XXVI

211XXVITHE GOSSIP IN GLOUCESTER

Clancy and I went home by train, reaching Gloucester as the first of an easterly gale set in. There we found it was nothing but talk of the race. We had not reached Main Street at all before Clancy was held up. Clancy, of course, would know. Where was Maurice Blake? What were we doing in Gloucester and the Johnnie not in? The Duncans––especially the elder Mr. Duncan––Miss Foster, my cousin Nell, and Will Somers were boiling over. Where was Maurice Blake? Where was the Johnnie Duncan? Everybody in town seemed to know that Sam Hollis had given us a bad beating down Cape shore way, and the news had a mighty discouraging effect on all Maurice’s friends, even on those of them who knew enough of Sam Hollis not to take his talk just as he wanted them to take it. Withrow’s vessel had beaten the Johnnie Duncan with Maurice Blake sailing her––they had to believe that part of it, and that in itself was bad enough. Sam Hollis’s stock was booming, you may be sure––and the race right close to hand, too.

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“That little beating the Johnnie got didn’t lose any in the telling by Sam Hollis and his gang, did it, Joe?” said Clancy to me, and then he went around borrowing all the money he could to bet the Johnnie Duncan would beat the Withrow in the race. But would Maurice now enter at all? I asked Clancy about that part––if there was not a chance that Maurice might not stay down the Cape shore way and let the race go. But he only laughed and said, “Lord––Joey-boy, you’ve a lot to learn yet about Maurice in spite of your season’s seining along with him.”

It was a Monday morning when Clancy and I reached Gloucester. The race was to be sailed on Friday of that same week. For several days before this, we were told, Wesley Marrs, Sam Hollis, Tommie Ohlsen, and the rest of them had been out in the Bay tuning up their vessels like a lot of cup defenders. Never before had fishermen given so much attention to the little details before a race. The same day that we got home they were up on the ways for a final polishing and primping up. They were smooth as porcelain when they came off. And coming off their skippers thought they had better take some of the ballast out of them. “’Tisn’t as if it was winter weather”––it was the middle of September then––“with big seas and driving gales,” was the way Wesley Marrs put213it, and they all agreed that the chances were ten to one that the wind would not be strong enough to call for the heavy ballast they carried. Fishermen, of course, are built to be at their best when wind and sea are doing their worst, and so the taking out of ballast for a September race looked like good judgment. So about forty tons of ballast were taken out of most of them––the Lucy Foster, the Withrow, the Nannie O, and half a dozen others.

That looked all right, but on Tuesday night an easterly gale set in, the wind blowing forty-odd miles an hour. All day Wednesday it blew, and all day Thursday even harder, with a promise of blowing harder still on Friday, which was to be the day of the race. The people of Gloucester who had been praying for wind, “Wind for a fisherman’s race––wind––wind,” seemed likely to get what they wanted.

On Thursday I saw Tommie Ohlsen and Wesley Marrs in conference on the street. Wesley had his nose up in the air, sniffing the breeze. He shook his head with, “Tommie, I ought to’ve let the ballast stay in the Lucy. It looks like it’s going to be the devil’s own breeze for vessels that ain’t prepared for it.”

“Yes,” said Ohlsen, “wind fifty-two mile an hour the weather man says, and still making.214That’s bad for light ballast and whole sail. If we could only put the ballast back–––”

“Yes––if we could. But we can’t put it back now––there ain’t time to do it right and everybody would laugh at us too. And besides, if we did, all the others would put it back, and where’s the difference?”

“Of course,” said Tommie, “but if all of us would put it back it would make a better race.”

In view of the reputation of Wesley Marrs and Ohlsen and O’Donnell and their vessels, we could not understand the confidence of Withrow and his people in Sam Hollis. He had a great vessel––nobody doubted it. But it was doubted by many if she was the equal of some of the others, and few believed she was better. And Sam Hollis was not the man to carry the sail, or at least the fishermen of Gloucester generally did not think so. But Withrow and Hollis’s gang kept on bragging and they backed their bragging up, too. I drew what money I had saved that summer out of my seining share––two hundred and twenty-five dollars––and bet it myself with one of the Withrow’s crew that the Johnnie Duncan would beat the Withrow, whether the Johnnie was home to race or not. It was really betting against Withrow himself, who, it was said, was taking up every bet made by any of the Withrow’s crew. That was215Thursday afternoon, and still no word of the Duncan.

“Good for you, Joey,” said Clancy when he heard of that. “Even if Maurice don’t come it’s better to lose your money and shut them up. But don’t worry––he’ll come. Do you think he’s been standing and looking at this easterly––it’s all along the coast to Newf’undland I see by the papers––and not swing her off? He’s on his way now, and swinging all he’s got to her, I’ll bet. Wait and see.”

