The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, May 15, 1904, Page 14

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUN DAY CALL. THE FRUIL BY NORMAN (Copyright by McClure, Phillips & Co.) ONG =go, when young Luke Dart, the Boot Bay trader, was embitious for shore patronage, he sald to Solomon Stride of Ragged Harbor, a punt fisherman: “Solomon, by, an’ you be willin’, T'll trust you with twine for a cod trap. An’ you trade with me, by, I'll trade with you, come good times or bad.” Solomon was young and lusty, & mighty youth in bone and seasoned muscle, lunged like a blast furnace, courageous and finely sangulne. Said he: “An' you trust me with twine for & trap. skipper, I'll deal fair by you, come bad. I'll pay for unm, e first fish I cotches.” “When I trust, for un when you t, so at the end of builded a cottage -War, Broad Cove a maid of the place. er he made , leader and all, 1 hands, that he might work was good to the splice. In the spring he and the fla and *h done, he wait- When the tem- ung the net on uld be seen from In the on the it co of the cottage. t with Priscilla e red sun went down in the sea the shadows crept out of the wild said this young Sol- his great b'y,” sald Priscilla, tenderly; be a gran’ seasen for fish.” **Tis handy t’ three hundred an’ fifty dollars I owes Luke Dart for the " mused Solomon. is not much,” sald Priscilla, smil- hen you has a trap.” y un all up this year,” sald twine, for a trap, have enough she cried, with an ecstatic a sewin’ machane!” red. “Sure, girl” inning of the season, fish ran in for the first caplin and the nets were set out, the when the ice was still hanging off shore, drift- ing vagrantly with the wind; and there came g gale in the night, spring- ing from the noMheast—a great, vi- clous wind, which gathered the ice in 2 pack and drove it swiftly in upon the land. Solomon dragged the trap from the bottom. Great holes were bruised in the nets, head rope and span line were ground to pulp, the anchors were lost. Thirty-seven d and nights it took. to make the nets whole again, and in that time the great spring run of cod passed by. 5o in the next spring Solo- mon was deeper in the debt of sym- pathetic Luke Dart—for the new twine and for the winter’s food he had eaten; but of an evening when he sat on the bench with Priscilla he looked through the gloaming shad- ows gathered over the harbor water and hanging between the great rocks fo the golden summer approaching and dreamed gloriously of the fish he would catch in his trap. “Priscilla, dear,” said Solomon Stride, slapping his iron thigh, “they be a fine sfgn o' fish down the coast. *Twill be a gran’ season, I'm thinkin’.” “Sure, b'y,” Priscilla agreed; “ twill be a gran’ cotch o’ fish you'll have thig year.” “Us'll pay Luke Dart this year, I tells you,” said Solomon, like a boast- ful boy. )“Us’ll pay him twice over.” “*Twill be fine to have the ma~ chane,” said she, with shining eyes. “An’ the calico t' use un on,” said he. * *Twill be fine,” said she. It chanced in that year that the fish failed utterly; hence the winter follow- ing Ragged Harbor fell upon days of distress; and three old women and one DUNCAN old man starved to death—and five children, of whom one was the infant son of Solomon Stride. Nelther in that season, nor in any one of the thirteen years coming after, did this man catch three hundred quintals of cod In his trap. In pure might of body—in plenti- tude and quality of strength—in the full, eager power of brawn—he was great as the men of any time, a tower- ing glory to the whole race, here hid- den; but he could not catch three hun- dred quintals of cod. In spirit, in pa- tignce, hope, courage and the fine will for toll—he was great; but good season or bad, he could not catch three hun- dred quintals of cod. He met night, cold fog, wind and the fury of waves in their craft, in their swift assault, in their slow, crushing descent; but all cod he could wrest from the sea, being given into the hands of Luke Dart, an honest man, yielded only suf- ficient provision for food and clothing for himself and Priscilla—only enough to keep their bodies warm and still the crying of their stomachs. Thus, while the nets of the trap rotted, and Solomon came near to middle age, the debt swung from 3700 to $7, and back which it was on an evening in spring, when he €at with Priscilla on the sunken bench at the door and dreamed great dreams, as he watched the shadows gather over the harbor water and sullenly hang between the great rocks, rising all round about. “I wonder, b'y said Priscilla, “if "twill be a good season—this year.” ‘Oh, sure!” exclaimed Solomon. “Suret” “D'ye think it, b'y?"” wistfully. “Woman,” said he, impressively, “us’ll cotch a hape o’ fish in the trap this year. They be millions o' fish t’ the say,” he went on excitedly.” They be there, woman. 