The Silver Darlings (39 page)

“In that case,” said the skipper, looking on Roddie’s face, “it couldn’t be helped.”

“No,” said Roddie. “But I would have liked to have obliged you—and Maciver.”

“You may yet. Who knows?” said that friendly
countenance
.

“I hope so.”

The crew, sensing disappointment in Roddie’s attitude, stood expressionless. He turned to them and said, “Well, we’ll get the herring out”; and in the same casual tone added for their private ears, “I have sold this shot at one pound a cran.”

They remained quite still. “God bless me!” said Callum.

Rob’s reaction took a full two seconds, but the cold iron that had worked so miraculously was not
forgotten
.

Finn carried with Henry, and once as they tipped the basket into the gutting-box, he slipped and brought a
portion
of the herring down on top of him. The girls who were gutting laughed, for they were in high spirits at having
some work to do. Finn blushed and, stooping too quickly, the blood went to his brain, so that he staggered against one of the girls who was helping to gather the herring off the ground.

“Mind what you’re about!” she cried.

“I’m minding,” said Finn, smiling and swaying.

There was high-pitched laughter.

“The herring has gone to his head,” declared the young woman with some spirit.

“It’s not the herring,” declared Finn, taking, at last, his eyes off her and turning away with Henry. He had hardly seen her, but in a moment or two his head cleared.
Thereafter
Henry and himself slowed up the natural tendency to rush with the fish to the station. But the younger women now had him as their mark. “Mind your step!” was the next greeting.

Finn took it all in good part, though once or twice his eyes gleamed, for his exhaustion induced a light-
headedness
as if he were half-drunk, a carelessness, that gave him an unusual self-confidence or loss of self.

As they emptied the last creel, he leaned for a moment against the edge of the box which came against his thighs, drawing a deep breath. The fair-haired, high-coloured girl of the first encounter now tried with expert inadvertence, as she reached out an arm over the herring, to tip him into the box. To save himself, Finn grabbed her. There was a quick scuffle and, carried completely beyond reason, Finn kissed her somewhere about the ear.

Screams of delight drew the world’s attention.

“We’re not used to your East-coast manners here!” cried the girl, who had shaken him off roughly.

“You’ll get used to many a thing,” said Finn, “if you live long enough.”

As they walked away, Henry remarked in his dry, satiric way, “You’re coming on.”

Finn hardly knew whether he was on his head or his heels, for it was the first time in his life he had done
anything
so bold, but, taking one thing with another, it seemed to him that he might have done worse.

Roddie had returned the six nets to the
Sulaire
and now stood talking on the edge of the quay with Bain, who had apparently forgotten the argument in the office and was, in his quick clear-headed manner, anxious to help.

It appeared that the crew of a visiting boat usually set up a shelter of their own on shore. Mostly it was built of turf and could be erected in a few hours. For that matter, the majority of the croft houses themselves were so built. But, though Roddie was not very communicative, Bain could see that the crew had had a severe passage and said he could get a room for them easily enough. In fact, he brought Roddie along to a grey-haired woman packer and fixed the matter there and then.

“Thank you,” said Roddie. “That’s fine. We’ll go along when we’ve had something to eat.”

Bain smiled with lively humour. “Maciver tried it on!” he said. “He runs everything here—but not us.”

“I’m sorry there was trouble.”

“Trouble? Yon’s the usual!” Bain laughed quickly. He obviously had enjoyed the passage and the defeat of Maciver. “We’re striving for the first boat for the Baltic. The fishing has been poor and irregular. But perhaps it’s beginning now. Tell the crew to come along and have a dram.”

“It’s food we need,” said Roddie.

“Hits, man! A dram to drink your health first,” said Bain briskly. He was a slight man, but with rather broad shoulders and a short, thick neck. He waved the crew to fall in.

They stepped down from the street into a low-ceilinged bar. After the sweat and the heat, it was pleasantly cool and kind to the eyes, even if the nostrils choked slightly at the beery smell. They sat in a row on the form by the wall, staring at the bottles and casks beyond the counter. The glittering brass bands around one small, up-ended cask,
with brass cock at its foot, held Finn’s eyes. What a
beautiful
richly-polished little cask it was! As Bain handed him half a tumblerful of whisky, he murmured his thanks.

“Well, men,” toasted Bain. “Here’s to a good fishing!”