“My,” said my cousin Nell, “and so you bet your pile on the Johnnie Duncan whether she’s in or not?––and if she don’t reach here in time you lose it all?” and told it all over to her Will Somers, to whom I learned she was now engaged. And from that time on I noticed that Alice Foster beamed on me like an angel.

Minnie Arkell was home for the race just as Clancy had prophesied. She had come with some of her friends down from Boston three or four days before this, in the same steam-yacht she had been aboard of at Newport in June. Meeting me she asked me about our passage home on the Colleen Bawn, and I told her of it. She listened with great interest.

“Is Tom O’Donnell as fine-looking as he used to be––with his grand figure and head and great216beard? I remember some years ago I used to think him the finest-looking man I ever saw.”

I told her that I guessed she’d think him fine-looking yet if she’d seen him to the wheel of the Colleen Bawn with the six-pound shot whistling by him, and he never so much as letting on he knew they were there. Her eyes shone at that. Then she offered to take any bets I made off my hands. “You can’t afford to take your little savings out of the bank and bet it on a vessel that may not be here in time. I’ll take it off your hands––come!”

That was an attractive side to her––caring but little for money––but I wasn’t letting anybody take my bets off my hands. I still believed that Maurice would be home, though that was seven o’clock Thursday evening. I knew he would be home if he only guessed that his friends were betting on his vessel––and they not even knowing whether she was to be home in time for the race. And if he weren’t home, I was ready to lose my little roll.

217XXVIIIN CLANCY’S BOARDING-HOUSE

From Minnie Arkell, whom I met at the door of her own house, I went to Clancy’s boarding house. I did not find Clancy then and I went off, but coming back again I found him, and a very busy man he was, with an immense crock of punch between his knees. He was explaining down in the kitchen to the other boarders––fifteen or twenty of the thirstiest-looking fishermen I ever laid eyes on––just how it was he made the punch. The bowl was about the size of a little beer keg.

“On the night of last Fourth of July,” he was saying––“and I mind we came in that morning with a hundred and seventy-five barrels we got off Mount Desert––that night I warn’t very busy. I gets this crock––four gallons––let you all have a look––a nice cold stony crock you see it is, and that they’d been using then in the house here for piccalilli––and a fine flavor still hanging to it. Wait a minute now till I tell you. It’ll taste better, too, after you hear. And into the crock I puts two gallons of rum––fine rum it was––for a bottom. Every good punch has to have a bottom.218It’s like the big blocks they put under a house by way of a foundation, or the ballast down near the keel of a vessel––there’d be no stiffening without it, and the first good breeze she’d capsize, and then where’d you be? Now, on top of those two gallons––it was two o’clock in the morning, I mind, when I started to mix it––whiskey, brandy, and sherry––no, I can’t tell what parts of each––for that’s the secret of it. A fellow was dory-mate with me once––a Frenchman from Bordeaux––told me and said never to tell, and I gave my oath––down in St. Peer harbor in Miquelon it was––and afterwards he was lost on the Heptagon––and of course, never being released from the oath, I can’t tell. Well, there was the rum, the whiskey, the brandy, and the sherry––and on top o’ that went one can of canned pine-apple––canned pine is better than the pine-apple right out of its jacket. Why? Well, that’s part of the secret. Then a dozen squeezed lemons and oranges. Then some maraschino. I’d got it off an Italian salt bark skipper in the harbor once. On top o’ that I put one quart of green tea––boiled it myself––it was three in the morning then, I mind––and I sampled a cup of it. Wait now––wait. Just ease your sheets and let me tell it. Here’s the best part of it. I takes that crock with the fourteen quarts of good stuff in it and lowers it to the bottom of the old well219out in the yard with a lot of cold round little stones above and below and more little stones packed all around and then I lowers down two good-sized rocks on top o’ that––and nails boards over the well––that’s why nobody could get into that well all this summer. Well, that was the morning after the last Fourth of July––I mind the sun was coming up over the rocks of Cape Ann when I was done. And that was July, and now the last of September––three months ago. A while ago in the dark and a howling gale––you all see me come in with it, didn’t you? Yes, if you go out quick, you c’n see the well just where I left it––I goes out and digs it up––and here it is––and now it’s here, we’ll all have a little touch in honor of to-morrow, for it’s a great day when the wind blows fifty or sixty miles an hour so that fishermen can have good weather for a race.”

And they all had a little touch. Clancy sat on the table with the crock between his feet and bailed it out while they all agreed it was the smoothest stuff that ever slid down their throats. There was not a man in the gang who was not sure he could put away a barrel of it.

