The man looked up briefly. "This 'un," he said, and went back to his planing. Polperro Fancy was lettered on her square transom, and she was a beamy half-decker, well used by the sea and in pristine order. But so small!
"Sprit main?" Stirk guessed, noting the snotter. Without sails it was difficult to make out her rig beyond the single mast and long bowsprit, which, no doubt, would sport at least two jibs for balance and speed.
The shipwright straightened slowly, squinting up at Stirk against the sun. "An' who's askin'?"
"I'll be goin' out wi' Mr Cowan t'night."
"Hope they're bitin' for ye," the man said, wiping his forehead, apparently unwilling to pursue why a complete stranger would be going out to the hard work of the fishing grounds with his client.
"Yes, ye're in th' right of it, we call 'em 'spreeties.' Y' only fin' luggers at Looe."
Stirk nodded. Looe, three or four miles away, would have different local conditions, different traditions of boat-building handed down. This fore-and-aft rig was almost certainly to keep as close by the wind as possible when passing through the narrows at the harbour mouth.
He looked again. There was only a tiny cuddy forward and two compartments amidships before the open afterdeck, probably a fish hold and net stowage, and was certainly not suited to the running and concealment of contraband.
"How is she, Mr Butters?" Cowan hailed respectfully from the end of the pier opposite. "Ready for ye an hour afore sundown," the shipwright shouted back.
At the appointed time, and replete after a meal of scrowled pilchards and back-garden potatoes, Stirk and Calloway trudged over to their boat. Their hobnailed sea boots crashed on the cobbles but caused not the slightest interest as others made their way down to the harbour, a busy and amiable throng.
The gathering sunset was gilding the hilltops and shadows were lengthening among the tightly huddled dwellings of the village as they reached their craft, now afloat and nudging the quay playfully.
"Ye're a Puckey then, I see," one said to Stirk, as they jostled down the narrow lane.
Stirk blinked and Cowan chuckled. "As ye're wearin' a Puckey knit-frock an' all. The women knit 'em in th' family pattern fer their men. If we're misfortunate, makes identifyin' the bodies easier."
They clambered aboard the Fancy and were joined by Bunt and Puckey, who seemed to know instinctively what to do as Cowan mustered his fishing gear and set the rigging to rights. The two seamen tried to keep out of their way. Evening drew in, and it was time to join the many boats heading out to the grounds.
Cowan had a last look round, then took the tiller, gave the orders to loose sail and called, "Let her go then, Davey." The bowline dropped, and the Fancy caught the wind and slewed before crowding with the others through the rock-girded Polperro harbour entrance.
Most fishing-boats stood out to sea towards the setting sun but Cowan, with an inscrutable smile, put down the tiller and, taking the wind astern, the Polperro Fancy set her bowsprit for up the coast.
Stirk tried not to show his interest: from seaward, Polperro and its snug harbour was almost completely hidden. So close to the rugged shore he could easily distinguish where run cargoes could land—the sandy coves, small beaches in obscuring twists of shoreline, suggestive caves. No wonder the Revenue was so hard-pressed to cover the coast.
"Here's yourn," Bunt said to Stirk, handing him a small frame, "an' I'd get y' line on th' cater here ready, mate."
The beamy boat was lively even in the slight seas that evening but Stirk knew that its response to every wave meant it would remain dry. He wound the line, ready baited, round the cater frame and waited.
"Mr Cowan, how does y' know where the fish are?" Calloway asked, noting that several of the other boats had turned about and were now following them.
At first Cowan did not speak, his face turned into the wind to sniff gently, his grip on the tiller firm. Then, as they sailed on, there came quietly the distilled wisdom of the Cornish fishery: talk of sea marks to fix favourite sub-sea rocks; the arcane habits of mackerel and ling, conger and pilchard, spur dog and dab; herring shoals square miles in size rising stealthily to the surface at dusk that could be detected by bubbles fizzing upward from below and the faint smell of oil on the surface of the sea, the whole to sink down again at dawn's light. The dexterity of the long-liners and the seiners, the willow withies of the crabbers, the ever-vital pilchard fishing, all were testament to the multitude of hard-won skills of the fishermen.
As the red orb of the sun met the horizon two lanthorns were lit and sails were lowered with a small island barely in sight in the soft dusk. Cowan glanced over the side once and waited for the boat to drift further, the only sound the chuckling of water and creak of gear. He scanned the shoreline for some sea mark, then said quietly, "This'll do, Jan."
Obediently Puckey took up his cater and began to lower.
Stirk made to do the same but Cowan stopped him with a gesture. After an interval Puckey grunted, "Fish is slight, Mr Cowan."
Small sail was shown to the wind and they ghosted inshore a little way and the sail was doused. Puckey repeated his work, and after a longer time he showed satisfaction. "Now will do," Cowan said, and in the increasing darkness their lines went down.
Stirk felt the fish strike, the tugs connecting him with the unseen world far beneath, which must now be a swirl of glinting silver in the blackness as the shoal orbited the unlucky ones jerking on his line, just as they had in those all-but-forgotten days of his youth.
Bunt was first to haul in with a full line; over the gunwale hand over hand, grunting with effort until the first fish jerked into view, flipping frantically. There was a craning to see but Cowan peered over and announced, "Mackerel, lads, sure 'nough."
Puckey soon followed, and then an excited Calloway, and before long the midships was a welter of hooks, line and slippery striped fish. Then the work started.
Two hours later the shoal had left and, aching in every bone, Stirk and Calloway were allowed first rest in the stinking confines of the cuddy, only to be woken not long after when the shoal was rediscovered further eastwards.
With eyes strained and sore from the effort of baiting hooks by the faint gleam of a lanthorn, the lines went out again—and again came the toil of heaving in and the messy work of gutting afterwards. All the while they fought a clamping weariness. A lull followed as the mackerel sounded deep again, and then there was blessed rest, but with the suspicion of luminance to the east the mackerel returned and it was to the lines again until the sun's orb rose and the fish sank down once more.
"Brave bit o' fish, Jan!" Bunt said, with tired glee, as the hold showed near full.
"It is that," Puckey replied, and glanced at Cowan.
"Aye, I'll grant ye," Cowan said cautiously. "Shares all roun'— what do thee men say t' these two gettin' a whack?"
The cover was placed on the hold and Polperro Fancy made for home. Stirk lay back exhausted; this was a job like no other. However, their readiness to bear a hand must have been noted and their acceptance into this small village would be that much the closer.
Around fifteen boats converged with them in the final entry to harbour on the flooding tide; sails were brailed and they lay to a scull at the transom waiting for room at the fish quay.
They found a place and Stirk bent his back once more in the task of keeping the baskets filled to sway up and disgorge on to the noisy quay where an auction was taking place. For some reason the others in the boat were downcast and when they had finished and taken the Fancy to her moorings Stirk asked Cowan why.