“Were you sick when you sailed for the Labrador in the spring?” they asked him.
“Oh, ay,” said he; “I were terrible bad then.”
“Then why,” they said—“why did you come at all?”
They say he looked up in mild surprise. “I had t’ make me livin’,” he answered, simply.
“THE BULLY-BOAT BECOMES A HOME”
His coffin was knocked together on the forward deck next morning—with Carbonear a day’s sail beyond.
The fleet goes home in the early fall. The schooners are loaded—some so low with the catch that the water washes into the scuppers. “You could wash your hands on her deck,” is the skipper’s proudest boast. The feat of seamanship, I do not doubt, is not elsewhere equalled. It is an inspiring sight to see the doughty little craft beating into the wind on a gray day. The harvesting of a field of grain is good to look upon; but I think that there can be no more stirring sight in all the world, no sight more quickly to melt a man’s heart, more deeply to move him to love men and bless God, than the sight of the Labrador fleet beating home loaded—toil done, dangers past; the home port at the end of a run with a fair wind. The home-coming, I fancy, is much like the return of the viking ships to the old Norwegian harbours must have been. The lucky skippers strut the village roads with swelling chests, heroes in the sight of all; the old men, long past their labour, listen to new tales and spin old yarns; the maids and the lads renew their interrupted love-makings. There is great rejoicing—feasting, merrymaking, hearty thanksgiving.
Thanks be to God, the fleet’s home!