“Put away a barrel of it?” whispered Clancy––“yes. Let’s get out of here, Joe. In an hour they’ll be going into the air like firecrackers.”

220XXVIIIIN THE ARKELL KITCHEN

We left Clancy’s boarding house and went over to old Mrs. Arkell’s place, where most of the skippers who were going to race next day had gathered. Clancy at once started in to mix milk-punches. And he sang his latest favorite, with the gang supping his mixture between the stanzas:

“Oh, hove flat down on Quero BanksWas the Bounding Billow, Captain Hanks,And the way she was a-settlin’ was an awful sight to see”––

“Oh, hove flat down on Quero Banks

Was the Bounding Billow, Captain Hanks,

And the way she was a-settlin’ was an awful sight to see”––

Then Wesley Marrs sang a song and after him Patsie Oddie followed with a roarer.

The punch-mixing, singing and story-telling went on and in the middle of it Tom O’Donnell came driving in. He was like a whiff of a no’the-easter out to sea. “Whoo!” he said. “Hulloh, Wesley-boy––and Patsie Oddie––and Tommie Ohlsen––and, by my soul, Tommie Clancy again. Lord, what a night to come beating down from Boston! What’s that, Wesley?––did the Colleen outfoot the cutter down the Cape shore way? Indeed221and she did, and could do it over again in the same breeze to half their logy old battleships. Into Boston I was Monday morning, and the fish out of her the same morning. Tuesday I took her across to Cape Cod, tuning her up, and into Provincetown that night. Next day it was blowing pretty hard. A fine day for a run across the Bay, I thinks, and waits for maybe a Boston vessel, one of the T Wharf fleet. For I’ll go to Boston, I thinks, to put the Colleen on the railway to-day, because maybe in Gloucester I may have to wait––or may get no chance at all––with half a dozen or more that will be waiting to be scrubbed for the race. And who comes along then but Tom Lowrie. ‘Waiting for me?’ he asks, and I tells him I was hoping it would be the new Whalen vessel. ‘Here’s one that’s as good as any Whalen vessel,’ he says––‘as good as anything out of Boston––or Gloucester,’ he says. So across the Bay we had it out. And, gentlemen, I’m telling you the Colleen sailed––all the wind she wanted. She came along, and Lowrie––by the looks of things then––he’s sailing yet. Well, I never did like that forem’st that was in the Colleen, and so, thinks I, here’s a chance to test it––and why not, with the race coming on? So I jibed her over off Minot’s just––and sure enough it cracked about ten feet below the mast-head.”

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“You were satisfied then, Tom?”

“Sure and I was. And better before the race than in the race. And next day––that’s to-day––we spent putting in a new stick. I had to take what I could get to save time, and I don’t think it’s what it ought to be and maybe it won’t last through to-morrow. But, anyway, you want to have an eye out for the Colleen to-morrow, for I’m telling you I never see her sail like she did yesterday coming across the Bay. Ask Tom Lowrie next time you see him. Well, to-night I had to beat down here to be sure and be here in time, and so out we put––and here I am. Blowing? Indeed and it is. And thick, is it? Standing on her knight-heads and looking aft you c’d no more than make out her side-lights. We came along, and Boston inner and outer harbor crowded with vessels, steamers and sail, waiting for it to moderate so they c’d put out. A blessed wonder it was we didn’t sink somebody––or ourselves. Outside we went along by smell, I think, for only every once in awhile could we see a light. One time we almost ran into something––a fisherman it must have been, for I s’pose only a fisherman would be going in on a night like this––out of a squall of snow and blackness she came––man alive! but, whoever she was, she was coming a great clip. Winged out and we didn’t see her till the end of223her bowsprit caught the end of our main-boom––hauled in we were to two blocks––and over we went on the other tack––yes, sir, over on the other tack. Thinks I, ‘’Tis a new way to jibe a vessel over.’ And the end of her fore-boom all but swept me from beside the wheel and over the rail as she went by––she was that close. And I sings out to her, ‘Won’t you leave us your name so I can thank you next time we meet?’ but Lord, not a word out of him. He kept on to Boston, I suppose, and we kept on to Gloucester, and here I am.”

“And the Colleen, Tom––she’s all right?”

