Читать книгу Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 692 - Various - Страница 1

The stranger who sails for the first time up the Firth of Forth must be struck with the numerous villages that stud its picturesque shores. These for the most part are fishing-villages, inhabited by a race of hardy men, who at times run fearful risks at sea. Though the morning may look settled, and the prospects of a good 'take' induce the boats to venture forth far out to sea, the afternoon may prove so boisterous that all hands are glad to beat a retreat, and leaving lines or nets to look after themselves, make for some harbour of refuge. Sometimes, as was prominently the case last year, the weather may come on so suddenly violent that the best appointed boats, handled by experienced men, run dreadful risks, and reach the sheltering haven only by a hair's-breadth. At times no skill can avail, and wives and mothers – and as we had occasion to shew in a recent article on the Hebrides, sweethearts – are left lamenting. It is unfortunate that many of the harbours on the Firth of Forth are dry or nearly so at low-water, so that a boat at sea must wait outside before the crew can venture in; for thus are doubtless lost many boats and their hapless crews that otherwise might 'make the run' and be out of danger. Unable to make harbour from want of water, there is no alternative but to lie off under close-reefed sail till the tide makes, or be dashed to splinters on a lee-shore. This will assist the reader of the following story in understanding the anxiety felt by those on shore for the boats at sea, even when the boats appeared in sight. Having braved the open sea in all its fury, the attempt to take the harbour at the ebb might have been disastrous to all.

With this preface we offer to our readers a description of such a scene as witnessed by one who has kindly placed it at our disposal. His story runs as follows:

'It's a sair, sair nicht, sir. God help them out on the sea!' With these words was I greeted as, through the darkness of that awful night of the 3d of August last, I groped my way to the harbour of the small fishing-village on the east coast of Scotland where I was then staying, being interested in the herring-fishing there.

On the evening of the night above mentioned a number of the boats had gone to sea, even though the weather (to say the least of it) looked threatening. The fishing up to this date had been a comparative failure; but signs of herring on the coast had been met with on the previous night; and with time wearing on, little doing, and a number of mouths to fill, the hardy weather-beaten fishermen were loath to lose a chance; so to sea they went, some few boats being providentially kept on shore.

The night, from being threatening, grew bad, with gathering clouds and rain, and gusts of wind from the sea. Wives kept up good fires against their husbands' return, as all expected the boats back. The last boat that went out did return, but no others; and the fishermen on shore were of opinion that with the wind they had had, the boats would be 'weel at sea an' sweer' (unwilling) 'to turn!'

Eleven o'clock comes, and the weather not much worse. Opinions are hazarded that it will 'maybe tak aff wi' the tide;' and I turn in and am soon asleep. Not to sleep long, however. One o'clock, and I am awakened with the howling wind, blast after blast, battering the rain against the windows, and rattling and banging windows and doors; and the noise of that dread continuous, seething, inexpressible hus-sh from the now storm-tossed angry sea. Out of bed at once, and into clothes and oilskins, then out into the night. Dark? Yes; black! Wind like to tear you off your legs, and rain blinding; but worst of all, that raging sea outside.

I struggle down to the harbour; and there, under the lee of an old boat, I find two or three fishermen, and am greeted with the words I commenced with. I could merely make out the indistinct forms of the men, but I knew the voice of the one who spoke. He was an old man now, past going to sea; but out there, somewhere in the darkness, were two sturdy young men, his sons, for whom he had worked in their childhood, and who now worked for him in his old age. Well might he pray: 'God help them out on the sea!' A month or two later than this, last year, his youngest, bonnie son was one of a crew of five drowned in that very sea, before his old father's eyes.

During temporary lulls, we could hear that there were others about; and often a sad pent-up wail, choked with a sob, told of 'wives and mithers maist despairin'' wandering past through the darkness and rain.

The cold gray dawn comes at last, only to shew us a widespread army of fighting waves dashing wildly on to the shore, and making a clean breach over the protection breakwater of the little harbour; plainly shewing the impossibility of any of the boats taking that harbour, even should they make shoreward. The safety of the boats inside the very harbour even has to be looked after, for when the tide makes, the run will be likely to snap everything.

As the morning advances and no boats heave in sight, the question arises, Where will they be? Some say they will make this or that harbour farther north; while others say they will be riding out the storm at sea, 'hanging by'1 their nets. Already, by break of day, between twenty and thirty dripping half-clad women have started to walk along the coast to the next fishing-ports. They cannot wait here till the telegraph opens; and when it does open it finds plenty of work without them.

Some men have taken the road also, promising to telegraph back, should they find any tidings of friends or neighbours. Those of us left here gather together at sheltered corners and peer out to sea and hazard an opinion now and then. The old man before spoken of tells how he was at sea the night of the great loss twenty-nine years ago, but doubts if it was as bad a night as this has been. Another – even older-looking – tells how that night is as fresh in his memory as yesterday, for, as he said, he had then thought his last night on land or sea had come. He too is sure this has been a wilder night; but then he hopefully adds: 'Look at the boats they've got to work wi' noo!' Then with a sigh: 'But a' will no tell their tale o' this nicht.'

