Oh, my, wasn’t I homesick! I was a great mother’s boy, and would have given all I possessed could I have been back with her. It seemed cruel to me then, and has many times since, to think that a boy less than nine years old should have to leave home to help support the family. But such were the economic conditions of the times that all were obliged, when families were as large and as poor as mine was, to contribute to the general support. But I was glad to help out all I could, and the call of the deep blue sea was hard to resist. How often had I listened to tales of foreign lands, of smart skippers, and big ships, and at last my chance had come.
My salary was the magnificent sum of forty-five dollars for the season and fifty cents per hundred for every cod fish that I caught. We had a fine run to Boston, and at sundown was alongside the wharf at Chelsea, Mass. There we took on board seventy-five hogsheads of salt to salt the fish we expected to catch. After this was on we pulled the old craft over to Boston and took in our provisions for the trip.
They consisted of barrels of salt pork, beef, a barrel of beans, half a barrel of rice, five barrels of flour and corn meal and a big barrel of molasses to make sweet cake with, as this was a great treat to the fishermen at supper nine days out of ten while on the Grand Banks. We also used the molasses to sweeten our coffee with, as sugar was too costly at that time to feed fishermen.
One afternoon I strode up to Commercial Street with one of the men, who went to a ship chandler’s shop to get his fit out of lines and hooks and other little things he wanted for the trip. I waited for him outside. At that time the bow-sprits of the vessels stuck over into what is now Commercial Street, but which at the present time is all filled in. This was my first trip away from home, and I stood staring with open mouth at the sights. At last I commenced to look for my friend, a man named Long, but he had evidently forgotten me and gone back to the schooner. The rush and roar of the great city confused and frightened me, and I was scared half out of my wits. I had forgotten the name of the schooner, and when about in despair and ready to give up I saw a man from Orleans that I knew, a Captain John Gould, and in pitiful tones I told him I was lost. How he laughed, and pointing over his shoulder he said, “There is your old wash tub, Bub; you ought to pick her out of ten thousand,” and went along, roaring as he went. And years after, when I thought of that old schooner with the Dutch bows, I have laughed, too, though to me at that time she was a great ship.
Back on board, I started to cook my supper for the now hungry crew. It consisted of boiled potatoes, with fat salt pork scraps, biscuits and chocolate. They ate all of my cream of tartar biscuits, and I had to be content with hard bread for my supper. However, I naturally was looking for compliments on those biscuits, but all I got was a sharp growl from the Captain, who asked me if I had washed my hands before I had made them.
We soon had our stores on board, but were detained in Boston for a few days by a heavy storm with northeast gales. It snowed very heavily, and it was the third of April before we at last made sail and sailed down the channel with a light wind blowing from the westward.
When off Boston Light it began to be very rough, with a heavy ground swell, and it was here that I, for the first and only time during my entire sea life, was seasick. And I certainly was sick! I asked the men to throw me overboard I was so miserable, but they only laughed and made fun of me. Some said, “O, Cookie, take a piece of raw pork and tie it to a string, swallow it and haul it up and down; it’s a sure cure.”
Mr. Samuel Sherman, who was mate, now came down and drove away my tormentors. He was very kind to me, and I never forgot it. He got the dinner for me and cleared it away, and as we got further down the bay the water got smoother, and before we anchored inside Billingsgate Island at Orleans I was quite myself again. Early that evening I was home again with my folks, and I had wonderful tales to tell of Boston and of the things I had seen on the trip. In the old days it was the custom to stay in the home port after fitting out for a trip of fishing and to remain there a few days.
We then went to Provincetown and took on fresh water, which was put in barrels, stored in the fore hold and chocked up with wood, which we used to kindle the fire with. We took on at that time about fifty barrels of water.
We then took our departure for the Grand Banks, steering to eastward for a distance of about nine hundred miles, passing north of Sable Island, and running free most of the way by dead reckoning. When the Captain judged himself near the Banks we often sounded with the lead and line, and on the evening of the seventh day out from Cape Cod we baited up our lines and threw them overboard. As soon as the lead struck bottom they had a bite, and the Captain shouted out, “Let go the anchor; we are right on top of them.” Sure enough, up came a fine pair of cod-fish weighing about ten pounds each. Down came all sail and we played out about a hundred fathom of cable, made it fast around the windlass, put our riding sail up aft to keep her up to the wind and steady her. We set a big lantern on a pole out aft, and then all went below to make up the anchor watch. We divided up the time from 8 p.m. to 5 a.m., which gives each man the same amount of duty. In the locality of the Banks one encounters a great deal of fog, so much so, in fact, that it is impossible to tell whether the next hour will be fine or clear. It is so thick that at times you can barely see the hand in front of the face, and strict orders were given to keep a sharp look out for sailing ships, and especially for steamers. However, in those days sailing ships were in the great majority, and trade from all ports of the States were bound eastward, and many were those we saw on the Banks. So in foggy weather we kept the fog horn going all the time, and the “Old Man” always slept with one eye open.