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Panzer Kraftwagen Armoured Cars of the German Army
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Title: Dorymates: A Tale of the Fishing Banks

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DORYMATES: A

TALE OF THE FISHING BANKS ***
 Transcriber’s Note:
Footnotes have been collected at the end of the text,
and are linked for ease of reference.
Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been
corrected. Please see the transcriber’s note at the end of
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THE LITTLE FELLOW SMILED IN
THE WEATHER-BEATEN FACE.
[See page 15.
 DORYMATES
A TALE OF THE FISHING BANKS
By KIRK MUNROE

AUTHOR OF
“WAKULLA” “FLAMINGO FEATHER” “DERRICK STERLING” ETC.

Illustrated

NEW YORK AND LONDON

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1903

Copyright, 1889, by Harper & Brothers.

 CONTENTS.

CHAPTER PAGE
I. A Waif of the Sea 11
II. On Board the “Curlew” 25
III. The Hauling of the Seine 37
IV. A Sudden Disaster 51
V. Saved by Electricity 64
VI. The Gale on George’s 78
VII. A Struggle for a Life 92
VIII. A False Friend, and an Open Enemy 105
IX. Kidnapped.--The Promise 119
X. Trawls and Whales 132
XI. Surrounded by Arctic Ice 145
XII. An Ice Cave and its Prisoners 159
XIII. Lost in the Fog 172
XIV. The Secret of the Golden Ball 186
XV. A Wonderful Meeting 200
XVI. Navigating the Brig 213
XVII. Overboard and Inboard 227
XVIII. News from Home 240
XIX. The Devil-fish of Flemish Cap 253
XX. On the Coast of Iceland 266
XXI. Tempted from Duty 279
 XXII. The Steam-yacht “Saga” 292
XXIII. Ponies and Geysers 306
XXIV. A Dorymate’s Home 319
XXV. Startling Discoveries 332
XXVI. Proud of being a Yankee 345
 ILLUSTRATIONS.

THE LITTLE FELLOW SMILED IN THE WEATHER- Frontispiece.

BEATEN FACE

“I CAME TO YOU FROM THE SEA,” HE SAID, Faces page 28

PATTING HER THIN CHEEKS

“SEEMS TO ME I WOULDN’T FEEL SO BAD ” ” 44

ABOUT IT IF I WAS YOU”

“THAT GENTLEMAN THERE REFUSES TO ” ” 52

RETURN A GOLD BALL AND CHAIN THAT I
HANDED HIM FOR EXAMINATION”

IN ANOTHER MOMENT IT FLASHES FULL IN ” ” 68

THE WHITE FACES OF BREEZE McCLOUD AND
HIS COMPANIONS

“YOU’RE CRAZY, LAD! YOU CAN’T LIVE A ” ” 90

MINUTE IN SUCH A SEA”

THERE WAS A LONG, FIRM HAND-CLASP ” ” 98

BETWEEN THEM

“QUICK, NOW! LET’S GET HIM ABOARD THIS ” ” 116

SCHOONER”
A LARGE WHALE ROSE TO THE SURFACE TO ” ” 140
BLOW

IN A MINUTE MORE THEY HAD SNATCHED THE ” ” 150

BUOY FROM THE ICE-RAFT

AND THE TWO ATHLETIC YOUNG FELLOWS ” ” 166

DREW THE ALMOST HELPLESS FORM OF
THEIR SHIPMATE SLOWLY BUT STEADILY TO
WHERE THEY STOOD

“BLOW, SONNY, BLOW!” CRIED ONE OF THE ” ” 174

MEN

NOT A HUMAN BEING WAS TO BE SEEN ON ” ” 198#

BOARD OF HER, NOR DID THEIR HAIL
RECEIVE ANY ANSWER

“ME AN’ DE CAP’N, WE’S BEEN HABIN’ A ” ” 204

MONS’ROUS HARD TIME”

“BLESS MY SOUL, IF IT ISN’T BREEZE ” ” 238

McCLOUD!”