“Right, man? Watch her to-morrow. Barring that forem’st being too light––but whoever looked for a breeze like this?––two days and three nights now and blowing harder all the time. But never mind, she’ll make great going of it to-morrow. Divil take it, but we’ll all make great going of it. Tommie, dear, what’s in the bowl? Milk? Man, but don’t be telling me things like that––and the one thing the doctors warn me against is heart-trouble. Ah, milk-punch––that’s better, man. A wee droppeen. Look at it––the color of the tip of a comber in twelve fathom of water and a cross-tide. Well, here’s to every mother’s son of us that’s going to race to-morrow. May ye all win if the Colleen don’t––all but you, Sam Hollis. But where’s he gone––into the other room? Well, if224he was here ’twould be the same. He’s got a vessel that can sail. Let him sail her to-morrow and win, if it’s in her––or in him. But a thousand dollars––and outside my house and vessel, Lord knows, it’s all the money I’ve got in the world––beyond my house and vessel––a thousand dollars the Colleen beats the Withrow. Hello, there––what d’y’say, Sam Hollis––the Colleen and the Withrow––a thousand dollars, boat for boat. But where the divil is he? Gone? Are you sure? Gone! But a queer time to leave a party––just when it’s getting to be real sociable.”

“Never mind the betting now, Tom,” spoke up Wesley Marrs. “Let the owners have that to themselves. And according to accounts some of them are having it. Fred Withrow and old Duncan are ready to go broke over the race to-morrow. Whichever loses, he’ll remember this race, I’m thinking. Here’s hoping it won’t be Duncan. So to the devil with the betting, Tom. Some of us have bet all we could afford––some of us more than we could afford, I callate. Let’s have a song instead, Tom.”

“Anything to please you, Wesley,” and O’Donnell began to sing. He started off first with his

“Oh, seiners all and trawlers all,”

but Alec McNeill and Patsie Oddie interrupted.225“Oh, give us the other one, Tom––the Newf’undland and Cape Shore Men.”

“Ha!” laughed O’Donnell, “it’s the mention of your own you want––you and Patsie there. Well, it’s all one to me. Any man from any place, so long as he’s a fair man and a brave man, and Lord knows ye’re both that. Well, here’s to you both––a wee drop just, Tommie––easy––easy,” and he began:

“Oh, Newf’undland and Cape Shore men, and men of Gloucester town,With ye I’ve trawled o’er many banks and sailed the compass roun’;I’ve ate with ye, and bunked with ye, and watched with ye all three,And better shipmates than ye were I never hope to see.I’ve seen ye in the wild typhoon beneath a Southern sky,I’ve seen ye when the Northern gales drove seas to mast-head high,But summer breeze or winter blow, from Hatt’ras to Cape Race,I’ve yet to see ye with the sign of fear upon your face.Oh, swingin’ cross the BayGo eighty sail of seiners,And every blessed one of them a-driving to her rail!There’s a gale upon the waters and there’s foam upon the sea,And looking out the window is a dark-eyed girl for me,And driving her for Gloucester, maybe we don’t knowWhat the little ones are thinking when the mother looks out so.226Oh, the children in the cradle and the wife’s eyes out to sea,The husband at the helm and looking westerly––When you get to thinking that way, don’t it make your heart’s blood foam?Be sure it does––so here’s a health to those we love at home.West half no’the and drive her, we’re abreast now of Cape Sable,It’s an everlasting hurricane, but here’s the craft that’s able––When you get to thinking that way, don’t it make your heart’s blood foam?Be sure it does––so here’s a health to those we love at home.Oh, the roar of shoaling waters and the awful, awful sea,Busted shrouds and parting cables, and the white death on our lee;Oh, the black, black night on Georges when eight score men were lost––Were ye there, ye men of Gloucester? Aye, ye were––and tossedLike chips upon the water were your little craft that night,Driving, swearing, calling out, but ne’er a call of fright.So knowing ye for what ye are, ye masters of the sea,Here’s to ye, Gloucester fishermen, a health to ye from me.And here’s to it that once againWe’ll trawl and seine and race again;Here’s to us that’s living and to them that’s gone before;And when to us the Lord says, ‘Come!’We’ll bow our heads, ‘His will be done,’And all together let us go beneath the ocean’s roar.“

“Oh, Newf’undland and Cape Shore men, and men of Gloucester town,

With ye I’ve trawled o’er many banks and sailed the compass roun’;

I’ve ate with ye, and bunked with ye, and watched with ye all three,

And better shipmates than ye were I never hope to see.

I’ve seen ye in the wild typhoon beneath a Southern sky,

I’ve seen ye when the Northern gales drove seas to mast-head high,

But summer breeze or winter blow, from Hatt’ras to Cape Race,

I’ve yet to see ye with the sign of fear upon your face.

Oh, swingin’ cross the BayGo eighty sail of seiners,And every blessed one of them a-driving to her rail!

Oh, swingin’ cross the Bay

Go eighty sail of seiners,

And every blessed one of them a-driving to her rail!