The whisky gripped Finn’s throat, but when it was all down, a tingling, followed by the softest languor, spread over his body.

“You’ll have one from me,” said Roddie, “and then we’ll go.” When he had ordered the round, he smiled. “We’re feeling pretty tired.”

“I’m sure,” said Bain. “When did you leave? We were expecting you here on Wednesday.”

“We took a day or two,” said Roddie. “The weather wasn’t very good. Well, here’s your health! And I hope we do well for everyone’s sake.”

Finn tried to count. Yes, they had been five days at sea. In a way it felt like a whole other lifetime. Callum was stretching out his legs. Rob was trying to say something. He saw them finish their drink and he finished his own. Bain was telling Roddie about Maciver. The gleams on the cask, reflecting the window-light from their backs, grew big as suns. Callum leaned over against him and then pulled himself slowly away. Rob tried to open his snuff-box at the wrong side. Callum, with the intention of helping him, hit the box down on Rob’s knees, where it opened of itself. Sucking his breath in three stertorous spasms Callum let out a mighty sneeze that shook him so far down over his own knees that he couldn’t get back. Finn’s mind
suggested
: Slip to the floor quietly; it’ll be easier to hold on there. The glittering golden sun of the whole cask drew him to his feet. The sun went out and he fell forward on his face, dead to the world.

CHAPTER XVII

DRINK AND RELIGION

B
y the following afternoon, Finn awoke finally, ate some boiled herring and potatoes, and felt himself again. A quiet reminiscent humour had descended on them all. Roddie, it appeared, had not only left the
Seafoam
properly berthed and ship-shape, but had brought Finn’s Sunday suit from his kist. Finn smiled self-
consciously
as Callum described how they had taken his drunken body home on a hand-cart with half the children in
Stornoway
shouting behind. Finn knew that was a lie. Bain had arranged with the landlord of the public-house to let the crew sleep off their tiredness, and he had a remote but
indistinct
memory of walking like a ghost on padded feet to their lodging.

As they strolled along the south bay towards the pier, the freshness of the air was sweet in the lungs, and the aftermath of tiredness was not unpleasant. Finn looked at the houses and the many shops with their drawn yellow blinds. Seamen like themselves were having a quiet Sunday stroll, gazing at the boats and the water, as if they hadn’t seen enough of them. Here and there, persons dressed like ladies and gentlemen, moved quickly along as though they knew exactly where they were going. One beautiful golden-haired girl sat in a gig beside a portly man, with starched ear-collar, who was driving a mettlesome chestnut horse.

“Don’t be staring like that, Finn,” Callum cautioned him. “She’ll think you’re from the country.”

“She won’t be at the gutting, that one, Finn,” remarked Henry casually.

“It’s maybe as well for her,” said Finn.

“Will you look at this!” muttered Rob.

Round the corner of a pile of herring barrels came four young men arm-in-arm, with red stockings, blue breeches, and wooden clogs.

“Dutchmen,” said Roddie.

Out of native manners, they did not stare, but Finn was touched by an enlivening curiosity. When they had passed, he glanced at the tall-masted vessels lying at anchor off the pier, and the far shores of the world came in thought to his feet.

“Yes, that’s the sloop that carries the mails to Poolewe,” a man said in English (more stylish than Mr. Gordon’s). “How often?” asked an elderly woman, in a high-pitched voice, as if it didn’t matter who heard her. “Twice a week now, but five years ago it was only once a week, and we had a fight with the Government …”

As they passed out of earshot, Henry said, “It’s a fine thing to own the world.”

They all smiled benignly at that. Henry liked to have a back-hander at the gentry.

Pubs, business premises, stores, curers’ offices, large printed signs which they all read carefully, half-dried trickles of strong-smelling brine thick with scales which they lightly stepped across, an immense red-rusted ship’s anchor that drew them up. They smiled at its size. Finn caught one of the flukes and tried to move it. Callum chuckled. Roddie described the capstan and bars needed to heave that fellow. And so round to the
Seafoam.

As Finn gazed on her, lying quietly, lashed to the
Sulaire
,
his heart swelled. “You can have your sloops and your schooners and your capstan bars,” he declared. “I wouldn’t give the
Seafoam
for the lot.”

“She has a fine heart in her,” agreed Callum.

“She stood by us well,” Rob nodded.