NIMBUS, RAISING HIM CLEAR OF THE DECK, ” ” 242

HELD HIM AT ARM’S-LENGTH ABOVE HIS
HEAD

MATEO, WITH A HOWL OF DISMAY, HAD ” ” 260

DARTED FORWARD AND VANISHED IN THE
FORECASTLE; WHILE NIMBUS, WITH A YELL
OF AFFRIGHT, HAD ROLLED AFT
THE FIRST VIEW OF ICELAND ” ” 266

THE YACHT CAME DIRECTLY TOWARDS THEM ” ” 288

BREEZE’S WELCOME TO THE ”SAGA” ” ” 292

“YOU OUGHT TO HAVE WORN A DIVING SUIT, NIMBUS,”

SAID BREEZE ” ” 310

THOSE ON BOARD THE GREAT STEAMER ” ” 326

GAZED WITH ADMIRATION AT THE DAINTY
YACHT

BREEZE STARED IN AMAZEMENT AT WOLFE’S ” ” 332

MOTHER

BREEZE’S WELCOME HOME ” ” 350

Do you carry a dory, captain?

Do you carry a dory on your deck?
Manned by two bold fishermen,
To save a life or board a wreck.
Landsmen cry, “Man the life-boat!” captain,
“Man the life-boat off our coast!”
But, captain, man the dory,
The fisherman’s glory,
The Banker’s pride and boast.
By the B. H. M.

DORYMATES:
A STORY OF THE FISHING BANKS.
 CHAPTER I.
A WAIF OF THE SEA.

