CHAPTER XV
THE FISHING EXPEDITION
"Where are we making for, Negus?" inquired Patrol-leader Frank Brandon, as the fishing smack Frolic with triced-up tack, reefed foresail and small jib, threshed her way out of Aberstour Harbour.
The old fisherman, usually a man of few words, gave a glance to wind'ard before replying.
"Silverknoll Bank," he answered. "We might find a few sole up-along. Fish be tur'ble scarce—none of us fisherfolk can quite make out why 'tes. Last week—when my boy Jim broke 'is arm, the old Frolic gybing accidental-like—we was down along the Five Fathom Bank, and we ne'er got so much as a bucket o' fish. So I thought I'd just try the Silverknoll. Bowse down that there tack, you might."
Brandon quickly carried out the order of his temporary skipper, then sitting on the weather waterways, he took stock of his surroundings.
The Frolic was an old boat, probably almost as ancient as her grey-haired owner, but she had a reputation for weatherliness that had been gained in many a hard fight against winter gales. She was roughly thirty feet in length, and with a beam of ten feet, her draught being four feet six inches.
She was decked in as far as the mast, a small fo'c'sle providing sleeping accommodation, if necessary, for a couple of hands. An open well extended from the mast to within five feet of the transom, the latter space being occupied by a self-draining tray.
Outside ballast she had none, her stability being assured by the weight of nearly five tons of stones packed under the floorboards. She was cutter-rigged, with a loose-footed mainsail, and in spite of her "dead" ballast she rode the waves like a duck.
It was Brandon's first experience of a trip on a fishing smack. The novelty of it appealed to him, coupled with the knowledge that he was doing a Good Turn to old Negus by bearing a hand with the heavy gear.
For the present there was nothing much to be done. Brandon was at liberty to sit and watch the coast as the harbour piers of Aberstour faded away on the port quarter. He revelled in the salt-laden breeze, but one sniff warned him of the risk he ran of sheltering under the weather coaming.
The Frolic reeked abominably. There was no denying the fact. Her open well emanated odours of bait that was long past the "high" stage, mingled with the reek of fish, decaying seaweed and mussel-shells, the whole variety of perfumes being toned down by the pungent smell of tar.
"Suppose I'll get used to it," thought Brandon dubiously. "Negus seems to have thrived on it."
There was secret admiration in Brandon's mind as he glanced at the stolid face of the hale and hearty fisherman, who, notwithstanding his three score and ten years, was as active as many a man half his age, and looked strong in muscles and sinews.
The Silverknoll Bank lay about fifteen miles east of Aberstour and about two and a half miles from Broken Point, the nearest land.
It was what was known as uncertain ground—the fishermen could never rely upon a steady catch. Sometimes the trawl would be full of fine soles; at others the result of a hard night's work would be so small as to render the trip unprofitable, and sometimes not sufficient to pay for the wear and tear of the gear.
But the perplexing part of the business was this: where did the fish go? There was no other sandy patch for miles, and since flat fish rarely desert their favourite ground and almost invariably give rocky bottoms a wide berth, the unaccountable coming and going of the soles was a mystery.
Close hauled on the starboard it took the Frolic a good three hours to arrive at the spot Negus had chosen for the casting of the net. By this time the sun had set and a slight mist was stealing seawards from the low-lying land.
"Mun' wait a-while," remarked the old fisherman. "Tide don't carve yet. We'll overrun yon trawl. Mind you be careful as we're shootin' it an' don't go overboard with it."
"I'll try not to," replied Brandon. "A fellow wouldn't stand much chance mixed up with that lot."
"He might," continued the Frolic's owner. "I call to mind when I wur a young man—twixt fifty an' sixty year agone—I knowed a boy what was carried overboard in the pocket of the trawl. Twenty minutes 'e wur under water—p'raps more, sartainly no less."
"He was drowned, of course," said Brandon.
Old Negus chortled.