There’s a gale upon the waters and there’s foam upon the sea,And looking out the window is a dark-eyed girl for me,And driving her for Gloucester, maybe we don’t knowWhat the little ones are thinking when the mother looks out so.226Oh, the children in the cradle and the wife’s eyes out to sea,The husband at the helm and looking westerly––When you get to thinking that way, don’t it make your heart’s blood foam?Be sure it does––so here’s a health to those we love at home.

There’s a gale upon the waters and there’s foam upon the sea,

And looking out the window is a dark-eyed girl for me,

And driving her for Gloucester, maybe we don’t know

What the little ones are thinking when the mother looks out so.

226

Oh, the children in the cradle and the wife’s eyes out to sea,

The husband at the helm and looking westerly––

When you get to thinking that way, don’t it make your heart’s blood foam?

Be sure it does––so here’s a health to those we love at home.

West half no’the and drive her, we’re abreast now of Cape Sable,It’s an everlasting hurricane, but here’s the craft that’s able––When you get to thinking that way, don’t it make your heart’s blood foam?Be sure it does––so here’s a health to those we love at home.

West half no’the and drive her, we’re abreast now of Cape Sable,

It’s an everlasting hurricane, but here’s the craft that’s able––

When you get to thinking that way, don’t it make your heart’s blood foam?

Be sure it does––so here’s a health to those we love at home.

Oh, the roar of shoaling waters and the awful, awful sea,Busted shrouds and parting cables, and the white death on our lee;Oh, the black, black night on Georges when eight score men were lost––Were ye there, ye men of Gloucester? Aye, ye were––and tossedLike chips upon the water were your little craft that night,Driving, swearing, calling out, but ne’er a call of fright.So knowing ye for what ye are, ye masters of the sea,Here’s to ye, Gloucester fishermen, a health to ye from me.

Oh, the roar of shoaling waters and the awful, awful sea,

Busted shrouds and parting cables, and the white death on our lee;

Oh, the black, black night on Georges when eight score men were lost––

Were ye there, ye men of Gloucester? Aye, ye were––and tossed

Like chips upon the water were your little craft that night,

Driving, swearing, calling out, but ne’er a call of fright.

So knowing ye for what ye are, ye masters of the sea,

Here’s to ye, Gloucester fishermen, a health to ye from me.

And here’s to it that once againWe’ll trawl and seine and race again;Here’s to us that’s living and to them that’s gone before;And when to us the Lord says, ‘Come!’We’ll bow our heads, ‘His will be done,’And all together let us go beneath the ocean’s roar.“

And here’s to it that once again

We’ll trawl and seine and race again;

Here’s to us that’s living and to them that’s gone before;

And when to us the Lord says, ‘Come!’

We’ll bow our heads, ‘His will be done,’

And all together let us go beneath the ocean’s roar.“

I never again expect to hear a sea song sung as227Tom O’Donnell sang it then, his beard still wet with the spray and his eyes glowing like coal-fire. And the voice of him! He must have been heard in half of Gloucester that night. He made the table quiver. And when they all rose with glasses raised and sang the last lines again:

“And here’s to it that once againWe’ll trawl and seine and race again;Here’s to us that’s living and to them that’s gone before;And when to us the Lord says, ‘Come!’We’ll bow our heads, ‘His will be done,’And all together we shall go beneath the ocean’s roar–––”

“And here’s to it that once again

We’ll trawl and seine and race again;

Here’s to us that’s living and to them that’s gone before;

And when to us the Lord says, ‘Come!’

We’ll bow our heads, ‘His will be done,’

And all together we shall go beneath the ocean’s roar–––”

any stranger hearing and seeing might have understood why it was that their crews were ready to follow these men to death.

“The like of you, Tom O’Donnell, never sailed the sea,” said Patsie Oddie when they had got the last ro-o-ar––“even the young ladies come in off the street to hear you better.”

He meant Minnie Arkell, who was standing in the doorway with her eyes fixed on O’Donnell, who had got up to go home, but with Wesley trying to hold him back. He was to the door when Minnie Arkell stopped him. She said she had heard him singing over to her house and couldn’t keep away, and then, with a smile and a look into228his eyes, she asked O’Donnell what was his hurry––and didn’t he remember her?

In her suit of yachting blue, with glowing face and tumbled hair, she was a picture. “Look at her,” nudged Clancy––“isn’t she a corker? But she’s wasting time on Tom O’Donnell.”

“What’s your hurry, Tom?” called Wesley. “Another song.”

