All the long winter the “Polly J.” had slept snugly in Gloucester Harbor, rigging unrove and everything snug aloft that the wind could freeze or the ice could chafe. Careful eyes had watched her as she swung at her moorings, and rugged hands had gripped the familiar gear as the skipper or some of the men had made their periodical visits. But however gray and desolate she loomed, with her topmasts housed and the black lines of ratline and stay across the brightening sky, nothing could hide the saucy cut-under of the bow and the long, free sweep of the rail.

The afternoon sun of March melted the snow on the south slopes of the fish-sheds, and great gray-and-green patches came out here and there against the endless white.

A brisk breeze, with a touch of the spring, blew up from the south, and the “Polly,” heedless of the tide, turned her head to it, sniffing and breathing it, bobbing and jerking nervously at her anchor, impatient to be dressed in her cloud of canvas, and away where the wind blows free and the curl dashes high under the forefoot.

WHEN THE SNOW MELTS

Ashore in Gloucester town there are signs a-plenty of the work to come. The sleepy village throws off her white mantle and rises from the lethargy of the winter past. The spring is in the air, and the docks and wharves, white and ice-trussed during the long, bleak winter, are trod by groups of men, rubber-coated and “sou’ westered,” moving briskly from one shed to another.

In the town they gather like the stray birds of spring that flutter under the eaves of the store-houses. By twos and threes they appear. On street corners they meet, pipe-smoking, reminiscent, gloomily hopeful for the future, and grateful that they have helped themselves over “March Hill” without a loan from owner or buyer. And as they lounge from post-office to store, from store to shed, and back again, their talk is of dealings with owners and skippers, of vessels and luck.

For luck is their fortune. It means larger profits by shares, new dresses for the wife and little ones, and perhaps an easy time of it in the winter to follow. It means that there will be no long, hard winter of it at the haddock-fisheries at “George’s,” where trawls are to be set in weather which makes frozen hands and feet, and perhaps a grave in an icy sea, where thousands have gone before.

The skipper of the “Polly,” even before he gets his men, has broken out his gear and reckoned up his necessities for the run up to the Banks. If he ships the same crew he had the year before, they work in well together. The “Polly’s” topmasts are run up with a hearty will and a rush. There is a cheerful clatter of block and tackle, and the joyous “Yeo-ho” echoes from one schooner to another as sail and rigging are fitted and run into place.

The snow yet lingers in little patches on the moors when some of the vessels warp down to an anchorage. Dories are broken from their nests and skim lightly across the harbor, now alive with a fleet in miniature. Jests and greetings fill the air, as old shipmates and dory-mates meet again,—Gloucester men some of them, but more often Swedes, Portuguese, and men from the South.

For to-day the fleet is not owned in the villages, and Gloucester, once the centre of the fishing aristocracy, the capital of the nation of the Banks, is now but a trading- and meeting-place for half the sea-people who come from the North and East.

The skipper of the “Polly J.,” himself perhaps the scion of three generations of fishing captains, may wag his head regretfully, for fishers cannot be choosers; but he knows that his fishing has to be done, and, after all, a “Portygee” is as good a sailor-man and dory-mate as another,—better sometimes,—if he keeps sober.

So long as the ship-owner makes his credit good at the store for the people at home, the fisherman takes life as joyfully as a man may who looks at death with every turn of the glass. If he takes his pleasures seriously, it is because he lives face to face with his Maker. Nature, in the awful moods he knows her, makes trivial the little ills that flesh is heir to.

So when the crews are aboard, and the stores and salt are being hoisted in, there is a hurry to be among the first away. Chains and windlasses creak and clang, nimble feet fly aloft, hoarse voices ring across the rippling water, and many a cheerful song echoes from ship to shore and back again.

Willing hands, strangers for months to hemp and tar, lay on to the tackle, as spar and boom are run into place. The fish-bins below are cleaned and scrubbed to the very quick. Bright-work, if there be any, is polished, and sail-patching and dory-painting and caulking are the order of the day, and most of the night. The black cook, below in the mysterious blackness of the galley, potters with saucepan and kettle, and when the provisions are aboard serves the first meal. There is coffee, steaming hot in the early hours of the morning, and biscuit and meat,—plenty of it. There is not much variety, but, with the work to be done above and below decks, a full-blooded appetite leaves no chance for grumbling.

At last the bag and baggage of the crew are tossed aboard,—packs of tobacco innumerable, new rubber clothes, all yellow and shiny in the morning dampness, boots and woollens to keep out the cold of spring on the Bank Sea,—all bought on credit at the store, to be charged against “settling-day.”