The fog had lifted, and a few stars were to be seen twinkling
feebly; but the wind was very light, and what there was of it was
dead ahead. There was a heavy swell rolling in from the eastward,
but no sea running. The Gloucester fishing schooner Sea Robin was
homeward bound from the Newfoundland Banks, and as she slowly
climbed each glassy incline of black water, and then slid down into
the windless hollow beyond, she seemed to be making no progress
whatever on her course.
Although the Sea Robin had been out for more than four months,
and had seen vessel after vessel of the fleet leave the Banks before
she did and sail for home with full fares, not half the salt in her pens
was used up, and she was returning with the smallest catch of the
season. In spite of the fact that provisions were running low on
board the schooner, her captain, Almon McCloud, would not have
given up and left the Banks yet, had not a recent gale swept away
his dories, and caused the loss of his new four-hundred-fathom
cable.
Under these circumstances the crew of the schooner were very
low-spirited, and there was none of the larking and fun among them
that is usually to be noticed in a homeward-bound Banker. The men
wondered as to the “Jonah” who had caused all their ill-luck. Finally
they whispered among themselves that it must be the skipper. They
now remembered that he had been unfortunate in more than one
undertaking during the past year or two, and all were agreed that it
would be wise not to sail with him again. This decision had been
unanimously reached a few days before the one on which this story
opens; and when, shortly before daybreak, there came a loud
pounding on the cabin hatch, and a request that the captain should
come on deck, one of the watch below turned restlessly in his bunk,
and growled out,
“I expect we are in for another bit of the skipper’s tough luck.”
Reaching the deck, Captain McCloud found the two men on watch
gazing earnestly at a dull red glow that lighted the distant horizon
behind them.
“Looks like there was suthin afire back there, skipper,” said the
man at the wheel.
The captain waited until the schooner rose on top of a swell, and
then, after a long look at the light, gave the order to put her about
and run for it.
There was some grumbling among the crew at this, for they were
tired and sick of the trip. They wanted to get home and have it over
with, and this running back over the course they had just come
seemed to promise a long and vexatious delay. However, lucky or
unlucky, their skipper had proved himself to be the captain of his
vessel in every sense of the word more times than one, and they
dared not question his action loudly enough for him to hear them.
For nearly an hour longer the light glowed steadily, then it
expanded into a sudden wonderful brightness, and the next instant
had disappeared entirely.
Three hours later, just as the sun was rising in all its sea-born
glory, the Sea Robin sailed slowly through a mass of charred timbers
and other floating remains of what evidently had been a large
vessel. There were no boats to be seen, nor was anything
discovered by which her name or character could be identified. For
some time the schooner cruised back and forth through the
wreckage in a fruitless search for survivors of the catastrophe. As
they were about to give it up, and Captain McCloud had begun to
issue the order to head her away again on her course towards
home, he all at once held up his hand to command silence, and
listened.
It was certainly the cry of an infant that came clear and loud
across the water. The crew looked at each other in amazement, not
unmixed with fear. There was no boat to be seen, no sign of life; and
yet there it came again, louder and more distinct than before; the
vigorous cry of a healthy baby who has just waked up and is hungry.
The wind had died out entirely, the water was oily in its unruffled
smoothness, and only the long swell remained.
Once more the cry was heard, and now it seemed so close at
hand that several of the men trembled and turned pale. There was
still nothing to be seen, save on the crest of the swell above them
an apparently empty cask maintaining an upright position in the
water, and showing a third of its length above it.
“That’s the life-boat!” shouted Captain McCloud. “There’s where
the music comes from, men. Oh for the use of a dory for just five
minutes!”
Having no boat, they could only watch the cask as it came slowly
nearer and nearer, and several of the men prepared to jump
overboard and swim for it in case it should drift past them. At last,
when it was about thirty feet away, the skipper, making a skilful cast,
settled the bight of a light line over the strange craft. Then he
carefully drew it towards the schooner, over the low rail of which a
couple of the crew were hanging, waiting with out-stretched arms to
grasp it.
A minute later the cask stood on the schooner’s deck, and Captain
McCloud was lifting tenderly from it a sturdy, well-grown baby boy,
apparently about two years old. The little fellow smiled in the
weather-beaten face, and stretched out his arms eagerly as the
rough fisherman bent down towards him. At the same instant there
came a fluttering of sails overhead, with a rattling of blocks, and one
of the crew sang out as he sprang to the wheel, “Here’s a breeze!
and it’s fair for home!”
“The baby’s brought it!” shouted another. “Hurrah for the baby!”
The shout was eagerly taken up by the crew; three hearty cheers
were given for the baby, and three more for the breeze he had
brought with him. Then, springing to sheets and halyards with more