“She has a way of her own of rising to them,” Henry remembered.

“We’ll have to take the nets out in the morning and give them a dry first thing,” said Roddie with a quiet smile.

Everything seemed set for a good fishing. Already they had had one bit of luck, and they never doubted but that they would get herring. They did not regret now the gruelling time they had had. It was always as well to get the worst over first!

And that was the last day of real peace they knew.

In sunny, windless weather, they laboured at the oars. Herring were on the coast, but only in patches. What were caught were mostly unripe. The curers grew anxious and grumbled. The old controversy got going about the need for closing the whole West Coast fishing for May. Only the gamble of getting the early Baltic market and good prices kept it going, it was said.

But no fisherman ever clearly understood the fish-curer’s business. The fisherman could have a good season or a poor one, and he saw that it must be the same with the curer, only on a greater scale. Beyond that lay the private
intricacies
of business and foreign markets and, naturally,
no-one
was happier than the fisherman when the curer had a good season. He certainly did not grudge the curer his profits, and indeed was content in the thought that he knew his business, and attended to it, well enough to have the distinction of being a wealthy man. And fish-curers were approachable and friendly, and the best of them would help a deserving fisherman at any time.

On Monday night they drew a complete blank. On
Tuesday
a fry of herring that could be carried on a string On Wednesday they followed the
Sulaire
a long way to the north. The
Sulaire
had four crans,
Seafoam
half a basket. A few small catches of two to three crans were landed on that day. The herring were on the ground, they were not
working
, Thursday, however, rumour was strong that Loch Roag on the west side was solid with herring and that
Bernera cod and ling fishermen were hauling them on the beach.

When Roddie went to sea on Friday evening, there was not even one basket of herring to his credit for the whole week’s heavy work. An hour or two’s sleep had been snatched during the day, when, fully clothed, they had thrown themselves on the two makeshift beds in the single small room. Finn’s hands were calloused by the swinging of the heavy oars. What a blessed relief it was when, on the Friday evening, a steady wind darkened the sea under the still bright sky! They all felt a little stupid from lack of sleep and lay back looking at the land and the other boats speeding with them, brown sails bellying and a wafer of foam at the forefoot.

There was never much talk in the boat, and certainly never any argument, as to what they should do or where they should go or in what spot they should shoot their nets. Not that they were content to leave such decisions with the skipper. It was, Finn had discovered the very first night he had been at sea, a much more mysterious affair than that. He had waited for talk, for expressions of opinion, however casual. There had been none. All at once they were
preparing
to shoot, as if some silent common intelligence had been at work. Surprised at first, he then had been oddly moved by an access of quiet manhood.

There were gulls about, one wheeling vortex of them
inshore
, where two boats were already putting their nets out. Other boats were running up into the wind and lowering sail. Roddie held on. Finn saw Rob sniffing as if he might smell the herring, which, indeed, sometimes could be done. But herring waited for the passing of the light before they began to “work” or rise from the bottom and so strike into the nets. A school of porpoises appeared near the boat. “Perhaps we’ll do,” said Roddie, and brought the
Seafoam
round into a wind that was failing. It was going to be a calm night.

Sails and masts down and rudder unshipped, they began
shooting their nets, the flat stone “sinkers”, noosed at intervals to the foot-rope, drawing down the meshed wall straight from the back-rope with its many small corks. Finn, who was on an oar, for the wind was now not strong enough to keep the boat drifting, was always attracted by the way Rob dealt with the black, mouth-blown, sheepskin buoys that were round or pear-shaped and bigger than the barrel of his chest. When he had fixed it to the tie-rope between two nets, he threw it upward and away from him with a grandiloquent gesture, never looking at it. It fell on the sea with a splendid splash. Whereupon Rob would blink and sniff, or rub the back of his hand against his mouth and say “Poof!” with a wearied solemnity.

Riding by the stern to the swing-rope attached to the drift, they got out their food. Water, with oatmeal and sugar stirred in it, Finn found a refreshing drink and a good thirst-quencher. Milk was dear in Stornoway and not easy to get. Oaten and bere bannocks, butter and home-made cheese—with these, it did not matter what else was lacking. Loaf bread was fine to have at table, with fried fresh
herring
or curdled boiled cod, but at sea, loaf bread itself was a vapid food, whereas oatcake was gritty, full of a rich flavour (which the saliva brought out) and great
sustenance
. As you chewed it thoughtfully, you could let your eyes stray away to the land. Finn had a small smile to
himself
, for he knew, as clearly as if it had been spoken in explicit words, that the corporate intelligence had a notion that they should have shot farther inshore. It was no more than a notion, uncertain, too weak for the definition of action, but there!