WAVING GODSPEED TO THE FISHER-FOLK

It is morning, just before the dawn. The “Polly J.,” her new paint all silver in the early light, rides proudly at her anchor in the centre of the tideway. The nip of winter lingers in the air, but the snow is gone and the rigging is no longer stiff to the touch.

It is just daylight when the last dory is hoisted aboard into its nest. Three or four figures on the wharves, outlined against the purple sky and hills, stand waving Godspeed to their fisher-folk. Women’s voices ring out between the creakings of the blocks, “Good luck! Good luck! ‘Polly J.’; wet your salt first, ‘Polly J.’” It is the well-wishing from the hearts of women, who go back to weep in silence. Which one of them is to make her sacrifice to the god of winds and storms?

There is a cheerful answer from the “Polly,” drowned in the flapping of the sails and creaking of the windlass. The anchor, rusty and weed-hung, is broken out and comes to the surface with a rush, while sheets are hauled aft, and, catching the morning breeze, the head of the schooner pays off towards Norman’s Woe, the water rippling merrily along her sides.

The figures on the wharves are mere gray patches in the mass of town and hills. The big sails, looming dark in the gray mists of the morning, round out to the freshening wind, and push the light fabric through the opal waves with ever-increasing speed. By the time the first rays of the rising sun have gilded the quivering gaff of the main, Eastern Point is left far astern, and the nose of the vessel ploughs boldly out to sea, rising with her empty bins light as a feather to the big, heavy swell that comes rolling in, to break in a steady roar on the brown rocks to leeward.

There is man’s work and plenty of it during those sailing days past “George’s,” Sable Island, and the St. Lawrence. The provisions and salt are to be stowed and restowed, ballast is to be shifted, sails to be made stronger and more strong, fish-bins to be prepared, old dories to be made seaworthy, rigging to be tautened, and reels and lines to be cleared and hooked. Buoy-lines and dory-roding are to be spliced, and miscellaneous carpenter work takes up the time about the decks. For a skipper unprepared to take advantage of all that luck may throw in his way does an injustice to his owner and his crew. But, busy as the time is, the skipper has his weather-eye open for the “signs.” The feel of the air, the look and color of the cold, gray Bank Sea, tell him in so many words how and where the fish will be running. At last a hand takes the heavy sea-lead and moves forward where the line may run free. Deliberately the line is coiled in great turns around the left hand, and then, like a big pendulum, the weight begins to swing with the strong right arm.

IN THE EXCITEMENT OF THE FIRST CATCH

There is a swirl of the line as the lead goes all the way over, a splash forward, and, as the skipper luffs her up into it, the line comes upright, and gets a depth of thirty fathoms. As she comes up into the wind, the noisy jib flaps down with a run, and the anchor drops to the sandy bottom. Now the buckets of bait are tossed up from below, and the skipper leaves his helm to take to the lines. Over the sides and stern they go, dragging down to leeward.

There is quiet for a moment, and then a line runs out. There is a tug as the strong arm checks it and hauls it in quickly, hand over hand. There is a gleam of light, a swish at the surface, and the fish flies over the rail, flopping helplessly on to the deck, the first catch of the season,—a big one.

Another tug, and another, and soon the work is fast and furious. It takes honest elbow-muscle, too, to haul ten pounds of floundering cod up five feet of freeboard to the rail and deck. Soon the deck is covered with the long, slim, gleaming bodies, and the boys of the schooner have man’s work in tossing them into the gurry-pen amidships. Before the pen is filled, the fishes stop biting as suddenly as they struck on, and there is a rest for a while to bait-up and clean down.

If the signs hold good, the skipper will order the men out to set trawls, for the smell of the dead fish sometimes drives the school away.

HANDLING THE TRAWLS

The “trawls” are only an elaboration of the hand-lines. They are single lines, several hundred feet in length, with short lines and baited hooks at intervals. They are taken out by members of the crew in their dories, buoyed and anchored. It is the work of tending these trawls that takes the greatest skill and fearlessness. It is in the work of hauling and baiting the lines in all weathers that the greatest losses of life occur. There is no room on the decks of the schooners for heavy boats, and as many such craft are needed, five or six are piled together amidships. A block and purchase from aloft are their hoisting-tackle.

They are handy boats, though light, and two men and a load of fish can weather the rough seas, if your fisherman is an adept with his oars. But they are mere cockle-shells at the best, and are tossed like feathers. The “codders” are reckless fellows, and they will put out to the trawls day after day in any kind of weather, fog or clear, wind or calm, with not even a beaker of water or a piece of pilot-bread.

