Bath is the next and most southern town on the Kennebeck; it is a large place, where there is a great deal of shipping done, and now in a flourishing condition. The sail down the river from here is a most delightful one, for the eye revels on a continual succession of pleasant farms, quiet headlands, solitary islands, and vessels of every kind passing up and down the stream. Even to the present day, the Kennebeck abounds in salmon, which are caught with nets from the first of May till midsummer. To take them with the hook is indeed rare sport, and for the manner in which I conquered a solitary individual I refer my reader to a certain passage in “Scrope on Salmon Fishing.” Few are the rivers that I love more than the Kennebeck, and very dear to me are its manifold associations.
I date this chapter from Portland, which is a thriving city of twenty thousand inhabitants, and interesting to the admirers of genius, because it is the native place of Mrs. Seba Smith, the poet Longfellow, and John Neal.
CHAPTER XXV.
A Fishing Party on the Thames—Watch Hill—Night Adventures.
Norwich. August.
A few mornings ago, just as the sun had risen above the eastern hills, which look down upon the Thames at Norwich, the prettiest sail-boat of the place left her moorings, and with a pleasant northerly breeze started for the Sound. Her passengers consisted of six gentlemen, all equipped in their sporting jackets, and furnished with fishing tackle, and their place of destination was Watch Hill, a point of land in Rhode Island, extending into the Atlantic, a few miles from Stonington. We were on a fishing frolic, as a matter of course, and a happier company, I ween, were never yet afloat, for the sport of a morning breeze. What with the story, the jest, the iced lemonade and exquisite cigar, the minutes glided by as swiftly and unobserved as the tiny waves around us. Now we met a solitary fisherman, towing for bass, and as we hailed him with a friendly shout and passed on, he began to talk in an under tone, and his voice did not die away until we had turned a point. What would I not give for an accurate record of that old man’s life! Anon, we witnessed the soothing picture of a well-conducted farm, with its green-girt cottage, spacious barns, neat and flowing fields, with its horses, oxen, cows, sheep, hogs, and poultry. Now we saw some noble men, such as Vernet delighted to paint, hauling the seine, and, as the “fruit of all their toil” were thrown upon the sand, their flipping forms reflected back the sunlight, reminding us of—anything the reader may be pleased to imagine. Now, we were overtaken and tossed about by a steamer bound to New Haven; and then we sailed in company with a boat, a sloop, and schooner; meeting others, beating up, from Boston, New York, and Philadelphia. And the termination of this pleasing panorama was composed of Gale’s Ferry, the commanding town, fort, and monument of Groton, together with the city of New London, among whose anchored shipping floated a saucy Revenue Cutter, and at whose docks were chained a goodly number of storm-beaten whalers.
Having taken in our stores, and obtained from the fish-market a basket of bait, we again hoisted sail, bound first to Commit Rock, and binding ourselves to capture all of the watery enemy which might tempt the power or the dexterity of our arms.
When about three miles from New London, all eyes were attracted by a beautiful craft on our lee, laden with a party of ladies and gentlemen. “They’re going toward a reef!” exclaimed our captain; and no sooner had the words escaped his lips, than the stranger struck, and stove a hole through her bottom. We were just in time to save the party from a watery grave; and when we had landed them in safety on the beach, we were well repaid for our trouble by the consciousness of having done a good act, and by the thankful words and benignant smiles of the ladies fair. A dozen minutes more and we were within an oar’s length of the fishing rock. “All ashore that’s coming!” shouted our mate, as he held the boat fast, standing on the rock, when we all leaped out, and plenty of line having been given her, the boat swung to, and “like a cradled thing at rest,” floated upon the waves. Then commenced the sport. The breeze was refreshing, and the breath of the salt sea-foam buoyed up our spirits to a higher pitch, and gave new vigour to our sinews. The youngest of the party was the first who threw his hook, which was snapped in the twinkling of an eye. Another trial, and a four-pound black-fish lay extended upon the rock. Another, and another, and another, until fourscore, even numbered, came following after. Tired of the sport, two of the party entered the boat, and hoisted sail for a little cruize. Half an hour had elapsed, when the steady breeze changed into a frightful gale, capsizing within hailing distance, a small fishing smack, with two old men in it. Hanging on, as they were, to the keel of the boat, their situation was extremely dangerous, as there was not a vessel within two miles. The poor men beckoned to us to help them; but as our boat was gone, we could not do so, which of course we much regretted.
For one long, long hour did they thus hang, “midway betwixt life and death,” exposed to the dangers of being washed away by the remorseless surge, or swallowed up, as we were afterwards told, by a couple of sharks, which were kept away only by the hand of Providence. This incident tended to cool our ardour for fishing; and as we were satisfied with that day’s luck, we put up our gear, during which time the boat arrived, and we embarked for the Hill.
We made one short turn, however, towards the boat which had picked up the fishermen, as we were anxious to tell them why we did not come to their relief. We then tacked about, and the last words we heard from our companions were,—“Thank you—thank you—God bless you all,” and until we had passed a league beyond Fisher’s Island, our little vessel “carried a most beautiful bone between her teeth.”