PART V
“FISH runnin’ well outside de bar, dese days,” remarked Jake one evening to several of his seagoing companions.
A large, bronze-colored negro paused in his task of rigging a line, and cast an eye to sea through the driveway.
“An’ we mens bes’ make de mores ob it,” he observed. “Dem Septumbuh storm due soon, an’ fish ain’t likes eas’ win’ an’ muddy watuh.”
Jake laughed reassuringly.
“Go ’long wid yuh. Ain’t yuh done know we hab one stiff gale las’ summer, an’ he nebber come two yeah han’ runnin’.”
His wife came toward him with a baby in her arms, and, giving him the child to hold, took up the mess of fish which he was cleaning in a leisurely fashion.
“Ef yuh ain’t mans enough tuh clean fish no fastuh dan dat, yuh bes’ min’ de baby, an’ gib um tuh a ’oman fuh clean!” she said scornfully, as she bore away the pan.
The group laughed at that, Jake’s somewhat shamefaced merriment rising above the others. He rocked the contented little negro in his strong arms, and followed the retreating figure of the mother with admiring eyes.
“All right, mens,” he said, returning to the matter in hand. “I’m all fuh ridin’ luck fer as he will tote me. Turn out at fo’ tuhmorruh mornin’, and we’ll push de ‘Seagull’ clean tuh de blackfish banks befo’ we wets de anchor. I gots er feelin’ in my bones dat we goin’ be gunnels undeh wid de pure fish when we comes in tuhmorruh night.”
The news of Jake’s prediction spread through the negro quarter. Other crews got their boats hastily in commission and were ready to join the “Mosquito Fleet” when it put to sea.
On the following morning, when the sun rose out of the Atlantic, the thirty or forty small vessels were mere specks teetering upon the water’s rim against the red disc that forged swiftly up beyond them.
Afternoon found the wharf crowded with women and children, who laughed and joked each other as to the respective merits of their men and the luck of the boats in which they went to sea.
Clara, Jake’s wife, sought the head of the dock long before sundown, and sat upon the bulkhead with her baby asleep in her lap. Occasionally she would exchange a greeting with an acquaintance; but for the most part she gazed toward the harbor mouth and said no word to any one.
“She always like dat,” a neighbor informed a little group. “A conjer ’oman once tell she Jake goin’ git drownded; an’ she ain’t hab no happiness since, ’cept when he feet is hittin’ de dirt.”
Presently a murmur arose among the watchers. Out at the harbor mouth, against the thin greenish-blue of the horizon, appeared the “Mosquito Fleet.” Driven by a steady breeze, the boats swept toward the city with astonishing rapidity.
Warm sunlight flooded out of the west, touched the old city with transient glory, then cascaded over the tossing surface of the bay to paint the taut, cupped sails salmon pink, as the fleet drove forward directly into the eye of the sun.
Almost before the crowd realized it, the boats were jibing and coming about at their feet, each jockeying for a favorable berth.
Under the skillful and daring hand of Jake, the “Seagull” took a chance, missed a stern by a hairbreadth, jibed suddenly with a snap and boom, and ran in, directly under the old rock steps of the wharf.
A cheer went up from the crowd. Never had there been such a catch. The boat seemed floored with silver which rose almost to the thwarts, forcing the crew to sit on gunnels, or aft with the steersman.
Indeed the catch was so heavy that as boat after boat docked, it became evident that the market was glutted, and the fishermen vied with each other in giving away their surplus cargo, so that they would not have to throw it overboard.