Morning grows into noon, and the rain has now settled down into a dark drizzle, occasionally clearing a little and allowing at times a better look-out to sea.

During one of these breaks a boat heaves in sight, evidently making straight for the harbour, under a small patch of sail, and labouring heavily in the trough of the sea. Instantly the village is in a commotion, for well do all know what will be the fate of that boat and crew should they get too far in-shore. The cries of the poor women are heart-rending as they rush hither and thither through cold and wet clasping their bewildered little bairnies to their breasts. Away there goes a stalwart young fellow with a tar-barrel on his shoulder, followed by others carrying wood and shavings; and in a few minutes a warning flame bursts from the hillside; up goes a white flag on the end of the pier, a signal of too much sea on for taking the harbour; and there also from a schooner inside the harbour waves the Union-jack half-mast high, with ensign reversed – a world-wide understood signal of danger. Soon also another fire blazes from another point higher up, from where it is considered it will be better seen by those in the boat; and the old boat-builder (from whose yard the barrel, chips, and shavings have been got) stands by with a flagon of oil, from which, from time to time, he pours a little over the fire, making it shoot forth a flashing, brighter flame.

Now all has been done that can at the moment be thought of, and it only remains to wait. The boat still seems to be making for the shore; and from that it is surmised that those on board of her are strange to this part of the coast. 'He's keepin' her awa.' 'Na; he's only jibing her end-on to the seas.' 'She's gaun aboot.' 'Na, na; the Lord hae mercy on them; he's gaun to try the harbour!' Such are a few of the exclamations from the anxious group round, or rather behind that danger-fire; and there also from the lips of a bonnie fisher lass about fifteen or sixteen I hear the earnest muttered prayer: 'The Lord be at the helm. O Lord, be at the helm!' Her father and three of her brothers went to sea last night in the same boat, and strange to say – though not known to her or any on shore at the time – that boat for whose guidance she prayed was her father's. Still the boat holds on – until again, and this time almost with a shout, it is announced that 'she's gaun aboot' (shifting her course). Yes, and this time it is right. She is about. There is a sigh of relief from all, and many a hearty 'Thank God.' Tongues seem loosened now, and criticisms are passed on how 'she's behavin',' and how 'he' (the steersman) 'works her.' All agree that those in the boat will make for a port about fifteen miles farther north, which it is thought will be possible to be entered with safety. At least all are relieved that for the present the boat seems out of danger.

The Telegraph Office immediately on its being opened, and ever since, has been completely besieged. What a picture, and how impossible to picture it! A little wayside railway office crushed full of dripping, crying women, with a sad-faced man here and there. Not a sound, except occasionally a smothered sob or whisper, and the tic-tic-tic of the instrument, meaning joy or grief perhaps to some of these poor women, all eagerly watching that lad, or rather boy, the only one there who understands that tic-tic-tic.

Then when news does come of this or that boat's safety, watch the brightening faces of those to whom it is good news; their long-drawn thankful sigh of relief, and their again saddening look as they think of others around them who have got no news yet. Quietly they pull their shawls over their heads and slip out, only to make room for others who have been standing outside in the rain waiting their turn.

But hollo! There goes the fire on the hill again. What does it mean? Another boat? No; but the same one is about. Again all is consternation and wonder, until the old boat-builder says quietly: 'He's weel acquaint. It's ane o' oor ain folk, an' he's gaun to dodge aboot expeck'n the wind to tak aff.' And he is right too; for the boat only comes near enough not to be too near, then 'bout ship and out again. After a time another boat heaves in sight, then another, until, by about five o'clock in the evening, there are eleven boats tossing about out there on that wild sea, in sight of home, waiting for the storm to abate and the sea go down. News has also come to hand of the safety of other six of the thirty boats that went out from here last night, so that there is still about half of them to be heard of yet, should those in the offing turn out to belong to the place.

Well, it did 'tak aff;' and by nine o'clock that night fourteen boats managed to get safely into the harbour, though with great difficulty and danger.

What a sight was that also! A well-manned salmon coble kept afloat in the fairway ready for an emergency, and at the same time giving confidence to those in the boats taking the harbour. The pier crowded with men, women, and children, anxiously, silently, watching each boat through the peril. Then the greetings and questionings of the tired, starving fishermen, whom the sea seems to have given up.

Still lots of the boats have yet to be heard of, and many a one wanders the whole night through, unable to rest in his anxiety for the missing ones. Next day, however, all are accounted for. All safe, except one boat with a crew of five, swamped out at sea, in that dreadful August storm, and all hands drowned; and it has proved a 'sair, sair nicht' for the poor old fisherman with whose words I began this sketch, for one of his stalwart sons was one of that crew of five, who leave four widows and thirteen 'faitherless bairns;' proving how appropriate it is in regard to the pursuit of the 'caller herrin'' that