enthusiasm than they had shown before on the whole cruise, the
active fellows quickly had the Sea Robin under a cloud of light
canvas, and humming merrily along towards Gloucester.
 They now found time to look at their baby, who, held in the
skipper’s arms while he gave the necessary orders for working the
schooner, contentedly sucked his thumb and gazed calmly about
with the air of being perfectly at home. He was a beautiful child,
with great blue eyes and yellow hair that curled in tiny ringlets all
over his head. He was plainly dressed; but all that he wore was
made of the finest material. Altogether he was so dainty a little
specimen of humanity that he seemed like a pink and white rose-
bud amid the rough men who surrounded him. He gazed at them for
a minute or two with a smile, as though he would say that he was
most happy to make their acquaintance, and was not in the least
embarrassed by their stares. Then he turned to the skipper, and
began to cry in exactly the tone with which he had announced his
presence in the floating cask.
“Hello!” exclaimed the skipper, who, though married, had no
children of his own, and had never held a baby before in his life,
“what’s up now? Here, ‘doctor,’ you’ve had some experience in this
line, I believe; cast your weather eye over this way and tell us the
meaning of the squall.”
The cook, or “doctor,” as he is almost always called on board the
fishing schooners, and, in fact, on most vessels, was a short, thick-
set Portuguese, almost as dark as an Indian, but the very picture of
good-nature. He now stepped up behind the skipper so as to have a
good view of the baby, whose face, which rested on the skipper’s
shoulder, was turned away from the crew, who stood looking at him
in a helplessly bewildered way.
At the “doctor’s” sudden appearance the baby stopped crying,
began again to suck his thumb, and, with great, wide-open eyes,
stared solemnly at the grinning figure to whom it was thus
introduced.
“Him hongry, skip,” announced the “doctor.” “Me fix him, pret
quicka, bimeby, right off. Got one lit tin cow lef. You fetcha him
down.”
The “doctor,” who was named Mateo, declared afterwards that the
moment he looked into the baby’s face the little one had winked at
him, as much as to say, “You know what I want, old chap, now go
ahead and get it.”
By his “lit tin cow” he meant a can of condensed milk, and, as the
only man on board who knew how to feed a baby, he had suddenly
become the most important person among all the crew. Obeying his
order, the skipper, with the new arrival in his arms, followed him
down into the fore hold. The rest of the crew also attempted to
crowd down into the narrow space to witness the novel sight of a
baby at breakfast, but old Mateo quickly ordered them on deck,
saying that the little stranger was big enough to occupy all the room
there was to spare.
Then he bustled around in a hurry. He got out and opened the one
remaining can of milk, and mixed a small portion of its contents with
some warm water in a cup. The baby watched his every movement
in silence, but with such a wise look that both the men felt he knew
exactly what was going on. Now came the anxious moment--would
he take the milk? Had he learned how to drink? The anxiety was
quickly ended. He had learned to drink, and quickly emptied the
proffered cup of every drop of its contents with an eagerness that
showed how hungry he was. A ship biscuit, broken into small bits
and soaked until soft in another cup of the warm milk, proved
equally acceptable. When the members of the crew heard that the
baby not only took kindly to the tin cow’s milk, but had eaten hard-
tack, they were highly delighted. They declared that he was a
natural born sailor, and would make a fisherman yet.
After his breakfast the baby was laid in the skipper’s own bunk in
the cabin, where, warmly covered, and rocked by the motion of the
schooner, he quickly fell asleep.
On deck the men conversed in low tones for fear of disturbing
him. Their sole topic was the child’s miraculous preservation and
rescue, first from the burning vessel and then from the sea. The
cask in which he had floated to them was carefully examined and
pronounced to be of foreign make. It had evidently been prepared
hastily to serve the novel purpose of a life-boat, but the preparation
had been made with skill. In the bottom was a quantity of scrap-
iron, that had served as ballast and caused it to float on end instead
of on its side. On top of this were, tightly wedged, two large empty
tin cans, square, and having screw tops; while above these was a
pillow, in which the baby, wrapped in a thick woollen shawl, had
been laid. There was nothing else. Here was the baby, and here the
cask in which he had been saved; there, far behind them, was the
charred wreckage, and on the sky the night before had shone the
red glow from the burning vessel. Where she was from, and where
bound, whether or not others besides this helpless babe had been
spared her awful fate, what was her name and what her nationality,
were among the countless mysteries of the ocean that might never
be cleared up.
There was little satisfaction to be gained by the discussion of
these things; but the baby was a reality, and a novelty such as none
of them had ever before seen on board a fishing schooner. Of him
they talked incessantly during the three days’ homeward run. What
they should call him perplexed them sadly for a time. The names
suggested and rejected would have added several pages to a city
directory. Finally this most important question was decided by the