“No, no, it’s the little woman on the hill. She knew I was to come down to-night and not a wink of sleep will she get till I’m home. And she knows there’ll be bad work to-morrow maybe and she’d like to see me a little before I go, and I’d like to see her, too.”

“She’s a lucky woman, Captain O’Donnell, and you must think a lot of her?” Minnie Arkell had caught his eye once more.

“I don’t know that she’s so awfully lucky with me on her hands,” laughed O’Donnell, “but I do think a lot of her, child.”

“Child? to me? But you don’t remember me, Captain?”

“Indeed, and I do, and well remember you. And it’s the beautiful woman you’ve grown to be. But you always were a lovely child. It’s often my wife spoke of you and wondered how you were. She’s heard me speak of your father a hundred times, I know. A brave man your father, girl.229And she’ll be glad to see you any time, little girl––or the daughter of any fisherman lost at sea. If ever you have a blue day, go to her, for ’tis she has the heart––and, God bless her, an extra weakness for orphans. Her own children some day––there’s no telling. But good-night to you, dear”––he patted her head––“good-night all. Wesley, Tommie, Patsie––all of ye, good-night. In the morning we’ll have it out.” Out the door he went, and I fancied there was almost a blush on Minnie Arkell’s face.

Tom O’Donnell was the kind of a man a fellow would like to have for a father.

230XXIXMAURICE BLAKE COMES HOME

From Mrs. Arkell’s we walked back to Clancy’s boarding house. Clancy wanted to see how they made out with the punch. We found several of them up in the wind, and so no great danger of them. But two or three of them, Dave Campbell particularly, were running wild. “Boomed out and driving,” said Clancy, and began to remonstrate with Dave on the evils of intemperance. He went on quite awhile, but Dave showed no signs of remorse. “Wait and I’ll fix him,” said Clancy, and obeying a motioning with his head two or three of the sober ones followed him out.

He led the way to the wood-shed next door where there was a goat, and the goat we carried up three flights of stairs to Campbell’s room. He was a big, able goat, and we had quite a time to get him up stairs. At last we got him tied to the post of Campbell’s bed. Then we went down stairs to the kitchen and Clancy persuaded Campbell to go up stairs to bed, which after awhile he did. It was not yet morning and there was no light in the bedroom.231We took our position on the landing outside where we could hear everything that went on in Campbell’s room, which was just at the head of the stairs.

Dave went in and we could hear him falling over something in the dark. “What’s it?” we could hear him, and acting as if he was feeling around. Taking off our shoes we crawled nearer. We could barely make out his shadow in the dark, but we could easily hear him talking to himself. “What’s it? Eh, what?” He must have been feeling the horns then, and the goat must have butted him. Again, and once more, for out the door and down the stairs went Dave. We ran in and cut the goat loose and down he went after Dave. The whole three flights they raced.

“He’s got me at last,” hollered Dave, bolting into the kitchen, slamming the door behind him and bracing himself against it.

We took the goat and put him back in the wood-shed and came back to the kitchen by way of the window. Dave, who was still braced against the door, did not know but what we had been in the kitchen all the time, and that gave Clancy a fine chance to take up his lecture on intemperance just where he had left it off,––at the very beginning. “Intemperance, Dave, is an awful thing. You’ll have to be doing something for it soon, I think.232Yes, when the devil himself gives you a call it’s time to do something. You’d better come with me and take the pledge. Come up now to Father Haley.”

“I’m a Pres––a Pres––a Pres––by––ter––ian, Tommie.”

“Well, come with me to your church then––any church at all. What’s the odds, so long’s you reform. Here, we’ll do it right here now. Come, hold up your hand,” and then and there Clancy was about to get Dave to promise not to look a glass of liquor or punch in the face for a year again, when who comes bouncing in but Eddie Parsons.

“Hurroo!” said Clancy, forgetting Dave and grabbing Eddie by the shoulder, “and the Duncan’s home?”

“She is,” said Eddie, “and four hundred and fifty barrels of mackerel coming out of her hold. A dozen lumpers getting ’em out from both holds and two at a lick they’re coming onto Duncan’s Dock. And what d’y’think, Tommie–––”

“But what kept you so long, man? We’ve all been getting heart disease waiting for you.”

