Rudyard Kipling : The Complete Novels and Stories. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг

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      it was wonderful fishing. harvey could see the glimmering cod below, … biting as steadily as they swam…. but so close lay the boats that even single hooks snarled.

      Worse than any tangle of fishing-lines was the confusion of the dory-rodings below water. Each man had anchored where it seemed good to him, drifting and rowing round his fixed point. As the fish struck on less quickly, each man wanted to haul up and get to better ground; but every third man found himself intimately connected with some four or five neighbours. To cut another’s roding is crime unspeakable on the Banks; yet it was done, and done without detection, three or four times that day. Tom Platt caught a Maine man in the black act and knocked him over the gunwale with an oar, and Manuel served a fellow-countryman in the same way. But Harvey’s anchor-line was cut, and so was Penn’s, and they were turned into relief-boats to carry fish to the We’re Here as the dories filled. The caplin schooled once more at twilight, when the mad clamour was repeated; and at dusk they rowed back to dress down by the light of kerosene lamps on the edge of the pen.

      It was a huge pile, and they went to sleep while they were dressing. Next day several boats fished right above the cap of the Virgin; and Harvey, with them, looked down on the very weed of that lonely rock, which rises to within twenty feet of the surface. The cod were there in legions, marching solemnly over the leathery kelp. When they bit, they bit all together, and so when they stopped. There was a slack time at noon, and the dories began to search for amusement. It was Dan who sighted the Hope of Prague just coming up, and as her boats joined the company they were greeted with the question: ‘Who’s the meanest man in the fleet?’

      Three hundred voices answered cheerily: ‘Nick Bra-ady.’ It sounded like an organ chant.

      ‘Who stole the lamp-wicks?’ That was Dan’s contribution.

      ‘Nick Bra-ady,’ sang the boats.

      ‘Who biled the salt bait fer soup?’ This was an unknown backbiter a quarter of a mile away.

      Again the joyful chorus. Now, Brady was not especially mean, but he had that reputation, and the fleet made the most of it. Then they discovered a man from a Truro boat, who, six years before, had been convicted of using a tackle with five or six hooks—a ‘scrowger’ they call it—on the Shoals. Naturally, he had been christened ‘Scrowger Jim’; and though he had hidden himself on the Georges ever since, he found his honours waiting for him full blown. They took it up in a sort of fire-cracker chorus: ‘Jim! O Jim! Jim! O Jim! Sssscrowger Jim!’ That pleased everybody. And when a poetical Beverly man—he had been making it up all day, and talked about it for weeks—sang ‘The Carrie Pitman’s anchor doesn’t hold her for a cent!’ the dories felt that they were indeed fortunate. Then they had to ask that Beverly man how he was off for beans, because even poets must not have things all their own way. Every schooner and nearly every man got it in turn. Was there a careless or dirty cook anywhere? The dories sang about him and his food. Was a schooner badly found? The fleet was told at full length. Had a man hooked tobacco from a messmate? He was named in meeting; the name tossed from roller to roller. Disko’s infallible judgments, Long Jack’s market-boat that he had sold years ago, Dan’s sweetheart (oh, but Dan was an angry boy!), Penn’s bad luck with dory-anchors, Salters’s views on manure, Manuel’s little slips from virtue ashore, and Harvey’s lady-like handling of the oar—all were laid before the public; and as the fog fell around them in silvery sheets beneath the sun, the voices sounded like a bench of invisible judges pronouncing sentence.

      The dories roved and fished and squabbled till a swell underran the sea. Then they drew more apart to save their sides, and some one called that if the swell continued the Virgin would break. A reckless Galway man with his nephew denied this, hauled up anchor, and rowed over the very rock itself. Many voices called them to come away, while others dared them to hold on. As the smooth-backed rollers passed the southward, they hove the dory high and high into the mist, and dropped her in ugly, sucking, dimpled water, where she spun round her anchor, within a foot or two of the hidden rock. It was playing with death for mere bravado; and the boats looked on in uneasy silence till Long Jack rowed up behind his countrymen and quietly cut their roding.

      ‘Can’t ye hear ut knockin’?’ he cried. ‘Pull for your miserable lives! Pull!’

      The men swore and tried to argue as the boat drifted; but the next swell checked a little, like a man tripping on a carpet. There was a deep sob and a gathering roar, and the Virgin flung up a couple of acres of foaming water, white, furious, and ghastly over the shoal sea. Then all the boats greatly applauded Long Jack, and the Galway men held their tongue.

      ‘Ain’t it elegant?’ said Dan, bobbing like a young seal at home. ‘She’ll break about once every ha’af hour now, ’less the swell piles up good. What’s her reg’lar time when she’s at work, Tom Platt?’

      ‘Once ivry fifteen minutes, to the tick. Harve, you’ve seen the greatest thing on the Banks; an’ but for Long Jack you’d seen some dead men too.’

      There came a sound of merriment where the fog lay thicker and the schooners were ringing their bells. A big bark nosed cautiously out of the mist, and was received with shouts and cries of, ‘Come along, darlin’,’ from the Irishry.

      ‘Another Frenchman?’ said Harvey.

      ‘Hain’t you eyes? She’s a Baltimore boat, goin’ in fear an’ tremblin’,’ said Dan. ‘We’ll guy the very sticks out of her. Guess it’s the fust time her skipper ever met up with the fleet this way.’

      She was a black, buxom eight-hundred-ton craft. Her mainsail was looped up, and her topsail flapped undecidedly in what little wind was moving. Now a bark is feminine beyond all other daughters of the sea, and this tall, hesitating creature, with her white and gilt figurehead, looked just like a bewildered woman half lifting her skirts to cross a muddy street under the jeers of bad little boys. That was very much her situation. She knew she was somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Virgin, had caught the roar of it, and was, therefore, asking her way. This is a small part of what she heard from the dancing dories:

      ‘The Virgin? Fwhat are you talkin’ of? This is Le Have on a Sunday mornin’. Go home an’ sober up.’

      ‘Go home, ye tarrapin! Go home an’ tell ’em we’re comin’.’

      Half a dozen voices together, in a most tuneful chorus, as her stern went down with a roll and a bubble into the troughs: “Thay-[‘Thay-]aah—she—strikes!’

      ‘Hard up! Hard up fer your life! You’re on top of her now.’

      ‘Daown! Hard daown! Let go everything!’

      ‘All hands to the pumps!’

      ‘Daown jib an’ pole her!’

      Here the skipper lost his temper and said things. Instantly fishing СКАЧАТЬ