I
HARRY GLOVER, master of the Calumet, was generally admitted to be a great diplomat; he himself allowed he was a little something that way. And everybody said he must be—diplomat, strategist, or whatever it was—else how could he, a man who had never had even ordinary luck at bank fishing, induce so shrewd a man as Fred Withrow, something of a schemer too, to build him a fine vessel like the Calumet and send him to the Newfoundland coast for frozen herring on a trip wherein an owner stood to lose more money possibly, should things go wrong, than in any other venture of fishermen.
The Calumet was lying into Little Haven, Placentia Bay, when Glover, sitting in his cabin, heard a hail and an inquiry for Captain Marrs of the Lucy Foster.
Glover, ever wide awake, was on deck in an instant. It was a man in a boat and looking tired. “Captain Marrs, did you say?” asked Glover.
“Yes, sir— Captain Wesley Marrs.”
“Why, he was here, but he’s gone.”
“Been gone long?”
“Oh, two days now.”
The messenger looked discouraged. “Did he say where he was going to, sir?”
“Why, yes—but you look froze up. Come aboard. You don’t never take a little touch of anything—something nice and warm from Saint Peer—something that’ll melt the frost inside your chest afore you know you got it down—or do you? On a cold day like this,” insinuated Captain Glover, “with frost in the air and maybe a long row ahead of you.”
“It is more than a common cold day,” assented the messenger.
“Cold day! I should say! Why, I don’t know how you ever stood it comin’ as far away as you did—ten miles, did you say you came?”
“Ten mile? Ten mile?” snorted the messenger.
“Ten miles. Why, yes. Ain’t that what it is to Saint Mary’s?”
“Saint Mary’s? I didn’t come from no Saint Mary’s. I came from Folly Cove—eighteen mile.”
“Lord, but you don’t tell me! What d’y’ say, now—another little touch? Let me see. Who’s that fellow down there who’s such a great hand to get herring? Let me see now— Johnson? Burke? No, not Burke. Robbins? No, not Robbins, nor Lacey. That’s queer— I know him so well and yet can’t remember his name.”
“Do you mean Rose, John Rose?” suggested the messenger.
“Rose, is it? Is it Rose you’ve come from?”
“Yes, sir— John Rose.”
“That’s it, come to think of it, old John Rose.”
“Why, he ain’t so old.”
“No? Well, it’s so long since I’ve seen him. Have another little touch, and don’t be afraid of it. There’s another jug when that one’s empty. Seen John lately?”
“Seen him? I should say. Last man I spoke to before I left.”
“That so? Any herring down there?”
“A few. But I must be getting along. Rose’d talk to me if he knew I’ve been loafing here. Which way, Captain, did you say I’d find Captain Marrs?”
Glover carefully headed the messenger about as far off Wesley Marrs’s course as the length and breadth of Placentia Bay would admit. He waited just long enough for the messenger to double the nearest headland, then up anchor, made sail, and away for Folly Cove. It was ten in the morning when he weighed anchor, and early afternoon found him knocking at the door of John Rose’s little house.
He at once introduced himself. “Captain Glover of the Calumet. But maybe you’ve been expecting me.”
“Not that I knows of,” said Rose.
“What, ain’t Captain Marrs sent word yet?”
“Word from Captain Marrs? Why, it was him I was expecting.”
“I know— I know, but he’s sailed for home. By this time I cal’late he’s to the west’ard of Miquelon, streaking it across the Gulf, laying to it for home. Filled up, did Wesley, night afore last, at Little Haven.”
“Filled up at Little Haven? Why, when did any herrin’ hit in there?”
“Two days ago. And Wesley got ’em. And the last thing he said afore wearing off was, ‘Harry, you know I got some good friends across the bay, and maybe one or two of ’em’ll be having some herrin’ saved up for me after this cold snap. If you hear of any and can help any of ’em out by taking ’em off their hands at a fair price, why, I’ll consider it a great favor—a great favor to me, Harry. There’s John Rose down to Folly Cove, a great friend of mine. I’ll send him word ’bout you, Harry, so in case he gets hold of any he’ll maybe let you have ’em.’ Wesley and me’s great friends, you see, Mr. Rose, and Wesley, no doubt, thinkin’ there mightn’t be any market, wanted to do you a good turn too.”
“Oh, there’s plenty market. Herrin’s been that scarce this winter that people been from everywhere lookin’ for a load—yes. But I was savin’ them for Wesley. But if Wesley’s gone, and you’re such a great friend of Wesley’s—any friend of Wesley’s a friend of mine—and sailin’ from the same firm in Gloucester, you say?”
“The same firm, the Duncans.”
“That so? Well, I can’t say as ever I heard Wesley speak of you or any mention of your name down this way before—but that ain’t extraor’nary, maybe. Anyway, being as you’re a friend of Wesley’s, you can have them herrin’ just the same as if you was Wesley himself.”
The loading of the Calumet was a record performance. By dark she was off and away.
And as she cleared the last headland of Placentia Bay, as she squeezed by Shag Rocks and left Lamalin astern, Captain Harry Glover had to laugh aloud. “O Lord, but I call that getting ahead of a man!” he chuckled. “It was too easy. Talk about strategy!”