I don’t think that the people of Gloucester will ever forget the morning of that race, which, they will still tell you, was the only race ever sailed. Wind was what the fishermen wanted, and they got it––wind, and sea with it. The admiral of the White Squadron, then at anchor at Rockport Harbor, just around the Cape, stood on the bridge of his flagship that morning and looked out to sea. Somebody told him that the fishermen were going to race that day. He took another look. “Race to-day? Pooh! they’ll do well to stay hove-to to-day.” Of course, that ought to have settled it, the admiral having said it.

It blew that day. Leaving home I had time for a bite to eat and a wash-up. I turned the corner and picked up Clancy, with Maurice Blake, Tom O’Donnell and Wesley Marrs just ahead. We ran into Mr. Edkins, a nice old gentleman, who had been made secretary of the race committee. What he didn’t know about fishing would be the making of a “killer,” but, of course, he wasn’t picked out 236 for that––he’d never fished a day in his life––but because of his knowledge of the rules of yacht racing. Having had long experience in managing yachting regattas, he knew all about time allowances and sail measurements––though there were to be no allowances of any kind here. It was to be boat for boat in this race; every vessel for herself. So he was thought to be a good man to have to look after the stake and judges’ boats. It was Gloucester’s Anniversary celebration, with a lot of strangers in town––the Governor and a whole holdful of national characters––and in deference to them the race was to be managed so that spectators might have a chance to see it.

Mr. Edkins came along in his official regalia––tall hat, frock coat, umbrella, gloves, and a pink in his button-hole.

“Is it true, Captain O’Donnell, that the race is going to be held to-day?”

O’Donnell looked at him as though he didn’t understand. “To-day? to-day?––Good Lord, are we all on the wrong tack? And sure isn’t this the day?”

“Oh, yes––oh, yes, Captain O’Donnell, this is the day appointed. And that is the trouble. Surely you are not going to race to-day?”

“We’re not going to––” broke in Wesley Marrs, “and why aren’t we going to race to-day? What 237 in the name of all that’s good have we been doing with our vessels up on the railway the last week or two? What d’y’think we took the ballast out of our vessels for? What d’y’think I had that everlasting new balloon made for last trip in, what for that big mains’l that Tom here had bent on the Colleen yesterday, and for what did Maurice drive the Johnnie Duncan home only last night? What in–––”

“Wait, Captain, wait. What I mean is, do you know how it is outside? They’ve telegraphed me that up in Boston Harbor there won’t be a steamer leave the harbor to-day––it’s as stormy as that. There are two big ocean liners––and we’ve got word that they won’t leave––won’t dare to leave––not a steamer of any kind will leave Boston Harbor to-day. And outside a heavy sea running––with the wind fifty-four miles an hour, the weather bureau says. Fifty-four miles an hour. That’s not street corner talk––it’s official. And–––”

“Divil take it, does being official make it blow any harder?” asked O’Donnell.

“And I know the way you fishermen will try to carry on. I know, I know––don’t tell me you’re careful. I tell you, Captain O’Donnell, and you, Captain Marrs, I tell you all––that if you persist in racing to-day I wash my hands of the whole affair––completely wash my–––”

“Well, ’tis a fine wash day, too. Come, Wesley––come, Maurice, we’ll have to be getting on.”

They left Mr. Edkins standing there. A little farther on they overtook the manager of the insurance company, which had policies on most of the fishing vessels. He was just about to enter his office when O’Donnell spied him. “Hullo, there’s the man I want to see––” and hailed, “Just heave to a minute, Mr. Brooks, if you please. Now look here, you know we’ve took a few pigs of iron out our vessels, and you know it looks like a bit of weather outside. Now, what I want to know is if I capsize the Colleen Bawn to-day––if I don’t come home with her––does my wife get the insurance? That’s what I want to know––does my wife get the insurance?”

Mr. Brooks looked at O’Donnell, rubbed his chin and scratched his head, then looked at O’Donnell again. “Why, I suppose it all comes under the usual risk of fishing vessels. I suppose so––but––h-m––it will be pretty risky, won’t it? But let me see––wait a moment now––there’s the President inside, and Mr. Emerson, too––he’s a director.”

