BASS FISHING OFF NEWPORT.
Here we are at Newport—what a little gem of an island—rising like emerald on sapphire, from the surrounding ocean. Neither at Potter’s nor at Whitfield’s, will we take our abode. We will walk up to the Mall. Ay, here, with its green blinds and scrupulously clean piazza, is old Mrs. E——’s, and they are at tea already. Come, take your seat at table.
With what serene dignity and kindness the old lady, in her nice plaited cap, her spotless kerchief, and russet poplin dress, her pin ball, with its silver chain, hanging at her waist—presides at the board—crowded with every imaginable homely delicacy—from the preserved peach and crullers made by herself, to the green candied limes brought home by her grandson from his last West India voyage. See the antique furniture, with its elaborate carving, the mahogany-framed looking-glasses; and, in the corner, on the round stand, the large Bible, carefully covered with baize, surmounted with the silver spectacles. No place this for swearing, duel-fighting, be-whiskered heroes; but just the thing for quiet, sober folk, like you and me. What sayest thou, Scipio, thou ebon angel,—that the ebb sets at five i’ the morning,and that old Davy Swan, the fisherman, will be ready for us at the Long Wharf at that hour? Well, get yourself ready and go along with us. Call us in season. Ay, that will do—the roll of those eyes—the display of that ivory, to say nothing of the scratch of that head, and the sudden displacement of that leg, sufficiently evince thy delight.
So, so,—here we are, punctual to the hour. Ay, yonder he is in his broad strong fishing-boat; yonder is old Davy Swan, as he was twenty years ago; the same tall, gaunt figure, the same stoop in the shoulders, bronzed visage, and twinkling grey eyes; the same wrinkles at the side of his mouth, though deeper; the same long, lank hair, but now the sable silvered; the same—the same that he was in the days of my boyhood. He sees us. Now he stretches up to the wharf. Jump in—jump in. Be careful, thou son of Ethiopia, or thy basket will be overboard—sad disappointment to our sea-whet appetites some few brief hours hence. All in. We slide gently from the wharf. The light air in the inner harbour here barely gives us headway. Look down into the deep, still water—clear as crystal; see the long sea-weed wave below; see the lithe eels, coursing and whipping their paths through its entangled beds; and see our boat, with its green and yellow sides—its long flaunting pennant—its symmetrical white sails, suspended, as if in mid-air, on its transparent surface.
How still and tranquil lies the quiet town, as the sun gilds its white steeples; and how comfortable look the old family mansions rising from the green trees. How beautifully the yellow sun casts his shadows on the undulating surface of the island, green and verdant—the flocks of sheep, and browsing cattle, grouped here and there upon its smooth pastures. And see, how yonder alike he gilds the land of the brave, the chivalrous, the unfortunate Miantonimoh. We float past Fort Wolcott. Its grass-grown ramparts, surmounted with dark ordnance, and its fields cheerful with white-washed cottages and magazines.
Ay! now it breezes a little—now we gather headway—and now we pass the cutter. See her long, taper, raking masts, her taut stays and shrouds; and hear, as the stripes and stars are run up to her gaff, the short roll of the drum, the “beat to quarters.” Hah! Davy,—old fellow, dost remember that note last war? How many times, at midnight, we’ve sprang from our beds as that short, quick “rub-a-dub” warned us of the approach of the blockading frigates, as they neared the town. But, no, no,—forgive me, old tar,—I recollect, indeed, thou then wast captain of thy gun, on board the dashingEssex. Ay! well now do I remember, brave old sailor, thy conduct in her last desperate battle. Eighteen men hadst thou killed at thy single gun. I think I see thee now, as grimed with powder, spattered with blood, thou didst advance,through fire and smoke, and approach thy saturnine commander on the quarter-deck. I hear thy brief, business-like request, “A fresh crew for Number Three, Second Division. All my men are killed!” And the short, stern response, “Where is your officer?” “Dead,—swept overboard by cannon shot.” And well can I see the momentary play of anguish round his mouth, as, resuming his hurried walk, he gloomily replies, “I have no more men—you must fight your gun yourself!” Ay—and as thy proud ship a helpless target lay, for twice superior force, I hear poor Ripley, thy brave comrade, severed almost in twain by cannon shot, crying, with short farewell—“Messmates, I am no longer of use to myself or country,” as he throws himself, his life-blood gushing, overboard.