"Drownded—not much," he declared. "They got 'im out an' scrubbed him wi' salt till 'e wur as red as a oiled lobster. Same arternoon 'e wur a-playin' about right as ninepence. That's a solemn fact. Howsomever, tide's about right now. Over with 'em."
Brandon now took the tiller, while his elder companion dived into the fo'c'sle to tend the coke stove and also to fill and light his blackened clay pipe.
It was an ideal night, warm and with just sufficient wind to take the fishing boat over the ground in spite of the drag of the net.
The Frolic apparently had the Silverknoll to herself, although at some miles distant could be discerned the port and masthead lights of a vessel proceeding up-channel.
A little later the lights vanished, owing to a bank of mist drifting towards the solitary fishing boat.
Presently Old Negus emerged from his retreat and peered landwards. There were no marks so far as Brandon could make out; but evidently the old fisherman knew exactly where he was.
"End o' bank," he announced. "Up with yon trawl."
It was tedious work. By dint of their united efforts, the net came home foot by foot, copiously shedding moisture and seaweed, until the "bag," heavy and bulky, showed just below the surface.
"We've got a good haul this time, Negus," declared Brandon.
The old fisherman shook his head.
"Weed, mos' like," he rejoined. "Mind yon otter-board. It be fairish heavy."
When the catch was examined it was found to consist mainly of sand and seaweed. But half a dozen medium-sized soles and a couple of dabs rewarded their efforts.
"There's summat about to-night," decided Old Negus, as he set up the peak of the mainsail. "We'm still main early."
With flattened sheets the Frolic beat to wind'ard until she gained a position favourable to shooting the trawl again. It was now close on midnight. The mist was thickening, although it was possible to discern objects a quarter of a mile away.
"Take her, lad," said Old Negus, when the trawl was trailing astern. "I'll make a drop o' cocoa. 'Twill be main acceptable, I'll allow."
Once more the old fisherman disappeared under the foredeck, leaving Brandon at the helm.
The Patrol-leader's back and arms were aching, his wet fingers were almost raw with the chafe of the sandy ropes, notwithstanding the fact that he rather prided himself upon the horny state of his hands.
He was beginning to realise that a fisherman's life, even on a calm night, was not "all honey." He tried to imagine what it would be like on a boisterous night, with the canvas board hard with frozen spray.
Presently Brandon's ears caught the faint sounds of an engine throbbing. He peered in the direction from which the steady pulsations came, fully expecting to see the navigation lights of a vessel.
He saw none. The noise of the approaching craft became steadily louder and louder.
"Negus!" he shouted. "There's a steamer coming towards us."
The old man emerged from the fo'c'sle and peered into the darkness.
"Oh—ay!" he exclaimed. "Sure she be. There she be, broad on our starboard beam. No lights nor nothin'."
Brandon looked but could see nothing. Usually quick at seeing things he was now hopelessly beaten by the eyes of the ancient fisherman.
Snatching up a lantern from the fo'c'sle, Negus waved it above his head. It was just possible that the Frolic's green light might not be visible to the look-out on board the approaching steamer. Unless the watch on board were asleep they could hardly fail to notice the waving white light.
"What be them up to?" exclaimed Old Negus querulously. "They'll be atop o' we in a brace o' shakes."
Brandon could now discern the misty outlines of the vessel. She was very nearly bows-on, a ghostly mass gliding slowly through the water without showing the faintest glimmer.
"Ahoy!" bawled Negus, waving the lantern with increased vigour.
"She's altering helm," announced Brandon, who in his anxiety had allowed the Frolic to come up a good four points.
"But our nets!" ejaculated Old Negus. "Up helm."
Thirty seconds later the vessel—a large steam drifter cut the wake of the Frolic at less than twenty feet from the latter's transom. There was a sudden jerk. The rope of the otter trawl parted as the vessel's stern fouled the nets. A chorus of mocking laughter came from the drifter's decks.