He went inside, and we could see that they were talking it over. Pretty soon they all came out with the President of the company in front. “Good-morning, Captain O’Donnell––Captain Marrs, good-morning. How do you do, Maurice? 239 Captain O’Donnell, take it from me as official, your insurance on the Colleen Bawn is safe. For the honor and glory of old Gloucester go ahead and sink her.”

“And the Lucy Foster?” asked Wesley.

“And the Lucy Foster, Captain Marrs.”

“Of course the Johnnie Duncan, speaking for the owners?” asked Maurice.

“For every vessel that we insure that leaves the harbor to race to-day.”

“Hurroo!” said O’Donnell. “Don’t tell me, Wesley, I’m no––what’s it?––dip-lo-mat. Yes, dip-lo-mat, by the Lord!”

But it certainly was a desperate morning for a race. The streets seemed to be full of men ready to go out. There were to be only nine vessels in the race, but another half dozen vessels were going over to see it, and that meant more than three or four hundred able fishermen going out. The men that were going to stay ashore would go up to those that were going out and say, “Well, good-by, old man. If you don’t come back, why, you know your grave’ll be kept green.” And the men going out would grin and say, “That’s all right, boy, but if she goes, she’ll go with every rag on her,” in a half-joking way, too, but it was the belief that morning that there might be a whole lot of truth in that kind of joking.

Before we reached the dock we knew that the whole town had learned pretty much that half a dozen of the skippers had promised each other in Mrs. Arkell’s kitchen the night before, “No sail comes off except what’s blown off,” and there promised to be some blown off. Men who had only just heard their skippers speak of that were bragging of it in the streets. “Why,” said one of O’Donnell’s crew as we were coming down the dock, “if any crawly-spined crawfish loses his nerve and jumps to our halyards, thinkin’ the Colleen’s going to capsize––why, he’ll get fooled––and why? Because our halyards are all housed aloft––by the skipper’s orders.”

That sounded strong, but it was true. When we reached the end of our dock we looked for ourselves, and there it was. The Colleen’s crew had hoisted their mains’l already and there she lay swayed up and all ready, and men aloft were even then putting the seizing on. Tom O’Donnell himself was pointing it out to Sam Hollis with a good deal of glee, thinking, I suppose, to worry Hollis, who, to uphold his reputation, would have to do the same and take the chances that went with it. By this time everybody knew that Hollis had put his ballast back during the night. One of Wesley Marrs’s men jumped onto the Withrow and below and had a look for himself. He couldn’t get down 241 by way of the hatches––they were battened down––but he dropped into the forec’s’le and, before anybody knew what he was up to, he had slipped through the forehold and into the mainhold and there he saw where they had hurriedly put back the flooring, and he also saw extra barrels of sand tiered low for further stiffening of the Withrow. He was discovered before he got on deck and nearly beaten to a jelly before he got up on the wharf again. It ended in a fine little riot with some of our gang and O’Donnell’s mixing in. Clancy came down the back-stay like a man falling from the mast-head, so as to be into it before it was over. He was almost too late––but not quite. Only old Mr. Duncan coming along with half a dozen other dignified owners stopped it. But there was time for Clancy to speak his mind out to Sam Hollis. And that gave Hollis a chance to say, “Well, talk away, Tommie Clancy, but this is the day I make the Johnnie Duncan take in sail.” And Clancy answered him, “That so! Well, no matter what happens, put this down, Maurice Blake hangs to his canvas longer than Sam Hollis to-day––hangs to it or goes over with it or the spars come out of the Johnnie Duncan.”

After the talking was over we thought Hollis would be shamed into sending a man aloft to mouse his halyards too. But not for Hollis. That was 242 a little too much for him. Clancy and three or four others finished attending to our own halyards and overhauling the gear aloft. Our mains’l was already hoisted and the other three lowers with stops loosed were all ready to hoist too. The mains’l had been left standing just as it was when the Johnnie Duncan came in that morning. It was flat as a board, and I remember how grieved we were when we had to lower it again because the tug that came to give us a kick out from the dock could not turn us around with it up––it was blowing so. The tug captain said he might manage to turn it against the sun, but that would be bad luck of course, and he knew the crew wouldn’t stand for it, especially with a race like this on hand. It had to be with the sun; and so we had to lower it again, and when the vessel was turned around, hoist it again, not forgetting to lash the halyards aloft again too. But after we’d got it swayed up it didn’t set near so well as before––too baggy to our way of thinking.