But now the wind freshens—the smooth surface darkens—the sails belly out in tension, and the white ripples gather under our bows. We round the point: Fort Adams, we pass thy massive walls, thy grim “forty-two’s” glaring like wild beasts, chained, ready to leap upon us from their casements. Ay—now we run outside—now it freshens—now it breezes—she begins to dance like a feather. There it comes stronger! see the white caps! There she goes—scuppers under—swash—swash—swash—we jump from wave to wave, as we run parallel with the shore, our pennant streaming proudly behind us. Here itcomes, strong and steady—there she takes it—gunwale under—luff, old fellow! luff up, Davy! or you’ll give us all wet jackets. Ay! that will do—she’s in the wind’s eye. How the waves tumble in upon the land—see the Spouting Rock—see the column of white foam thrown up, as repulsed, the waves roll out again from the rocky cavern. We near the Dumplings—and, round to! round to! here are the lobster-pots—haul in—tumble them in the bottom of the boat—ay—there’s bait enough. Now we lay our course across to Beaver Light—we slide, we dash along—springing from wave to wave—dash—dash—no barnacles on her bottom at this rate, Davy. Ay, here we are—a quick run—a good quick run. Anchor her just outside the surf—ay, that will do—give her a good swing—let her ride free—she rolls like a barrel on these long waves. Look to your footing, boys—steady—steady. Now, then, for it. Davy, you and Scip will have as much as you can do to bait for us—all ready. Here goes then—a good long throw—that’s it—my sinker is just inside the surf. What!—already! I’ve got him—pull in, pull in—see, my line vibrates like a fiddle-string!—pull away—here he is—Tautaug—three-pounder. Lie you there—ay, slap away, beauty, you have done for ever with your native element. There, again—off with him. Again—again—again. This is fun to us, but death to you, ye disciples of St. Anthony! Give me a good large bait thistime, Scipio—that will do—now, whis-whis-whis-te—that’s a clean, long throw. By Jupiter! you have got a bite with a vengeance. Careful—give him more line—let it run—play him—ease—ease the line around the thole-pin; he’ll take all the skin of your fingers else. Pull away gently—there he runs. Careful, or you lose him—play him a little—he begins to tire—steady, steady—draw away—now he shoots wildly this way—look out! there he goes under the boat; here he is again. Steady—quick, Davy, the net;—I’ve got it under him—now then, in with him. Bass! twenty pounds, by all the steel-yards in the old Brick Market! Ay, there they have got hold of me; a pull like a young shark; let it run—the whole line is out—quick, quick—take a turn round the thole-pin—snap! There, Davy! there goes your best line, sinker, hooks and all. Give me the other line. Ah, ha!—again—again—again. This is sport. One—two—three——nine Bass, and thirty Tautaug. So—the tide won’t serve here any longer; we will stretch across to Brenton’s Reef, on the other side. Up anchor, hoist away the jib. Here we go, again coursing o’er the blue water. How the wind lulls. Whew—whew—whew—blow wind, blow! Put her a little more before it; that will do. Hallo, you, Scipio! wake up—wake up. Here we are, close on the reef—give her plenty of cable. Let her just swing clear, to lay our sinkers on the rocks. That will do. How the surges swell, and roar, and,recoiling, rush again boiling on the rocks. So—so, they don’t bite well here to-day. The tide comes in too strong flood; well, we can’t complain, we have had good sport even as it is. Come, Africa, bear a hand; let’s see what you have got in that big basket. Come, turn out, turn out. Ham, chicken, smoked salmon, bread and butter; and in that black bottle?—ay, good old brown stout? Pass them along—pass them along, and wo be unto thee, old fellow, if thy commissariat falls short.