And write again in a bold, round hand: —
"He loved boys and thieves and sailors,
Servant of Thine, St. Nicholas!"
*******
"Customs change and men change with them." The manifold and quaint mythologies once associated with life on the ocean exist only in fable. In these present days the superstitions of the past are put aside like worn-out garments; no longer can peace-offerings in the churches subdue storms and secure immunity from shipwreck. Science and education are understood to have torn down the remnants of credulity; and, by the process of transformation, the faith of the ancient mariner, shaped largely by the reputed miracles of saints and martyrs, is a worthless article in the religion of his descendant on the sea. They are all shadows, we are told, gathered into oblivion long ago, with the priest who gave the benediction, and the sailor who received it, at the shrine of St. Nicholas. But men will obstinately stand within the shadows, and the sunlight cannot send its rays into every corner.
The weird mystery of the sea grows neither stale nor common-place; its influence has been felt by men of every race; and manifold and impressive have been its teachings. The omens and mystical figures, which the witchery of the atmosphere and the glamor of the ocean imparted and made apparent to the reason of the old sea-farer, may mean little to the seaman standing on the threshold of the twentieth century; but these myths and superstitions are not yet entirely forgotten by the men who "go down to the sea in ships." The sun and the clouds, the moon and the stars, the mist and the storm, in some measure, still awaken fanciful forebodings; and the moods and marvels of the great deep are yet enigmas that create wonder and enthralment. If the shadowy Isles of the Blest,
— full of noises
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not, —
appear to be afar off, without a chance of our stepping upon the enchanted shores; if the Capes Fly Away, the Islands of St. Brandan and of The Seven Cities, and the Phantom Ships of many seas, are not now clearly manifested to the natural vision, they may have been seen with the eye of faith; for who shall limit the belief of the man living his life where Nature has formed her grandest, most impressive, and everchanging handiwork? Our philosophy hath not encompassed all things of heaven and earth, nor will it.
THE RACE IT BLEW
James B. Connolly
BEFORE every Gloucester fisherman's race the prevailing prayer is for a breeze of wind. Any of the fast fishermen know how to slip along in light air, but the great qualification of a Gloucester schooner is that she can stand up to it when it blows.
"Drivin' her till all's blue. . .
"What she couldn't carry she was draggin'. . .
"All white water on her deck. . . ."
"And no man ever made him take his mains'l in. . .
Such are phrases I have been familiar with ever since I have known bank fishermen, and that has been ever since I was a little boy. The high admiration of bank fishermen goes to the vessel which can carry sail and the skipper who will make her carry sail in a breeze of wind. By a breeze of wind they mean a gale.
We had a race in Gloucester the other day, during which the vessels showed better than thirteen knots at times; and there was the race off Halifax this year and last. I was on the Esperonto myself last year when she beat the pick of the Canadian fleet. And I followed the race this year when the Nova Scotia Bluenose evened things up by beating the Elsie, but I have yet to talk with a group of fishing skippers who did not agree that there was "never but one fishermen's race," and that was the race held off Gloucester in 1892.
That was the race it blew. They were celebrating old Gloucester's two hundred and fiftieth birthday; they stretched the day to a week. Of course there had to be a fishermen's race during the week.
On Wednesday of that week an easterly set in, and the day of the race had been set for Friday. Hard-driving skippers snifl'ed the fresh gale, shook hands freely on Main Street, and said it looked pretty good for wind aplenty. Only one regret some of them had; they feared that Maurice Whalen was too far to the east'ard to be home in time. Some regretted it because they believed he was the man and his the vessel to win the race; others regretted it because they wanted to give him and his vessel a good beating.
Maurice Whalen was master of the Harry Belden, He was far to the eastward that week — too far to suit him. He was keen enough for the race, but the mackerel had been striking in pretty thick, with the Belden getting her full share, and, after all, the first duty of a Gloucesterman is to bring home fish.
But on Tuesday afternoon an easterly breeze set in. Maurice knew it was good for three days or so, and as mackerel don't show in a rough sea, and as he was looking for a good excuse to be moving on, that Tuesday night he all at once swung the Belden off for home.
He had 600 miles to go, and all day and all night Wednesday, and all day Thursday he kept her going with all she could drag before it. Thursday night he had her tied up to the wharf in Gloucester. The crew worked all that night to get the salted mackerel out of her. When it came time to go out for the race in the morning, they had to leave, for want of time, the salt and some other things in her.
Whalen hired a towboat to give him a quick pull out of the slip. In turning the Belden the towboat started to turn her the wrong way; that is, against the sun.
"The other way about — with the sun, with the sun — don't be giving her bad luck going!" shouted Maurice.
To turn the Belden with the sun in that wind the crew had to lower her mainsail, which had been left standing all night to dry out. When it was hoisted again Whalen claimed that it did not set near so well as on their 600-mile run from the eastward.
The Belden joined the others in the stream, and they put out. Every vessel had all sail set. Three skippers — Whalen one of them — went out with their halyards lashed aloft, thereby giving notice early that whatever sail came off that day would have to be blown off ; also that if any man on deck lost his nerve and started to cut halyards to let the main-sail run, he would have to go aloft to do the cutting, and before he could get aloft they would get to him.
The records of the Weather Bureau for that day say that it was blowing fifty-four miles an hour ashore. It blew harder out to sea.
The first leg was from Eastern Point to a stake boat off Nahant — fourteen sea miles. The Ethel Jacobs, one of the wonder vessels of Gloucester, ran that first fourteen miles in just outside fifty minutes. Her skipper, Saul Jacobs, always claimed that he went a half mile out of his course looking for the mark.
Other vessels were crowding the Jacobs, and around the mark Saul jibed the Ethel all standing. She carried away her main gaff, and so she passed out of the race. They took in her mainsail, and she went the rest of the way under head sail alone, and made pretty good time of it, but she hadn't chance.
The second leg was to a buoy off Davis's Ledge. The race committee warned them all to be careful turning the ledge, that there was only room for one vessel to make the turn between the buoy and the ledge at one time. The Joseph Rowe took the lead when the Jacobs broke her gaff, and coming to the buoy off Davis's the Rowe was still leading. The Belden was second, her long bowsprit sticking over the Rowers stern as they drove down to round between the buoy and the ledge.