“I know. We ought to’ve been in yesterday mornin’, or in the afternoon at the latest, for we swung her off Tuesday night midnight––plenty of time with a fair wind. But on Wednesday afternoon, coming like a race-horse––wung out––we sighted a dory and two men in it signalizing.233Astray they were, and we took ’em aboard, and all that night we stood by. And warn’t it chafing? Oh, no! Daylight came thick and we waited for it to clear, keeping the horn goin’. It lifted and we got another dory, but it was late afternoon then. Then their vessel came along with all the others accounted for, and we turned over our two and went on our way. And maybe she didn’t come! Oh, no! Blowing? A living gale all the time, but the skipper kept her going. You’d hardly b’lieve if I told you where we was yesterday afternoon and we here now. A no’the-easter and a howler all the way. At four o’clock we passed in by the bell-buoy. Man, such a blow! Are we in the race, you say? Are we! And oh, the skipper says for you and Joe to be down after breakfast. We all knew you’d get home and be all right with Tom O’Donnell. So be down after breakfast––the skipper will be looking for you both. But say, let me tell you. What d’y’think? Coming into the harbor a while ago who d’y’ s’pose was out in the stream with a lighter alongside his vessel? Who but Sam Hollis and the Withrow. Yes, and the gang putting ballast back in her.”

“No?”

“Yes. And some one of them sees us going by in the dark. And we did go by, too! ‘Lord!’ says somebody––’twas Withrow himself––‘but if that don’t look like the ghost of Maurice Blake’s vessel!’234‘Yes,’ hollers back the skipper––and they must’ve been some surprised to hear him––‘and the ghost’ll be with you to-morrow in the race. Yes,’ the skipper says, ‘and we’re all ready for it. Four weeks since we’ve been on the ways and maybe a scrubbing wouldn’t hurt her, but if it keeps a-blowin’ who’ll mind that? Not the Johnnie.’ Oh, Tommie, if you’d seen her comin’ across the Bay of Fundy yesterday afternoon and last night. Did she come?––did she come? Lord––O Lord–––”

“And so that’s Withrow––got his vessel tuned up like a fiddle and now he’s putting extra ballast in her. Blast him and Hollis for schemers!” said Clancy. “And that’s how it comes they’re so ready to bet––stiffenin’ her so stiff for to-morrow that they know something’ll happen to the others first. But the Johnnie’s a bit stiff, too––and there’s no ballast out of her. And, as the skipper says, maybe we ain’t been on the ways for a few weeks now, but Lord, the Johnnie ought to be able to drag a few little blades of sea-grass on her hull in this breeze. And so we’re in the race, heh? Dave, I can’t stop to give you the pledge now––

Oh, the Johnnie Duncan fast and able,Good-by, dear, good-by, my Mabel.“

Oh, the Johnnie Duncan fast and able,

Good-by, dear, good-by, my Mabel.“

And Clancy was the joyful man as he awoke the echoes in the gray of that stormy morning.

235XXXTHE MORNING OF THE RACE

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 out236for 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? What237in 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–––”

238

“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?239Captain 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.

240

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 down241by 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 was242a 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.

243XXXITHE START OF THE RACE

We got away at last and beat out the harbor with the Lucy Foster, the Colleen Bawn, the Withrow, the Nannie O, and four others. For other company going out there was a big steam-yacht with Minnie Arkell and her friends aboard, which did not get out of the harbor. Out by the Point they shipped a sea and put back, with Minnie Arkell waving her handkerchief and singing out––“Don’t take in any sail, Maurice,” as they turned back. There was also the Eastern Point, a high-sided stubby steamer, at that time running regularly to Boston; and there was the New Rochelle, a weak-looking excursioner that might have done for Long Island Sound, where somebody said she’d just come from, but which didn’t seem to fit in here. Her passengers were mostly fishermen––crews of vessels not in the race. There was also a big powerful iron sea-tug, the Tocsin, that promised to make better weather of it than any of the others.

Billie Simms was one of the men who were not244going in the race but intended to see some of it. He was in the Henry Clay Parker, a fine-looking vessel that was not so very fast, but had the reputation of being wonderfully stiff. Coming out past Eastern Point lighthouse, where he could begin to get a look at things, Billie hollered out that he was sorry he hadn’t entered. “Looks to me like the vessel that’ll stay right side up the longest ought to win this race, and that’s the Henry C.” He hauled her across our stern while he was yelling and I remember she took one roll down to her sheer poles when passing on, and Maurice sang out, “Look out, Billie, or you’ll capsize her.”

“Capsize this one? Lord, Maurice, I’ve tried it a dozen times and I’m damned if I could,” and he went rolling on like nothing I ever saw, unless it was the rest of us who were then manœuvring for the start. We passed the Parker again before we got to the line, and old Peter Hines, who was hanging to her main-rigging, had to yell us his good wishes. “Drive her, Maurice-boy, and whatever you do don’t let the man that took your vessel from you beat you home,” meaning Sam Hollis of course. Maurice waved his hand, but said nothing. He was looking serious enough, however.

Tommie Clancy was the boy who wasn’t worrying particularly. He saluted Peter as if he were245going out on a holiday excursion. “Ain’t she a dog, Peter? Watch her.”

