Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (67 page)

The lesson would have been easier had the deck been at all free; but there appeared to be a place on it for everything and anything except a man. Forward lay the windlass and its tackle, with the chain and hemp cables, all very unpleasant to trip over; the foc’sle stovepipe, and the gurry-butts by the foc’sle hatch to hold the fish-livers. Aft of these the foreboom and booby of the main-hatch took all the space that was not needed for the pumps and dressing-pens. Then came the nests of dories lashed to ring-bolts by the quarter-deck; the house, with tubs and oddments lashed all around it; and, last, the sixty-foot main-boom in its crutch, splitting things length-wise, to duck and dodge under every time.

Tom Platt, of course, could not keep his oar out of the business, but ranged alongside with enormous and unnecessary descriptions of sails and spars on the old Ohio.

“Niver mind fwhat he says; attind to me, Innocince. Tom Platt, this bally-hoo’s not the Ohio, an’ you’re mixing the bhoy bad.”

“He’ll be ruined for life, beginnin’ on a fore-an’-after this way,” Tom Platt pleaded. “Give him a chance to know a few leadin’ principles. Sailin’s an art, Harvey, as I’d show you if I had ye in the fore-top o’ the — ”

“I know ut. Ye’d talk him dead an’ cowld. Silince, Tom Platt! Now, after all I’ve said, how’d you reef the foresail, Harve? Take your time answerin’.”

“Haul that in,” said Harvey, pointing to leeward.

“Fwhat? The North Atlantuc?”

“No, the boom. Then run that rope you showed me back there — ”

“That’s no way,” Tom Platt burst in.

“Quiet! He’s larnin’, an’ has not the names good yet. Go on, Harve.”

“Oh, it’s the reef-pennant. I’d hook the tackle on to the reef-pennant, and then let down — ”

“Lower the sail, child! Lower!” said Tom Platt, in a professional agony.

“Lower the throat and peak halyards,” Harvey went on. Those names stuck in his head.

“Lay your hand on thim,” said Long Jack.

Harvey obeyed. “Lower till that rope-loop — on the after-leach-kris — no, it’s cringle — till the cringle was down on the boom. Then I’d tie her up the way you said, and then I’d hoist up the peak and throat halyards again.”

“You’ve forgot to pass the tack-earing, but wid time and help ye’ll larn. There’s good and just reason for ivry rope aboard, or else ‘twould be overboard. D’ye follow me? ‘Tis dollars an’ cents I’m puttin’ into your pocket, ye skinny little supercargo, so that fwhin ye’ve filled out ye can ship from Boston to Cuba an’ tell thim Long Jack larned you. Now I’ll chase ye around a piece, callin’ the ropes, an’ you’ll lay your hand on thim as I call.”

He began, and Harvey, who was feeling rather tired, walked slowly to the rope named. A rope’s end licked round his ribs, and nearly knocked the breath out of him.

“When you own a boat,” said Tom Platt, with severe eyes, “you can walk. Till then, take all orders at the run. Once more — to make sure!”

Harvey was in a glow with the exercise, and this last cut warmed him thoroughly. Now he was a singularly smart boy, the son of a very clever man and a very sensitive woman, with a fine resolute temper that systematic spoiling had nearly turned to mulish obstinacy. He looked at the other men, and saw that even Dan did not smile. It was evidently all in the day’s work, though it hurt abominably; so he swallowed the hint with a gulp and a gasp and a grin. The same smartness that led him to take such advantage of his mother made him very sure that no one on the boat, except, maybe, Penn, would stand the least nonsense. One learns a great deal from a mere tone. Long Jack called over half a dozen ropes, and Harvey danced over the deck like an eel at ebb-tide, one eye on Tom Platt.

“Ver’ good. Ver’ good don,” said Manuel. “After supper I show you a little schooner I make, with all her ropes. So we shall learn.”

“Fust-class fer — a passenger,” said Dan. “Dad he’s jest allowed you’ll be wuth your salt maybe ‘fore you’re draownded. Thet’s a heap fer Dad. I’ll learn you more our next watch together.”

“Taller!” grunted Disko, peering through the fog as it smoked over the bows. There was nothing to be seen ten feet beyond the surging jib-boom, while alongside rolled the endless procession of solemn, pale waves whispering and lipping one to the other.

“Now I’ll learn you something Long Jack can’t,” shouted Tom Platt, as from a locker by the stern he produced a battered deep-sea lead hollowed at one end, smeared the hollow from a saucer full of mutton tallow, and went forward. “I’ll learn you how to fly the Blue Pigeon. Shooo!”

Disko did something to the wheel that checked the schooner’s way, while Manuel, with Harvey to help (and a proud boy was Harvey), let down the jib in a lump on the boom. The lead sung a deep droning song as Tom Platt whirled it round and round.