At first, whenever the nets were out, it had been Finn’s delight to unwind the ripper and try for white fish. But over-work had soon dissipated that youthful enthusiasm, and now, with the evening lowering its soft shadow on sea and land, they stretched out between the timbers and snatched at sleep.

Finn awoke in the darkness and saw Roddie, his body
bent against the sky, hauling on the swing-rope. Soon he had the lug of the first net lifted up in the usual “trial” for herring. Finn waited, excitement in an instant holding his breath. He knew by a movement Henry made that he was awake, too. There was always this excitement, this
momentary
expectation, so near sometimes to desperation, in
fishing
for herring. Supposing Roddie turned round now and said, “Boys, we’re in them!” Supposing he, Finn, cried in Callum’s ear, “Herring!” Callum would stagger up, ready to overthrow an army!

What was Roddie hanging on to the net for? Could it be? …

Finn’s mind rose spiring in wild hope. He had felt
uncomfortable
in Roddie’s presence these last days, and had avoided being alone with him. It was something in Roddie, something slowly closing in and terrible.

Henry sat up.

Roddie’s arm rose and the net fell with an empty splash on the sea.

Finn’s heart sank in him. Henry lay back. Roddie stood upright for a long time. The notion of going inshore was probably still at work! Finn did not feel this with humour but with a desolate bitterness. It was easy enough to haul the nets, tired as they were, and shoot them elsewhere, and perhaps get the herring on the move at the turn of the night. But that same mysterious common intelligence told Finn, as it told Roddie and Henry, that it would be useless. Where they were was as good as the next place. Roddie came quietly back and lay down.

Finn slept but fitfully for the next hour or so, and had many images made strangely intimate and tender because of his desolate mood.

With the first greyness of morning, as the stars faded in the sky, he sat up with a small shiver. The others seemed to be fast asleep. He moved carefully. The land was dark shadow, but boats even at a distance were discernible and very still on the pale sea. This twilight of morning always
affected Finn even more than the twilight of evening; it was at once more bodiless and more expectant. Over the water came the plaintive piping of a shore bird. The gulls were awake—they hardly seemed to sleep these summer nights—and their cries moved invisibly, on a haunted note, over against the featureless land. Then one—two—were above him silently, their heads questing from side to side, clear against the sky, and passed on. Passed on—and wheeled and cried, as they saw him move. The morning was coming fast.

Finn caught the swing-rope and began to haul the
Sea
foam
noiselessly towards the nets. How glorious it would be if he had to wake them up with the news of herring! How glorious—but, ah! little hope of that! Hand over slow hand. Little hope. Yet—if only! And one never knew. Never knew with certainty.

Excitement beat up from his beating heart, but his keen eyes caught no silver gleam. And here now—here was the net. Slowly he heaved up the corner and saw naught but the little films of water glisten grey for a moment in the mesh. Deep as his eyes could probe, there was no silver gleam. Nothing. At such a moment a man tended to haul the net up an extra few inches in a forlorn gesture and let it fall with a splash. Finn dropped it quietly and the still water sucked it back.

The land was slowly defining itself, pushing gently away the dark clothes of night from its shoulders. In his
disappointment
a misery came over him that cleansed hope to an acceptance, a fortitude, that was bitter but somehow
intimate
and enduring. It was the mood that came from storm and loss and emptiness of all gain. The brow and the eyes of seamen who could not be beaten down, seamen who went quiet and remained steady when death, the omnipresent of the dark ones, felt he could engulf them at last.

Finn sat down on the rudder. He would wait till Roddie and the others awoke of themselves. Some gulls had settled on the water round the tail-end of the drift. One or two of
them, with querulous cries, moved in short, restless flights of a yard or so. For all the world as if they were seeing herring! Then Finn did notice a slight bobbing movement of the last two or three buoys. There was no doubt of it! All his fine feeling of endurance vanished in a single
heart-beat
. He turned round. Roddie was coming towards him. “We’re in them at the tail-end,” he said as quietly as he could. Roddie looked and nodded.