A LONELY NIGHT ON THE BROAD ATLANTIC

A night alone on the broad Atlantic in an open dory seems to have no terrors for them. Each year adds its lists of casualties to those that have gone before. Fogs have shut in, seas have risen, and morning has dawned again and again with no sign of the missing men. Sometimes an upturned dory is found, with her name—the “Molly S.,” or the “Betty T.,” in honor of the owner’s shore-mate—on her pointed bow, but only the gray ocean can tell the story of the missing men.

When the “Polly’s” day’s luck is run, all hands take stations for dressing down. It is the dirty part of the business; but so quickly is it done that the crew seems part of a mechanism, working like clockwork. Two men stand at the gurry-pen, their long knives gleaming red in the sunset. The fish is slit from throat to tail with one cut, and again on both sides of the neck. It then passes to the next man, who with a scoop of his hand drops the cod’s liver in a basket and sends the head and offal flying. The fish slides across the dressing-table, where the backbone is torn out by the third man, who throws it, finally, headless, cleaned, and open, into the washing-tub.

The moment the tub is filled, the fish are pitched down the open hatch to the fifth man, who packs them with salt snugly in the bins. So quickly is the work done that the fish seem to travel from one hand to another as though they were alive, and a large gurry-pen is emptied and the bin packed and salted in less than an hour.

WHEN THE DAY’S WORK IS DONE

The head of the black cook appears above the hatch-combing, and his mouth opens wide as he gives the welcome supper call. Down the ladder into the cuddy they tumble, one and all, and lay-to with an appetite and vigor which speaks of good digestive organs. Conversation is omitted. Coffee, pork-and-beans, biscuit,—nectar and ambrosia,—vanish from the tin dishes, until the cook comes in with the sixth pot of steaming coffee.

At last, when the cook vows the day’s allowance is eaten and the last drop of coffee is poured, the benches are pushed back, tobacco and pipes are produced from the sacred recesses of the bunks, and six men are puffing out the blue smoke as though their lives depended on it.

The schooner rolls to the long ground-swell, her lamp-bracket swinging through a great arc and casting long, black shadows, monstrous presentiments of the smokers, which move rapidly from side to side over the misty beams and bulkheads like gnomes. A concertina, a mouth-organ, and perhaps a fiddle, are brought out, and a sea-song, an Irish jig, or something in unspeakable Portuguese, rises above the creaking of the timbers and the burst of foam alongside.

But the work is not done yet. It is never done. The ship is to be cleaned down and the gurry-pen and dory are to be sluiced out in readiness for the morrow. A vigil is to be kept, watch and watch, and woe be to the youngster who tumbles off his hatchway to the deck from sheer weariness.

WHEN A STEAMER LOOMS UP IN THE FOG

If there should be a fog,—and hardly a day or a night passes without one,—the danger is great. When the white veil settles down over the schooners the men on deck can hardly see their cross-trees. Foot-power horns are blown, the ship’s bell is tolled steadily, while conch shells bellow their resonant note from the trawlers in the dories. But it is all to no purpose. For the great siren comes nearer and nearer every second, and the pounding of the waves against the great hulk and the rush of resisting water grow horribly distinct.

There is a hazy glimmer of a row of lights, a roar and a splutter of steam, a shock and the inrush of the great volume of water, a shout or two from the towering decks and bridge, and the great body dashes by disdainfully, speed undiminished, her passengers careless, and unmindful that the lives and fortunes of half a dozen human beings have hung for a moment in the balance of Life and Death. But records have to be made, and the gold-laced officers forget to mention the occurrence. The men on the schooner do not forget it, though. More than one face is white with the nearness to calamity.

“What was she, Jim?”

“The ‘Frederick.’ I’d know her bloomin’ bellow in a thousand.”

They lean out over the rail and peer into the gray blackness, shaking their fists at the place where she vanished in the fog.

The man who gets his name in the newspaper and a medal from his government is not the only hero. And the modesty with which the Gloucester fisherman hides his sterling merit is only convincing proof of the fact,—Gloucester is a city of heroes.

For grit and devotion the case of Howard Blackburn surpasses understanding.

THE COURAGE OF THE UNNAMED HEROES

Blackburn and his dory-mate left their schooner in a driving snow-storm. Before they had been at the trawls long the weather had become so thick that they couldn’t see ten feet from the dory’s gunwale. The wind shifted and put them to leeward of their vessel. There was never a sound of bell or horn through the thickness, and, though they pulled to windward, where they thought their skipper lay, the vessel could not be found. They were lost, and the sea was rising. Then they anchored until dawn.

