boat could be completed.

“You'd of thought he was going to beat someone bloody over that one,” a veteran doryman nodded as his calloused hands scrubbed the hull of his dory clean.

After promising his smaller schooner
Mary Bernice
to his son James, Paddy was left without a boat to sail as the March ice thawed.

“Do you remember Paddy's face after his brother Ernest arrived with his first catch this spring?”

“Aye, Ernest had thirty quintals of fish on deck, and here Paddy is wit' nothin'.”

“Paddy 'twasn't happy about that one. Him usually being the big fish-killer and his brother home with more than three thousand pounds of fish before Paddy's even got a boat beneath 'im.”

Eager to haul home more fish than his brother, Paddy quickly found himself another boat, buying shares in
Annie Anita
, a small schooner owned by the merchant James Baird. Other captains might have struggled to find another boat so quickly, but Paddy had told his crew they'd sail in March, and the skipper never went back on his word, especially when it came to fishing.

“He's like a dog to fish,” a gray-haired doryman agreed. “Gad himself would have to strike Paddy dead to stop the skipper from setting out.”

The fishermen nodded to one another. They had witnessed Paddy's resolve in years past when his newly built schooner
Lillian
had got stuck in the spring ice.

Built up in Creston on the upper reaches of Marystown's Mortier Bay, Paddy had been eager to sail the new schooner that he had proudly named after his wife. But the March winds had blown bitterly cold, and the bay was still frozen over when it came time to ease the thirty-ton boat off its cradle.

Still, the ice did not stop the skipper from launching his schooner. From the north and south shores of Marystown, Paddy's shouts could be heard: “Free rum to any man who will help haul a schooner over the ice!”

Paddy hollered to the land from his horse and cart as he dragged a barrel of rum along the frozen bay. By the day's end, one hundred men had lined up along the ropes tethered to the
Lillian'
s bow. They pulled the fifty-foot schooner a mile and a half over the ice until it broke free and slipped into the open water.

“Jaysus, that was some sight,” laughed one of the dorymen. “Paddy ladling out rum from his horse and an army hauling the boat for 'im.”

The sound of a dory scraping rocks pulled the fishermen back to the August morning. As the ferry master dragged his boat to land, Paddy stepped out onto the sand. The dorymen quickly shed their grins and put their thoughts aside; they knew better than to smirk in front of the skipper.

“Morning, Capt'n,” they offered, tipping their caps.

“Morning, fellas,” Paddy replied, his eyes taking in the men's worn clothing and tattered leather boots.

“How's the crew shaping up for yur upcoming trip, Skipper?”

“Fine, boys. Got a good crew for James and myself.”

“If yur needing another doryman, I'm available, sir,” offered a young, red-haired fisherman.

“Thanks lad, but I'm set for now. Yur turn will come soon enough.”

The dorymen's eyes followed Paddy as he walked toward Baird's store. Paddy could feel their gaze as the conversation continued behind him. He knew the men were hungry for a spot on a schooner. A lot of lads were having a tough go this season. Not enough work to go around when skippers had trouble financing a boat. The merchants and boatbuilding firms had cut back on hiring captains to sail their schooners. Poor prices for the fish produced fewer profits for the merchants, who were holding tight to what cash trickled into their coffers. While the lower prices meant Paddy himself earned less for his catch, the strain on the fishery offered the captain his pick of skilled dorymen. He took comfort knowing he had lined up some experienced hands for James on his first journey as skipper.

Paddy went over their names in his mind: Dennis Long, Michael Farrell, Billy Reid, and Richard Hanrahan. Hanrahan had not committed to Paddy yet, but the skipper was hoping he could convince the seasoned fisherman to accompany James. Like most of the dorymen, Hanrahan had been fishing since he was a small boy. The same age as Paddy, Hanrahan had weathered his share of narrow escapes and understood the subtle changes in the sea. If James turned ill on the trip or a storm blew in, Paddy knew Hanrahan could sail the schooner home. But the doryman had spent the spring and summer starting his own fish-drying business, and Hanrahan was not keen on returning to the sea.

“I'm trying to keep me boots on the land,” Hanrahan had told Paddy a few days earlier. “Want to be home with me children and wife.”

Paddy understood Hanrahan's desire to be with his family, but he pressed the fisherman. “Just one more journey to help me and James out. It would ease my wife Lillian's mind if you'd be there to watch over her son.”

Hanrahan told Paddy he'd give it some thought. The captain pushed open Baird's wooden doors and reminded himself to visit Hanrahan later in the day. Inside the darkened shop, kerosene lanterns hung from the walls. Paddy adjusted his eyes to the dim light and walked past the barrels of sugar and tea. From the rafters, new oilskins hung, the stiff-coated garments stirring like spirits when the shop door swung open. Paddy eyed the glossy and new garments, goods he knew that few dorymen could afford. Most of the fishermen reapplied layer after layer of linseed oil to their own pants and coats, oilskins that continually cracked and split, weathered by the unrelenting wind and salt of the sea.

Making his way past cases of fishhooks and coils of rope, Paddy walked toward the center of the store. A couple of retired fishermen sat by the potbellied stove, their thin fingers whittling small sticks. Paddy breathed in the scent of the wood fire that mingled with the sweet smell of the molasses dripping from a nearby barrel.

“Fine day, Mr. Paddy,” one of the men offered. “Water is c'am. Be good day to set out.”

“Aye t'would be,” Paddy replied. “We'll be off soon enough.”

