On the next morning the deck watch was called, as the fish had commenced to bite in good shape, and five men were heaving them as fast as they could haul them in. Each line had a rig for two hooks, and each man tended two lines. In the deck space between each man was a large deck-kid or box, which was made stationary and had a partition on the inside to separate the fish that each man caught. Each gang fished for two hours, and then the watch was changed.
Then they counted out the number of fish that each man had caught and threw them into the main deck-kid or dressing bin, cleaned their fish and prepared them for the salting process which takes place in the hold of the schooner. One man throated, gutted and took out the cod tongues, placed them on the dressing table for the splitter, who took out the back-bones and threw the fish into a tub to wash out the blood. It was the cook’s job to pitch the fish down the hatch-way to the salter in the hold below. The salter was a man well adapted to see that the fish were properly salted and stowed away. And so it goes on, day in and day out, fish for two hours and then change.
The fish usually stop biting as soon as the sun goes down, and after supper is over the Captain opens his log-book and records the tally of each man’s catch that day. At the end of the voyage this shows the standing of each man, and the one who catches the most fish is called “high-liner,” and is considered a valuable man and is much sought after by the owners, who wish to re-ship the man for another season. It often happens that a man may be a first class sailor but has not acquired the knack of hooking a fish, and for such a poor fellow the chances of his getting on a crack fishing schooner were small.
On our boat Mr. Samuel Sherman was “high-liner” and had held the record for years and was called “second hand,” a position corresponding with that of a mate and next to the Captain in command. The old-time fisherman carried no mate, all authority vesting in the Skipper or Captain. The whole crew were on the same footing, and did practically what they pleased and gave suggestions and advice as freely as they wished. Mr. “Cookie” usually turns out about 2.30 a.m., makes his fire, puts his biscuit in the oven, makes two gallons of coffee, and calls “all hands” at 3.45 for breakfast. The crew tumble out, clothing all on except coat, hat and boots, and how they could eat! And then for the fish again.
On Sunday we did no fishing, had breakfast at 7 a.m., and spent the day in cleaning up and lying around. We used to make about 300 doughnuts for our Sunday morning breakfast, and it was here that my good friend Mr. Sherman came to my rescue and helped me out with the work. He was certainly one true Christian gentleman, a good and kind man. Our Sunday dinner was “salt-horse,” or boiled dinner, with a large steamed apple duff of dried apples, and for supper we always had fried mince-pies. I tell you, we lived high!
Our Captain was a very pious man. He was called by those who knew him well “a summer Christian and a winter devil.” On Sunday morning he always prayed and read a chapter from the Bible and sang his favorite hymns. His favorite songs were, “A Soldier for Jesus” and “Love and Serve the Lord.” I used to snicker, as the Captain had no teeth to speak of, and his voice was very flat and lispy. The name of Lord always sounded like Lard. I often had my ears boxed when the men would say, “Cookie, sing like Captain,” and I would put in, in earnest. Then the Captain would cuff me and say, “You sassy thing, I will report you to your mother when we get home.” They both belonged to the same church, but I had no reason to fear on that score, as my mother was an earnest and devout Christian, always self-sacrificing, and loved by all who knew her, ever ready and willing to help and see good in everything.
Fishing continued good for several days, and no vessel in sight. We were catching from 1200 to 1800 each day and running a fair size fish until we were obliged to get under way in order to heave overboard our gurry, cod heads and entrails, as our gurry kids were full, and to heave it where we lay would spoil our fishing, as the fish would be “gurry sick,” as fishermen call it. We played out our cable, put a large buoy on the end, and stood off to the south about two miles, threw it overboard, returned and picked up our moorings again, and commenced fishing again. Along in May fishing slacked up. I suppose the school had all been caught up. We lay here a week, averaging 500 to 600 daily.
One morning early two sails hove in sight, the first seen since we anchored, except some large ships to the north of us. Well, we were surprised to see that the schooners were from our own town, Orleans, one Captain Alvin Smith in the old schooner Lapwing, and Captain William Sherman in the schooner Stromboly. They were surprised to find that we had nearly half our catch, and felt pretty down in the mouth, for they had in all only 100 quintals, while we had about 400 quintals. The captain came on board and we exchanged news, and then anchored about half a mile either side of us. They met with no success, however, so only remained there a few days, when we all hove up and started for the Virgin Rock Ground, to the north east, about 100 miles from our old berth, and I think all the crew were glad to get away, for our hands were sore and badly swollen from handling salt and gurry.
When our distance was run up we hauled up jib and eased off fore sheet and hove lines over in about 40 fathoms of water. Lo and behold! no sooner was our lead overboard when we had fish on, fore and aft at the same time. The Captain jumped up and down like mad calling out to let go the anchor. Over she went, and it was only a few moments when sails were furled and the watch had their lines out with fairly good fishing. But we were on a small patch of ground, and every time the tide turned the vessel would swing round and strain, and in this position we could not get a bite, but when she swung round again the fishing was good again.
This was our second berth for three weeks, yet we were compelled to buoy the cable again as before and stand off to heave off our gurry. It was estimated we had about 650 quintals in our hold, our whole capacity being about 850 quintals.