skipper, who said, “He brought a fair breeze with him that’s held by
us ever since, and is giving us one of the quickest runs home ever
made from the Banks. He’s as bright and cheery and refreshing as a
breeze himself, and I propose that we call him ‘Breeze.’ It’s a name
that might belong to almost any nationality, and yet give offence to
none. As to a second name, for want of a better, and if he don’t
discover the one he’s rightly entitled to, why, I’ll give him mine.
What’s more, I’ll adopt him if his own folks don’t turn up; that is, if
my old woman is agreeable, and I ain’t much afraid but what she
will be.”
So the little waif of the sea became, and was known from that day
forth as, Breeze McCloud--a name that was destined to become
connected with as many exciting adventures and hair-breadth
escapes as any ever signed to the shipping papers of a Gloucester
fishing schooner.
The breeze that hurried the Sea Robin along was none too fair nor
too strong; for the supply of milk furnished by the “doctor’s” tin cow
was completely exhausted before they reached home. If they had
not got in just as they did, the baby would have suffered from
hunger, and the whole crew would have suffered with him. As it was,
they passed Thatcher’s Island while he was drinking the last of the
milk. Before he was again hungry, with everything set and drawing,
and decorated with every flag and bit of bunting that could be found
on board, the saucy Sea Robin had rounded Eastern Point and was
sailing merrily up Gloucester harbor.
A crowd of people had assembled on the wharf to witness her
arrival, and learn the cause of her decorations. As she neared it one
of them called out,
“What is it, skipper? You’ve got your flags up as if you thought you
was High-line[A] of the fleet; but the old Robin don’t look to be very
deep. What have you got?”
“We do claim to be High-line,” shouted back the skipper. “And
here’s what we’ve got to prove it.” With this he held the baby high
above his head so that all might see it, and added, “If any Grand
Banker has brought in a better fare than that this season, I want to
see it; that’s all.”
So Breeze McCloud entered Gloucester harbor, and never had any
stranger been received with greater enthusiasm. The news of his
arrival spread like wildfire, and it seemed as though half the
population of the city had crowded down to the wharf to see him
before Captain McCloud could get ready to leave the schooner. Then,
with the baby in his arms, he stepped into the long seine-boat that,
pulled by half a dozen lusty fellows, was waiting to take him across
the harbor to the foot of the hill upon which his modest cottage was
perched.
After many days of anxiety--for the Sea Robin was long overdue--
the captain’s wife, who had watched his schooner sail up the harbor
with flags flying, now awaited him in a fever of impatience. She had
waited at home because she could not bear to meet him before
strangers, so she had heard nothing of what he was bringing her.
When at last she saw him coming up the hill, accompanied by an
ever-increasing throng of men, women, and children, she was
greatly perplexed to know what to make of the sight, and hurried
down to the little front gate, where she waited for an explanation.
 “Why! whose child can the man have picked up?” she said to
herself, as her husband drew near enough for her to see what it was
he held in his arms.
“The old Robin’s High-line this season, Dolly,” cried Captain
McCloud as he reached the gate, “and I’ve brought you my share of
the catch.”
“You don’t mean that baby, Almon!” exclaimed the bewildered
woman.
“Yes, I do mean this very blessed baby! He’s a waif of the sea,
without father, mother, or home, that anybody knows of; and if you
say the word, we’ll give him all three.” With this he held the baby
towards her.
She hesitated a moment, but the baby did not. With a happy little
crow he at once stretched out his arms to her, and said, “Mamma!”
It was enough. All the mother-love within her responded to this
cry, and the next moment the little one was hugged tightly to her
bosom.
Turning to those who had accompanied him, Captain McCloud
said, “That settles it, neighbors! I hadn’t much doubt of it before;
now I know I am acting rightly; and here, before you all, I solemnly
adopt this baby boy, Breeze McCloud, as my son, and promise, with
God’s help, to be a father to him in deed as well as in name.”
On board the Sea Robin none of the rough nurses, not even the
baby-wise Mateo, had dared undress the little one so strangely given
into their charge, for fear they would not be able to dress him again.
Thus, when he was delivered to Mrs. McCloud, it was evident that,
next to food, his greatest needs were a bath and some clean
clothes. These last his adopted mother borrowed from a neighbor
who had children of all ages and sizes.
When the baby was undressed it was discovered that a slender
gold chain was clasped about his neck. Attached to it was a golden
ball covered with a tracery of unique and elaborate engraving. It was
apparently hollow; but nobody was able to open it, nor could they
discover any joint on its surface, so skilful was the workmanship that
had created it. Finally, declaring that it was merely an ornament and
not meant to be opened, Mrs. McCloud put it carefully away in a
sandal-wood box, among her own little hoard of treasures.
In that box the golden ball lay for years, almost unnoticed, but
ever guarding jealously the secret that some day should exert such a
wonderful influence over the fortunes of the baby from whose neck
it had been taken.
 CHAPTER II.
ON BOARD THE “CURLEW.”