Paddy nodded to the gray-haired fishermen and walked toward the back of the shop. From the shelves, tins of canned vegetables glinted in the dim light, stirring Paddy's memory of a winter morning five years past. He remembered the women's voices, desperate and high-pitched, on the verge of tears, begging the merchant's clerk to give them a bit of food to feed their children. When he saw the clerk shake his head at the women, angrily waving them away, Paddy stormed past the young man and climbed the ladder that leaned against the shelves. Grabbing tins of food, he tossed them down to the gaunt faces that stared up at him.

“What do ye think you're doing?” the clerk had sputtered, his eyes startled and wide.

“Just write it all down in yur damned ledger,” Paddy hollered.

“But their credit is no good, Mr. Paddy,” the clerk stammered.

“Well put it down on my credit then, boy!”

This winter, Paddy knew, would test more of Marystown's families. There would be more burials and more weeping mothers, children lost over some foolish disease their weakened bodies could not fight. The raised voice of a man at the shop counter drew Paddy's attention.

“What are ye talking about?” the fisherman yelled.

Paddy recognized the man's broad shoulders and blocky build. From the back, the fisherman could have been Paddy's twin.

“Don't let them rob ye, Reid!” Paddy shouted.

Paddy's second hand did not have to turn around to put a name to the loud voice. Tom Reid had heard the old man holler more times than he'd care to remember.
Jaysus, if ye dared slack off at sea, his shouts and curses would cure ye of ever taking a moment's rest again
. Though he never challenged the captain when they sailed, Reid gave Paddy his due when they were back on land, where the two friends had gotten into a few rows now and again. Usually the brawls started after they had drunk several jars from the liquor still they'd hidden in the woods. Drunk or sober, the two of them were as stubborn as the day was long. They could argue over just about anything, how to mend trawl, tie a knot, or fell a tree. Still, Reid wouldn't crew for any other skipper. Paddy's gift of finding the fish was almost frightening. It was as if the captain could sense the cod beneath the sea. “There!” he'd holler, pointing to a patch of dark water, like God or some spirit had secretly guided the skipper to the heartiest fishing grounds. “Put the anchor down, boys. There's plenty of fish below.”

The soles of Paddy's leather jackboots echoed in Baird's cavernous shop, stirring Reid from his memories; he turned to face Paddy.

“Morning, Skipper.”

“How are ye getting on with the grub?” Paddy asked.

“Seems the merchant could use some persuasion,” Reid said. “They're wanting to give us one sack of flour instead of two, and they're cutting back on the molasses and salt pork besides.”

Paddy eyed the young clerk who stood behind the counter. The dark-haired boy was no more than seventeen years old. The captain smiled and reached into one of the glass candy jars that lined the shelves. Tossing a peppermint knob into his mouth, Paddy leaned forward on the counter and asked in a voice, soft and low, “You're not going to give us any trouble are ye, son?”

The skipper's voice rose as he continued, “We've got two boats to outfit with twelve men and two boys. Are ye telling me my credit is no good?”

“No sir, I mean, Mr. Paddy, sir,” the clerk stuttered. The boy had often heard Paddy roar at the weigh masters when they took stock of Paddy's catch, deciding the cod's worth. The top-quality and high-paying fish went to Portugal and Spain. The poor, broken-up fish were marked for the West Indies and paid bottom dollar.

“Gimme the highest price,” Paddy often bellowed to the weigh masters. “Or I'll kill ye!”

The boy wasn't sure if Paddy had ever laid a hand on the weigh master to prove his point, but he wasn't about to test the skipper on this August morning.

“Sure thing, Mr. Paddy,” the clerk replied, his eyes falling to the shop floor. “We'll get ye fixed up right.”

“That's better, lad.”

Reid shook his head as the clerk took quick steps toward the back of the store. “Now why is it he is so eager to help ye and not the likes of me'self?”

Paddy grinned. “Might be because of yur ugly mug.”

Reid laughed at the skipper's remark, relieved Paddy was in a fine mood this morning.

“Has Hanrahan agreed to go along with James?” Reid asked.

“I'm off to pay him another visit now,” Paddy said turning toward the door. “See if ye can finish getting the grub without a problem now.”

Reid waved Paddy off. The skipper had been a bit queer lately, quiet with an odd, faraway look to his eyes. Paddy, Reid knew, like the rest of his crew, had worries on his mind. No matter how many quintals of fish the captain brought home, the price didn't seem to add up to the cost of the backbreaking work.

Reid could hear Paddy now, commanding in the predawn hours aboard
Annie Anita:
“Bait up, boys!”

The work would begin at 2:00 a.m. in the blackest part of the night. The dorymates would bait two thousand hooks on their mile and a half of trawl lines. Their fingers cut and bleeding, they'd load their dories with the four trawl tubs, oars, and gaffs. One by one, the fishermen would step into the small boats, where they would be hoisted up over the schooner rail, swung out, and lowered away.

In the dark with nothin' but the light of their torch to see by, it was fearful enough, but add the wind and a strong sea and the send-off could be terrifying
. Reid knew many a man who shut his eyes and prayed as the dories swung over the rail. There were plenty of stories about boats that hit the water cockeyed and capsized their men into the sea. Sometimes they were saved, grabbed by the collar of their oilskins or pulled up with the gaff, but other times the men weren't so lucky. With their heavy leather jackboots that came halfway up their calves and the oil-skin pants that quickly filled with water, the flailing dorymen might as well have cement shoes on their feet.
'Twasn't more than a few minutes and the poor lads disappeared in the cold sea. Gone before anyone could save them
.