When the snow stopped falling, they saw the schooner’s light, a tiny speck, miles to windward. To reach it was impossible. The situation was desperate. Wave-crest after wave-crest swept into the dory, and all but swamped her. Time after time she was baled out, until it seemed as if human endurance could stand it no longer. Blackburn made a sea-anchor for a drag, but in throwing it out lost his mittens overboard. It was horrible enough to fear drowning in the icy sea, but as he felt his hands beginning to freeze the effort seemed hopeless.

With hands frozen, Blackburn felt that he was useless, for his dory-mate was already almost helpless with exposure. So he sat down to his oars and bent his freezing fingers over the handles, getting as firm a clutch as he could. There he sat patiently, calmly, keeping the dory up to the seas meanwhile,—waiting for his hands to freeze to the oars. The dory became covered with ice, and pieces of it knocked against the frozen hands and beat off a little finger and a part of one of the palms. During the second day Blackburn’s dory-mate gave it up, and Blackburn laid down beside him to try and warm him. But it was useless. The dory-man froze to death where he lay.

FOR FIVE DAYS ADRIFT AND STARVING

When Blackburn felt the drowsiness coming over him, he stood up and baled as the boat filled. The third day dawned without a ray of hope, and not a morsel to eat or a drop to drink, so he stuck the oar through his wounded fingers and rowed again.

The fourth day he saw land. He did not reach it until the afternoon of the fifth day, when he landed at a deserted fish-wharf. No one could be found, and he was too weak to move farther. So he lay down, more dead than alive, and tried in vain to sleep, munching snow to quench his thirst.

The next day he went out in the dory to try to find some signs of life, and in about three hours, the last remnant of his strength being gone, he saw smoke and the roofs of some houses, and he knew that he was saved. Even when he reached the shore in a pitiable condition, he would not go into the house until they promised him to get the body of his dory-mate.

This heroic man lost his hands and the most of his toes, but he reached Gloucester alive. The story of his grit and devotion to his dory-mate are to-day told to the young fishermen of the fleet, and the men of the Banks will sing his praises until Time shall have wiped out all things which remain unrecorded.

WHERE THE COD ABOUND

On some of the schooners, by the middle of the season most of the salt is “wet.” It is then that the “Polly J.” follows the fleet up to the “Virgin.”

This is a rocky ledge, many miles out in the desolate Bank seas, which rises to within a few feet of the surface of the ocean. Here the cod and camplin abound, and here, when it is time for them to run, most of the schooners come to anchor, sending out their little fleets until perhaps two thousand dories and schooners are afloat at the same time, within a distance of two or three miles of one another. When the schools of camplin come to the surface and begin to jump, the dories all close in on them, for the fishermen know that the cod are after them. Almost as quickly as the lines can be baited and cast overboard the fish strike on, and the work is steady and hard until the dories, loaded down almost to the gunwales, have made several trips of it, and the salt in the bins shows a prospect of being “all wet” before the week is out.

The few days towards the end of the season at the “Old Virgin” are a race between the ships at catching and dressing down. The rival crews work from dawn until dark.

At last the big mainsail of the victor—perhaps the “Polly J.”—is hauled out, the chain is hove in short, and the dories from less fortunate schooners crowd alongside with good wishes and letters for the folks at home. Anchor up, the flag is hoisted,—the right of the first boat off the Banks,—and the proud schooner, low lying in the water with her fifteen hundred quintal, bows gracefully to each vessel of the fleet at anchor as she passes them, homeward bound.

WHEN THE SCHOONERS MOVE UP THE HARBOR

Homeward bound!—there is magic in the word. Though the first vessel to head to the southward is proud among the fleet, she has a burden of responsibility upon her, for she carries every year news of death and calamity that will break the hearts of many down in Gloucester, and the flags she flaunts so gayly must come to half-mast before she sights the hazy blue of Eastern Point.

During those long summer months a lonely wife goes about her household duties down in Gloucester town. There is a weight upon her heart, and until the fleet comes in and she sees the familiar face at the front gate, happiness is not for her. Day after day she listens for his footsteps, and after supper, when the season draws to a close, she walks down to where she can look far out to sea.

Then a schooner, heavy laden, appears around the Point. She comes around and moves up the harbor slowly,—oh, so slowly. The flag the wife has seen is half-masted, and she knows that some woman’s heart is to break. Will it be hers?

THE END.

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