Fifteen years seems a long time, and yet when they are happy
years how quickly they pass! They had been happy to Breeze
McCloud; happy and busy years. No boy in Gloucester had a
pleasanter home or more loving parents than he, though he was but
an adopted son. He rarely thought of this, though, for Captain
McCloud had, from the very first, been a true father, and the
captain’s wife a loving mother to him. No other children had come to
them since they had taken him into their hearts and home, and he
was their pride and delight. He had grown to be a tall, handsome
fellow, interested in his studies, and a bright scholar, but always
impatient for the time to come when he should go out into the world
and win from it his own livelihood.
Whenever Captain McCloud was at home the boy was his constant
companion, and from him Breeze eagerly learned the rudiments of a
sailor’s art. He delighted in being called his father’s “dorymate,” and
was very proud of being able to swim, and to row and sail his own
dory, before he was twelve years old.
Being so much in his father’s company, and listening to the
conversations between him and other men, gave Breeze many ideas
beyond the comprehension of most boys of his age. He sometimes
wore a grave and thoughtful air, and often said wise things that
sounded oddly enough in one so young.
The boy’s curly head was a familiar sight on board most of the
fishing schooners that were constantly coming into or going out of
the port. Here he was perfectly happy while listening to some tale of
adventure on the Banks or more distant fishing grounds, perhaps
told by its hero on the breezy deck or in the snug cabin of the very
craft on which it had all happened.
At last the time had come for him to set forth in quest of similar
adventures, and to do his share towards maintaining the home that
had been such a safe and pleasant one to him. There was sorrow in
it now, and there might soon be want. The Sea Robin had been
gone six months, and no word had been received from her since the
day she sailed out beyond Eastern Point, and vanished in the red
glory of the rising sun.
Only in the hearts of his wife and adopted son did the faintest
hope remain that the Robin’s captain was still alive. To all others he
was as dead, and a new breadwinner was needed in his place.
“I must go now, mother,” said Breeze. “I’m large and strong for
my age, and if they’ll take me I am sure I can do a man’s work and
earn a man’s wages.”
“Oh, Breeze, my dear boy! my comfort! Is there not something
else you can do? A clerkship would pay just as well, and there would
be none of the horrible danger.”
“Don’t, mother! don’t urge it! It makes me heart-sick to think of a
desk, or of being shut up all day in a store. I should never be good
for anything, you know I wouldn’t, mother dear, trying to do work
that I had no heart in.”
“But, Breeze--”
“But, mother! Please don’t think any more about a clerkship. Give
me your consent and your blessing, and let me follow father’s calling
and gain a living from the sea, as he has done. I came to you from
the sea, you know,” he continued, with a winning smile, and patting
her thin cheeks. “It was kind to me then, and it always will be, I am
sure.”
After many talks of this kind Breeze carried his point. Then, one
evening in March, there was no prouder boy in town than he, when
he was able to announce to his mother that he had shipped for a
mackerelling trip to the southward, on the schooner Curlew.
The vessel was already taking in her ice and stores, and would
haul out into the stream the next morning, ready to start. Breeze
was to go over to town the first thing after breakfast, and buy the
oil-skin suit, rubber boots, and woollen cap that, besides the canvas
bag of heavy clothing he would take from home, would form his
outfit. These he would send aboard the schooner. Then he would
come home again and say good-by if there was time--but perhaps
there would not be, and so they had better make the most of this
evening.
They did make the most of it, and until after ten o’clock, Breeze
and his mother sat hand in hand, and talked, she sadly and tearfully,
he bravely and hopefully.
The next morning, just before he left, his mother called him into
her room, saying, “I have one more thing to give you, Breeze. It is
something that should be the most precious thing in the world to
you, and I want you to wear it always.” With this she took from the
sandalwood box, that had kept it safely all these years, the slender
chain and golden ball that had hung around his baby neck when she
first held him in her arms.
Breeze was inclined to laugh at the idea of wearing a gold chain
and a locket around his neck; but his mother was so in earnest in
her desire that he should, that he promised to do as she wished.
 “I CAME TO YOU FROM THE SEA,” HE
SAID, PATTING HER THIN CHEEKS.