“Go ahead, man,” said Long Jack, impatiently. “We’re not drawin’ twenty-five fut off Fire Island in a fog. There’s no trick to ut.”

“Don’t be jealous, Galway.” The released lead plopped into the sea far ahead as the schooner surged slowly forward.

“Soundin’ is a trick, though,” said Dan, “when your dipsey lead’s all the eye you’re like to hev for a week. What d’you make it, Dad?”

Disko’s face relaxed. His skill and honour were involved in the march he had stolen on the rest of the Fleet, and he had his reputation as a master artist who knew the Banks blindfold. “Sixty, mebbe — ef I’m any judge,” he replied, with a glance at the tiny compass in the window of the house.

“Sixty,” sung out Tom Platt, hauling in great wet coils.

The schooner gathered way once more. “Heave!” said Disko, after a quarter of an hour.

“What d’you make it?” Dan whispered, and he looked at Harvey proudly. But Harvey was too proud of his own performances to be impressed just then.

“Fifty,” said the father. “I mistrust we’re right over the nick o’ Green Bank on old Sixty-Fifty.”

“Fifty!” roared Tom Platt. They could scarcely see him through the fog. “She’s bust within a yard — like the shells at Fort Macon.”

“Bait up, Harve,” said Dan, diving for a line on the reel.

The schooner seemed to be straying promiscuously through the smother, her headsail banging wildly. The men waited and looked at the boys who began fishing.

“Heugh!” Dan’s lines twitched on the scored and scarred rail. “Now haow in thunder did Dad know? Help us here, Harve. It’s a big un. Poke-hooked, too.” They hauled together, and landed a goggle-eyed twenty-pound cod. He had taken the bait right into his stomach.

“Why, he’s all covered with little crabs,” cried Harvey, turning him over.

“By the great hook-block, they’re lousy already,” said Long Jack. “Disko, ye kape your spare eyes under the keel.”

Splash went the anchor, and they all heaved over the lines, each man taking his own place at the bulwarks.

“Are they good to eat?” Harvey panted, as he lugged in another crab-covered cod.

“Sure. When they’re lousy it’s a sign they’ve all been herdin’ together by the thousand, and when they take the bait that way they’re hungry. Never mind how the bait sets. They’ll bite on the bare hook.”

“Say, this is great!” Harvey cried, as the fish came in gasping and splashing — nearly all poke-hooked, as Dan had said. “Why can’t we always fish from the boat instead of from the dories?”

“Allus can, till we begin to dress daown. Efter thet, the heads and offals ‘u’d scare the fish to Fundy. Boatfishin’ ain’t reckoned progressive, though, unless ye know as much as dad knows. Guess we’ll run aout aour trawl to-night. Harder on the back, this, than frum the dory, ain’t it?”

It was rather back-breaking work, for in a dory the weight of a cod is water-borne till the last minute, and you are, so to speak, abreast of him; but the few feet of a schooner’s freeboard make so much extra dead-hauling, and stooping over the bulwarks cramps the stomach. But it was wild and furious sport so long as it lasted; and a big pile lay aboard when the fish ceased biting.

“Where’s Penn and Uncle Salters?” Harvey asked, slapping the slime off his oilskins, and reeling up the line in careful imitation of the others.

“Git ‘s coffee and see.”

Under the yellow glare of the lamp on the pawl-post, the foc’sle table down and opened, utterly unconscious of fish or weather, sat the two men, a checker-board between them, Uncle Salters snarling at Penn’s every move.

“What’s the matter naow?” said the former, as Harvey, one hand in the leather loop at the head of the ladder, hung shouting to the cook.

“Big fish and lousy — heaps and heaps,” Harvey replied, quoting Long Jack. “How’s the game?”

Little Penn’s jaw dropped. “‘Tweren’t none o’ his fault,” snapped Uncle Salters. “Penn’s deef.”

“Checkers, weren’t it?” said Dan, as Harvey staggered aft with the steaming coffee in a tin pail. “That lets us out o’ cleanin’ up to-night. Dad’s a jest man. They’ll have to do it.”

“An’ two young fellers I know’ll bait up a tub or so o’ trawl, while they’re cleanin’,” said Disko, lashing the wheel to his taste.

“Um! Guess I’d ruther clean up, Dad.”

“Don’t doubt it. Ye wun’t, though. Dress daown! Dress daown! Penn’ll pitch while you two bait up.”

“Why in thunder didn’t them blame boys tell us you’d struck on?” said Uncle Salters, shuffling to his place at the table. “This knife’s gum-blunt, Dan.”

“Ef stickin’ out cable don’t wake ye, guess you’d better hire a boy o’ your own,” said Dan, muddling about in the dusk over the tubs full of trawl-line lashed to windward of the house. “Oh, Harve, don’t ye want to slip down an’ git ‘s bait?”

“Bait ez we are,” said Disko. “I mistrust shag-fishin’ will pay better, ez things go.”