“That’s what she is––and drive her, Tommie––drive her.”

“Oh, we’ll drive her, Peter,” called back Tommie, and began:

“Oh, I love old Ocean’s smile,I love old Ocean’s frowning––I love old Ocean all the while,My prayer’s for death by drowning.”

“Oh, I love old Ocean’s smile,

I love old Ocean’s frowning––

I love old Ocean all the while,

My prayer’s for death by drowning.”

“Let you alone, Tommie, and you’ll get your prayer some day,” was Peter’s last hail as we straightened out for the swoop across the line.

Clancy was to the wheel then with the skipper. Both were lashed and we had life-lines around deck. To the wheel of every vessel in the fleet were two men lashed, and they all had life-lines around deck.

In crossing the line there was no attempt at jockeying such as one often sees in yacht racing. There was no disposition on the part of any skipper to do anything that would set anybody else back. Of course, everybody wanted to be in a good berth and to cross between the guns; but the idea was to give the vessels such a try out as they would get out to sea––as if they were making a passage in a breeze. The course––forty-two miles or so––was very short246for a fisherman, for one great thing in a fisherman is her power to stand a long drag. Day and night in and day and night out and driving all the time is the way a fisherman wants it. Any sort of racing machine could be built to stand a little hard going for a while. But that wouldn’t be living through a long hard winter’s gale on the Banks––one of those blows where wind and sea––and in shoal water at that––have a chance to do their worst. Fishermen are built for that sort of work and on their sea-worthiness depends not only the fortunes of owners but the lives of men––of real men––and the happiness and comfort of wives and children ashore. And so the idea in everybody’s mind that day was to make this test as nearly fair as could be and see who had the fastest and most weatherly boat in the fleet. There were men to the wheel that day who could handle big fishermen as if they were cat-boats, who would have dared and did, later, dare to sail their vessels as close to a mark in this sea as men sail a twenty-foot knockabout in the smoothest of waters inshore––only with the fishermen a slip-up meant the loss of a vessel, maybe other vessels too, and twenty-five or fifty lives perhaps.

And so the skill of these men was not used to give anybody the worst of it. A fair start and give everybody his chance was the idea. Thus247Tommie Ohlsen could have forced the Withrow outside the starting boat and compelled her to come about and maybe lose a few minutes, but he did not. He held up and let her squeeze through. O’Donnell in his turn could have crowded Ohlsen when he let up on the Withrow, but he did not. He, too, held up in turn and let Ohlsen have his swing going across.

Across we went, one after the other. West-sou’west was the course to a stake-boat, which we were told would be found off Egg Rock, fourteen miles away. We had only the compass to go by, for at the start it was rain and drizzle, as well as wind and a big sea, and you couldn’t see a mile ahead. On the way we shot by the New Rochelle, which had started ahead with the intention of waiting for the fleet at the first stake-boat. Now she was headed back, wabbing awfully. From Billie Simms, who went over part of the course in the Henry Clay Parker ahead of the fleet, we got word of the trouble as we went by. The New Rochelle was beginning to leak. “You c’n spit between her deck-planks and into her hold––she’s that loose,” hollered Billie. I don’t think the fishermen aboard of her minded much so long as she stayed afloat, but her captain, a properly licensed man, did, I expect, and so she put back with some of them growling, I heard afterward, “and after248paying their little old three dollars to see only the start of the race.” Her captain reported, when he got in, that he didn’t see anything outside but a lot of foolish fishermen trying to drown themselves.

The first leg was before the wind and the Lucy Foster and the Colleen Bawn went it like bullets. I don’t expect ever again to see vessels run faster than they did that morning. On some of those tough passages from the Banks fishing vessels may at times have gone faster than either of these did that morning. It is likely, for where a lot of able vessels are all the time trying to make fast passages––skippers who are not afraid to carry sail and vessels that can stand the dragging––and in all kinds of chances––there must in the course of years of trying be some hours when they do get over an everlasting lot of water. But there are no means of checking up. Half the time the men do not haul the log for half a day or more. Some of the reports of speed of fishermen at odd times have been beyond all records, and so people who do not know said they must be impossible. But here was a measured course and properly anchored stake-boats––and the Lucy and the Colleen did that first leg of almost fourteen sea-miles in fifty minutes, which is better than a 16-1/2 knot clip, and that means over nineteen land miles an hour. I249think anybody would call that pretty fast going. And, as some of them said afterward, “Lord in Heaven! suppose we’d had smooth water!” But I don’t think that the sea checked them so very much––not as much as one might think, for they were driving these vessels.

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