“It was, doubtless, your own mother first placed it there, and I
have a strong feeling that it will, somehow or other, have much to do
with your future safety and happiness,” she said. “See, I have made
a little pocket in the breast of each of your flannel shirts to hold it,”
she added, as she clasped the chain about his neck and kissed him.
“Own mother, or not own mother, no boy ever had a better, or
sweeter, or dearer, or more loving mother than you have been to
me,” cried Breeze, throwing his arms about her neck, “and I would
not exchange you for any other in the world, not even if she was a
queen.”
 Now that the time to go had really come, the boy found it a very
hard thing to part from his home. After he had kissed his mother
good-by, and started down the hill, with his canvas bag on his
shoulder, he dared not look back, though he knew she was standing
in front of the little cottage watching him.
He had barely time in town to make his few purchases before the
Curlew should sail; for wind and tide were both favorable, and her
skipper was impatient to take advantage of them and get started.
His hurry was owing to the fact that several other schooners were
getting ready for trips to the same waters. He was anxious to be the
first on the ground, and, if possible, carry the first fresh mackerel of
the season into New York.
Although everybody has seen and eaten mackerel either fresh or
salted, and though they are caught in immense numbers off the
Atlantic coast of the United States every year, there is but little really
known about them. Where they come from and where they go to
are still unsolved mysteries. Every spring, between the middle of
March and the middle of April, they appear in great shoals in the
waters just north of Cape Hatteras. At this time they are very thin,
and hardly fit for food; but on the coast feeding-grounds they rapidly
improve, until in the early summer, when they have worked their
way northward to New England waters, they are in prime condition.
They generally run as far north as the Gulf of St. Lawrence, from
which, in the fall, they suddenly disappear, to be seen no more until
the following spring.
All through the summer, but especially at the very first of the
season, those that are caught near a port are packed in ice and
carried in to the market fresh. The greater part of the year’s catch is,
however, salted in barrels on board the schooners, and afterwards
repacked on shore, in kits or boxes, marked according to the size
and quality of the fish they contain, Nos. 1, 2, 3, or 4, and sent all
over the world.
The cruise on which Breeze McCloud was about to start was to be
made in search of the very first mackerel of the season, and the
Curlew’s destination was therefore the waters off the Delaware
coast, or between there and Cape Hatteras.
 By ten o’clock everything was in readiness for the start. The
skipper had come on board, and all hands were hard at work,
making sail or breaking out and getting up the heavy anchor. Then it
was “up jib and away.” As the lively craft slipped swiftly down the
harbor, Breeze found time for one long last look at his home. At the
cottage door he could just make out a waving handkerchief, that told
him he was being watched and remembered.
Once outside, all hands were kept busy for a couple of hours,
setting light sails, coiling lines, stowing odds and ends, and making
everything snug. The course they were heading would carry them
just clear of Cape Cod; and before a spanking breeze, under a press
of canvas, the Curlew tore along as though sailing an ocean race
that she was bound to win. Almost any fishing vessel but a
mackereller going out at this stormy season would have left both
top-masts and her jib-boom at home, being content with the safest
of working sails. To the early mackerel catcher, however, every
minute gained may mean many extra dollars in pocket; so his craft
sails in racing trim, and carries her canvas to the extreme of
recklessness.
Like all fishing schooners, the Curlew had a forecastle, in which
several of the crew slept, and in which were also the cook-stove and
mess-table. Back of it was the pantry and store-room, in which were
ten fresh-water tanks. Still farther aft was the hold, divided into pens
by partitions of rough boards. These were now filled with cakes of
ice, but later would be used for fish. Abaft the hold was the cabin, in
which the skipper and five of the crew found sleeping
accommodations. It was neatly finished in ash, and running along
three sides of it was a broad transom that served as a seat or
lounging-place. The only furniture was a small coal-stove, securely
fastened in the middle of the floor. On the walls hung a clock, a
barometer, and a thermometer. A few charts were stowed overhead
in a rack, and, flung around in the bunks or on the transom, were a
number of paper-covered novels.
The business of fishing is conducted upon the system of shares.