That meant the boys would bait with selected offal of the cod as the fish were cleaned — an improvement on paddling bare-handed in the little bait-barrels below. The tubs were full of neatly coiled line carrying a big hook each few feet; and the testing and baiting of every single hook, with the stowage of the baited line so that it should run clear when shot from the dory, was a scientific business. Dan managed it in the dark, without looking, while Harvey caught his fingers on the barbs and bewailed his fate. But the hooks flew through Dan’s fingers like tatting on an old maid’s lap. “I helped bait up trawl ashore ‘fore I could well walk,” he said. “But it’s a putterin’ job all the same. Oh, Dad!” This shouted towards the hatch, where Disko and Tom Platt were salting. “How many skates you reckon we’ll need?”

“‘Baout three. Hurry!”

“There’s three hundred fathom to each tub,” Dan explained; “more’n enough to lay out to-night. Ouch! ‘Slipped up there, I did.” He stuck his finger in his mouth. “I tell you, Harve, there ain’t money in Gloucester ‘u’d hire me to ship on a reg’lar trawler. It may be progressive, but, barrin’ that, it’s the putterin’est, slimjammest business top of earth.”

“I don’t know what this is, if ‘tisn’t regular trawling,” said Harvey sulkily. “My fingers are all cut to frazzles.”

“Pshaw! This is just one o’ Dad’s blame experiments. He don’t trawl ‘less there’s mighty good reason fer it. Dad knows. Thet’s why he’s baitin’ ez he is. We’ll hev her saggin’ full when we take her up er we won’t see a fin.”

Penn and Uncle Salters cleaned up as Disko had ordained, but the boys profited little. No sooner were the tubs furnished than Tom Platt and Long Jack, who had been exploring the inside of a dory with a lantern, snatched them away, loaded up the tubs and some small, painted trawl-buoys, and hove the boat overboard into what Harvey regarded as an exceedingly rough sea. “They’ll be drowned. Why, the dory’s loaded like a freight-car,” he cried.

“We’ll be back,” said Long Jack, “an’ in case you’ll not be lookin’ for us, we’ll lay into you both if the trawl’s snarled.”

The dory surged up on the crest of a wave, and just when it seemed impossible that she could avoid smashing against the schooner’s side, slid over the ridge, and was swallowed up in the damp dusk.

“Take ahold here, an’ keep ringin’ steady,” said Dan, passing Harvey the lanyard of a bell that hung just behind the windlass.

Harvey rang lustily, for he felt two lives depended on him. But Disko in the cabin, scrawling in the log-book, did not look like a murderer, and when he went to supper he even smiled dryly at the anxious Harvey.

“This ain’t no weather,” said Dan. “Why, you an’ me could set thet trawl! They’ve only gone out jest far ‘nough so’s not to foul our cable. They don’t need no bell reelly.”

“Clang! clang! clang!” Harvey kept it up, varied with occasional rub-a-dubs, for another half-hour. There was a bellow and a bump alongside. Manuel and Dan raced to the hooks of the dory-tackle; Long Jack and Tom Platt arrived on deck together, it seemed, one half the North Atlantic at their backs, and the dory followed them in the air, landing with a clatter.

“Nary snarl,” said Tom Platt as he dripped. “Danny, you’ll do yet.”

“The pleasure av your comp’ny to the banquit,” said Long Jack, squelching the water from his boots as he capered like an elephant and stuck an oil-skinned arm into Harvey’s face. “We do be condescending to honour the second half wid our presence.” And off they all four rolled to supper, where Harvey stuffed himself to the brim on fish-chowder and fried pies, and fell fast asleep just as Manuel produced from a locker a lovely two-foot model of the Lucy Holmes, his first boat, and was going to show Harvey the ropes. Harvey never even twiddled his fingers as Penn pushed him into his bunk.

“It must be a sad thing — a very sad thing,” said Penn, watching the boy’s face, “for his mother and his father, who think he is dead. To lose a child — to lose a man-child!”

“Git out o’ this, Penn,” said Dan. “Go aft and finish your game with Uncle Salters. Tell Dad I’ll stand Harve’s watch ef he don’t keer. He’s played aout.”

“Ver’ good boy,” said Manuel, slipping out of his boots and disappearing into the black shadows of the lower bunk. “Expec’ he make good man, Danny. I no see he is any so mad as your parpa he says. Eh, wha-at?”

Dan chuckled, but the chuckle ended in a snore.

It was thick weather outside, with a rising wind, and the elder men stretched their watches. The hour struck clear in the cabin; the nosing bows slapped and scuffed with the seas; the foc’sle stove-pipe hissed and sputtered as the spray caught it; and the boys slept on, while Disko, Long Jack, Tom Platt, and Uncle Salters, each in turn, stumped aft to look at the wheel, forward to see that the anchor held, or to veer out a little more cable against chafing, with a glance at the dim anchor-light between each round.