The first faint streak of daylight found us on board our boat, homeward bound, wafted on by a pleasant southerly breeze. At the usual hour, we were all seated at our respective breakfast tables, relating our adventures of the excursion just ended.
CHAPTER XXVI.
A week in a Fishing Smack—Fisherman—A beautiful morning at sea—A day at Nantucket—Wreck of a ship—Night on the Sound.
Norwich. August.
On a pleasant Monday morning I started from Norwich, bound to New London, and from thence to any other portion of the world where I might have some sport in the way of salt-water fishing. In less than an hour after landing from the steam-boat, I had boarded the handsome smack Orleans, Captain Keeney, and by dint of much persuasion, secured a berth on board, to accompany him on a fishing voyage. In addition to my previous preparations, I had only to purchase a Guernsey shirt and tarpaulin; and by the time I was regularly equipped, the sails were hoisted, and we were on our course for Nantucket. An intimate acquaintance was soon formed between myself and crew, which consisted of the master, two sailors, and the cook. The whole time that I spent in their company was six days, as I reached home on the following Saturday evening. The incidents that I met with were somewhat new, as a matter of course, and I employed a few moments of every evening during my absence, in briefly recording the events of the past day; and that medley I now put together as a literary chowder.
Monday Evening.—My observations to-day have been limited to our little vessel, in consequence of a dense fog, which drenched us to the skin, and seems likely to continue. I have obtained some information, however, concerning the character of an interesting class of men. Smack-fishermen are a brave, hardy, honest, and simple-hearted race, and as my captain tells me, spend nine-tenths of their time “rocked in the cradle of the deep.” Their vessels, or smacks, are generally of about forty tons burthen; the number of those which supply New York and Boston with fish is said to be near a thousand, and they are all at home anywhere on the coast between the Kennebeck and the Delaware. Of the perils which these fishermen endure, and the privations they suffer, how little is known or thought by the great world at large! Yet I believe there is as much true happiness in their lives, as in those of any other class. Their fathers were fishermen before them, and as they themselves have mostly been born within hearing of the surf, they look upon the unsounded deep as their fitting home—their only home, and would not part with it for a palace or a crown. Four is the usual number of a smack’s crew, and the master is invariably called a skipper. Most of them are worthy husbands and fathers, whose families are snugly harboured in some convenient sea-port, with enough and to spare of the good things of life. They are a jovial set of men, hailing each other upon the ocean as friends, and meeting upon land as brothers. Each skipper thinks his craft the handsomest and swiftest that floats, and very exciting are the races they sometimes run. Their affection for their own vessel is like that of the Arab for his steed, and like the Arab, too, they have been known to weep over the grave of their darling and their pride.
The kinds of fish which they mostly bring to market are shad, salmon, lobsters, mackerel, cod, bluefish, haddock, black-fish, pangies, bass, and halibut. The first three are generally purchased of local fishermen, but all the rest are caught by themselves. The haunts of the black-fish are rocky reefs, those of the bass and bluefish, in the vicinity of sandy shoals or tide rips, and those of the remainder in about fifteen fathom water. These are the varieties they capture by way of business; but when in a frolicsome mood, they frequently attack a sword-fish, a shark, or black whale; and soul-thrilling indeed, and laughable withal, are the yarns they spin concerning these exploits.
As to their mode of living, while at sea, it is just what it should be, and what they would have it, although it would be positively shocking to a Bond Street gentleman. But they always possess a good appetite, which is what money cannot purchase, and without which the greatest delicacy in the world would be insipid or loathsome. Fish, sea-biscuit, corned-beef, and pork, potatoes, onions, and pancakes, constitute their provisions, and what besides these would a reasonable man desire? It is with a mixture of some of these, that a chowder is concocted, and where can anything more delicious be found? And with these ingredients, moreover, they manage very well to keep body and soul together, unless a storm on a rock-bound coast happens to make a sudden separation.
I have just been on deck, and must say that I resume my pen with a heavier heart. The fog has not dispersed in the least, a regular gale of wind is blowing from the north, and the waves, seemingly in a revengeful mood, are tossing our bark about, as if the skipper, like the Ancient Mariner, had shot another albatros. But, like a fearless man as he is, he stands at the helm, watching the sails with a steady eye, and the men with their storm-jackets on are standing by, muttering something about the coming darkness, and a reef somewhere on our lee. Never before have I so distinctly understood the force of the Psalmist’s simile, when he compares a wave to a drunken man reeling to and fro. Both have it in their power to cause a mighty mischief, and both become exhausted and perish—one upon a sandy beach, and the other sweeping over the peninsula of time, finds a grave on the shore of oblivion. Heavens! how the wind whistles, and the waters roar! Ay, but a still small voice salutes my ear, and I lay me down to sleep, with a prayer upon my lips, and a feeling of security at my heart, as I place implicit confidence in Him who holdeth the ocean in the hollow of his hand.
Tuesday Evening.—I was awakened out of a deep sleep this morning by the following salutation from the skipper, as he patted me on the shoulder,