That is, half the value of the catch, after outfitting expenses have
been deducted, goes to the owners of the vessel, and half to the
crew. Although the skipper and cook are not required to take part in
the actual business of fishing, each of them receives a full share.
The skipper gets, in addition, four per cent. of the value of the
catch, and the cook has regular wages.
The living on board a fishing schooner is generally superior to that
on almost any other craft. It consists of fresh meat, whenever it can
be obtained, fresh fish, vegetables, dried fruit, soft bread, cakes and
pies, eggs, condensed milk, and always tea and coffee, hot, strong,
and in abundance.
The Curlew was manned by a picked crew of twelve men,
including the skipper and cook. They were young, strong, and active,
and, except Breeze, all were skilful fishermen. He had been
considered very fortunate in obtaining a berth at a time of year
when there are so many good men anxious to ship. That he had
done so was largely owing to the friendship existing between the
skipper, Captain Ezra Coffin, and his adopted father.
When he had consented to ship the boy for this trip, the skipper
said,
“It’s a hard life, Breeze, and one full of chances. Every man
aboard may have a hundred dollars to his credit before the week is
out, and then again we may cruise for a month and not make
enough to pay for our ice. You are only a boy, but you will have to
do a man’s work, and hard work at that. There are perils of all kinds
waiting on every minute of the night and day, and they’ll come when
you least expect them. I’d rather a boy of mine would saw wood for
a living on land than to try and make it by fishing. Besides all this, as
you are a green hand, I can only offer you half a share for this trip.
Still, if you are bound to come, I’m glad to have you, both for your
own sake and for that of my old dorymate, Almon McCloud. So bring
along your dunnage, lad, and may good-luck come with you!”
Breeze had answered, “I know it won’t be all plain sailing, sir, and
that I’ve got a lot to learn before I can be called an A 1 hand. Still,
hard and dangerous as you say the business is, I’d rather try and
make a living at it than at anything else I know of, and I am much
obliged to you for giving me a chance.”
 Soon after leaving port, the skipper called all hands aft to draw for
bunks and to “thumb the hat.” The bunks had numbers chalked on
them, and now the skipper held in his hand as many small sticks as
there were men in the crew. Each stick had notches cut in it
corresponding to the numbers of the bunks, and one by one the
crew stepped up and drew them from the skipper’s hand. Thus the
sleeping quarters were distributed with perfect fairness, and there
was no chance for grumbling. Breeze was lucky enough to draw one
of the wide bunks in the cabin, and at once hastened to stow his
possessions in it.
When all the berths had been thus distributed, the crew again
gathered aft, and each man placed a thumb on the rim of an old
straw hat that had been laid on top of the cabin. The skipper turned
his back to them, one of the men named a number, and, without
looking to see whose it was, the skipper touched one of the thumbs.
Then he counted around until the number mentioned was reached.
The man at whose thumb he stopped was to stand first watch and
trick at the wheel, the next man on his right the second, and so on.
There would be two men on watch in bad weather, but one is
generally considered sufficient when it is fine.
With the parting injunction to “mind, now, and remember who you
are to call,” the skipper went below. As eight bells, or twelve o’clock,
was struck, the man who had first watch took the wheel, gave a
glance at the compass, another at the sails, and the regular routine
of duty was begun.
Now dinner was announced, and after the skipper was seated, the
half of the crew that reached the mess-table and secured seats were
entitled to eat at “first table” during the trip. The others had to be
content to eat at “second table.” Breeze was not posted as to this,
and consequently was among those who got left when the rush took
place. Afterwards, this seemingly trifling circumstance proved to be
of the most vital importance to him, as we shall see.
The cruise thus fairly begun was continued without incident until
the Curlew reached the fishing grounds off the Virginia capes. Then,
under easy sail, she stood off and on, with a man constantly at the
mast-head, scanning the surface of the water in the hope of seeing
mackerel. The great seine-boat was got overboard, and with the
seine in it, was towed behind the schooner, ready for instant use.
At length, after four tedious days of this work, the impatient crew
were brought tumbling on deck in a hurry one fine morning by the
welcome cry of “There they school; half a mile away, off the weather
bow!”
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