'Tis oan'y for us t’ take un out. I be goin’ to wark hard this year.” “You be a great warker, Solomon,” said she; “my, but you be!” Priscilla smiled, and Solomon smiled, and it was as though all the labor and peril of the season were past and the stage were full to the roof with salt cod. In the happiness of this dream they smiled again, and turned their eyes to the hills, from which the glory of purple and yellow was departing to make way for the wisty dusk. “Skipper Luke Dart says t' me,” said Solomon, “that ’tis the luxuries that keeps folk poor.” Priscilla said nothing at all. “They be nine dollars again me in seven years for crame o' tartar,” said Solomon. “Think o' that!” “My,” said she, “but ’tis a lot! But will be used to un now, Solomon, an’ we can’t got along without un.” “Sure,” said he, “ ‘tis good we're not poor like some folk.” In thirty years after that time Solo- mon Stride put to sea ten thousand times. Ten thousand times he passed through the tickle rocks to the free, heaving deep for salmon and cod, thereto compelled by the inland waste, which contributes nothing to the sus- tenance of the men of that coast. Hun- ger, lurking in the shadows of days to come, inexorably drove him intogthe chances of the conflict. Perforce he matched himself ten thousand. times against the restless might of the sea; immeasurable and unrestrained, sur- viving the gamut of its moods because he was great in strength, fearlessness and cunning. He weathered four hun- dred gales, from the gray gusts which come down between Quid Nunc and the Man-o'-War, leaping upon the fleet, to the summer tempests, swift and black, and the first blizzards of winter. He was wrecked off the Mull, off the Three Poor Sisters, on the Pancake Rock, and again on the Mull.. Seven times he was swept to sea by, the off-shore wind. Eighteen times he was frozen to the seat of his punt; and of these, eight times his feet were frozen and thrice bis festered right hand. All this he suf- fered, and more, of which I may set down six separate periods of starva- tion, In which thirty-eight men, women and children died—all this, with all the toil, cold, despair, loneliness, hun- ger, peril and disappointment therein contained. And so he came down to old age— with a bent back, shrunken arms and filmy eyes — old Solomon Stride, now prey for the young sea. But, of an evening in spring, he sat with Priscilla on the sunken bench at the door, and talked hopefully of the fish he would catch from this punt. “Priscilla, dear,” sald he, rubbing his hand over his weazened thigh, “I be thinkin’ us punt fishermen'll have pgyve Priscilla was not attending; she was looking into the shadows above the harbor water, dreaming deeply of a mystery of the Book, which had long puzzled her; so, in silence, Solomon, too, wat:hed the shadows rise and sul- lenly hang between the great rocks. “Solomon, b'y,” she whispered, “I wonder what the seven thunders ut- tered.” “'Tis quare, that—what the seven thunders uttered,” sald Solomon. “My, woman, but.’tis!” “‘An’' he set his right foot upon the gea,’” she repeated, staring over the graying water to the clouds which flamed gloriously at the edge of the world, “‘an’ his left foot an the Y “*An’ cried with a loud voice,’ ” said RIGGED THE Y BB he, whispering in awe, “‘as when a lion roareth, an' when he had cried, seven thunders uttered their voices.”"” “‘Seven thunders uttered their voices,”” sald she; “‘an’ when the seven thunders had uttered their voices, I was about to write, an’ I heard a voice from heaven sayin’ unto me, Seal up those things which the seven thunders uttered, an’ write them not.’ ** The wind from the wilderness, cold and, black, covered the hills with mist; the dusk fell, and the glory faded from the heights. “Oh, Solomon,” she said, clasping her hands, “I wonder what the seven thunders uttered! Think you, b'y, 'twas the kind o’ sins that can’'t be for- given?” “Sh-h-h, dear,” he said, patting her gray head;: “thinkin’ ca they things'll capsize an’ you don’t look out.” “‘An’ seven thunders uttered their voices,” "’ she said dreamily. “Sh-h-h, dear!” said he. goa in.” Twenty-one years longer old Solomon Stride fished out of Ragged Harbor. He put to sea flve thousand times more, weathered two hundred more gales, survived five more famines—all in the toil for famine and cod. He was a punt fisherman again, was old Solo- mon; for the nets of the trap had rot- ted, had been renewed six times, strand by strand, and had rotted at last be- yond repair. What with the weather he dared not pit his failing strength agalnst, the return of fish to Luke Dart fell off from year to year; but, as Solo- mon said to Luke, “livin’ expenses kep' up wonderful,” notwithstanding. “I be'so used t’ luxuries,” he went on, running his hand through his long gray bhair, “that ’twould be hard t' come down t' common livin'. Sure, 'tis sugar I wants t' me tea—not black-strap. 'Tis what I I'arned,” he added proudly, “when I were a trap fisherman.” “Leave us “'Tis all right, Solomon,” sald Luke, « ““Many’s the quintal o’ fish you traded with me.” “Sure,” Solomon chuckled; “‘twould take a year t' count un.” In the course of time it came to the end of Solomon’s first season—those days of it when, as the folk of the coast say, the sea is hungry for lives—and the man was 81 years old, and the debt to Luke Dart had crept up to $230 80. The oftshore wind, rising suddenly, with a blizzard in its train, caught him alone on the Grappling Hook, grounds. He was old, very old—old and feeble and dull; the cold numbed him; the snow blinded him; the wind made sport “"SHE WERE A SQUARE- CRAFT SHE HAD SHININ’ ROPE S AN SHE WERE SHIMOUN ALL OVER SURE THEY BEA STAR T THE TIP O' HER BOW SPRIT B'Y ANA START' THE PEAK O AER MAINMAST- SEVEN STARS ~N oAyt of the strength of his arms. He was carried out to sea, rowing doggedly, thinking all the time that he was draw- ing near the harbor tickle; for it did not occur to h that the last of 800 gales could Ve too great for him. He was carried out from the sea, where the strength of his youth had been spent, to the deep, which' had been a mystery to him all his days. That night he passed on a pan of ice, where he burned his boat, splinter by splinter, to keep warm. At dawn he lay down to die. * The snow ceased, the wind changed; the ice was carried to Ragged Harbor. Eleazar Manuel spied the body of Solo- mon from the lookout and put out and brought him in, revived him and took him home to Priscilla. Through the winter the old man doddered about the harbor, dying of consumption. When the tempered days came—the days of balmy sunshine and cold evening winds —he came quickly to the pass of. glit- tering visions, which, for such as die of the lung trouble, come at the end of life. In the spring, when the Lucky Star, three days out from Boot Bay, put into Ragged Harbor to trade for the first catch, old Skipper Luke Dart was aboard, making his last voyage to the shore; for he was very old and longed once more to see the rocks of all that coast before he made ready to die. When he came ashore, Eleazar Manuel told him that Solomon Stride lay dying at home; so the skipper went to the cottage under the Ian-o'-War to say good-by to his old ctstomer and friend —and there found him, propped up in bed, staring at the sea. “Skipper Luke,” Solomon quavered, in deep excitement, “be you just come in, b'y?” - “Iss—but an hour gone. “What be the bz craft” hangin' off shoare? Eh—what be she, b'y?" There had been no craft in sight when the Lucky Star beat in. *“Were she a fore-an’-after, Solomon?” sald Luke, evasively. “Sure, noa, b'y!” cried Solomon. “She were a square rigged craft, with all sail set—a great, gran’ craft—a quare craft, b'y—b’y—like she were made o’ glass, canvas an’ hull an’ all; an’ she had shinin’ ropes, an’ she were shinin’ all over.’ Sure, they be a star t’ the tip o' her bowsprit, b'y, an’ a star t’ the peak o’ her mainmast—seven stars they be, in all. Oh, she were a gran’ sight!” “Hem-m!"” sald Luke, stroking his beard. “She’ve not come in yet.” “She were hound down north t’ the Labrador,” Solomon went on quickly, “an’ when she made the Grnpplln: Hook grounds she come about alrlx headed for the tickle, with her salls the squared. Sure she ran right over Pancake, b'y, like he werent".:xfre at all, an'—How's the wind, b'y? “Dead off shore from the tickle.” Solomon stared at Luke. “She werg comin’ straight in again the W‘Ind," he said, hoarsely. “Maybe, skipper, he went on, with a little laugh, “she do be the ship for souls. They be many things strong men knows noth- in” about. What think you?” Ay—may be; may be she be.” ay be—may be—she do be In- visible t mortal eyes. May be, ak_ip- per, you hasn't seed her; may be ’tis that my eyes do be opened t' such sights. May be she've turned in—for me.” The men turned their faces to the window again and gazed long and In- tently at the sea, which a storm cloud had turned back. “Skipper Luke,” said Solomon with a smile as of one in an enviable situation, “’tis fine t have nothin’ again you on the books when you comes t’ dle.” “Sure, b'y,” sald Luke, hesitating not at all, though he knew to a cent what was on the books against Solo- mon’s name, “’tis fine t' be free o’ debt.” “Ah,” sald Solomon, the smile broadening gloriously, “’tis fine, I tells you. 'Twas the three hundred quintal I cotched :last season that paid un all up. 'Twas a gran’ cotch—last year. Ah,” he sighed, “’twas a gran’ cotch o’ fish.” “Jss—you be free o’ debt now, b'y. “What be the balance t' my credit, skipper? Sure I forget.” “Hem-m,” the skipper coughed, pausing to form a guess which might be within Solomon's dream; then he ventured: “Fifty dollars?” 4 “Iss,” sald Solomon, “ffty, an’ moare, skipper. Sure, you has forgot the eighty cents.” “Fifty-eighty,” sald the skipper pos- ftively. “’Tis that. I call un t’ mind now. 'Tis fifty-eighty—iss, sure. Pld you get a recelpt for un, Solomon ?* “] doan’t mind me now.” “Um-m-m—well,” sald the skipper, “p'll send un t' the woman the night— an order on the Lucky Star.” “Fifty-elghty for the woman!” said Solomon. *’'Twill kape her off the Gov'ment for three years, an she be savin’. 'Tis fine-—that!” When the skipper had gone, Pris- cilla crept in and sat at the head of the bed, holding Solomon’s hand; and they were silent for a long time, while the evening approached. “I be goain’ t' die the night, dear,” said Solomon at last. . “Iss, b'y,” she answered; “you be goain’ t' die?” “'Tis not hard” sald Solomon. “Sh-h-h,” he whispered, as though about to impart a secret. “The ship that's hangin’ off shoare, walitin’ for me soul, do be a fine ¢craft—with shin- in’ canvas an’ ropes. Sh-h! She do be t'other side o° Mad Mull now— waltin®.” Priscilla trembled, for Solomon had come to the time of visions—when the words of the ng are the words of prophets, and contaln revelations. What of the utterings of the seven thunders? *“Sure the Priscilla,” Lard have blessed us, sald Solomon, Tational DAY CALL = again. “Goodness an’ marcy has fol- lowed us all the days o’ our lives. Our cup runneth over. “Praise the Lar sald Priscilla. “Sure,” Solomon went on, smiling like a little child, “we've had but eleven famines, an’ we've had the means o grace pretty reg’lar, which is what they hasn’t t’ Round Arbor. We've had one little baby for a little while. Iss— one de-ear little baby, Priscilla; and there’s them that’s had none o’ their own at all. Sure we've had enough t* eat when they wasn't a famine—an’ bakin’ powder an’ raisins, an’ all they things, an’ sugar an’ rale good tea. An’ you had a merino dress an’ I had a suit o’ rale tweed come straight from England. Ah, the Lard have favored us above our deserts. He've been good t’ us, Priscilla. But, oh, you hasn't had the sewin' machane and you hasn’t had the peachstone t’ plant in the gar- den. 'Tis my fault, dear, "tis not the Lard’s. I should 'a’ got you the peach- stone from St. Johns, you did want un so much—oh, so much! °Tis that I be sorry for, now, dear; but "tia all over, an’ I can’t help it.” “'Tis nothin’, Solomen,” she sobbed. joakin’ all the time. Joakin” “Sure,” she sald. Priscilla held his hand & long time after that—a long, silent time, in which the soul of the man struggled to re- lease itself, until it was held by dut & thread. “Solomon!” The old man seemed not to hear, “Solomon, b'y!™ she eried. “Iss?” faintly. Sho leaned over him to whisper In his ear. “Does see the gates o’ heavent™ she said. “Oh, does yout” “Sure, dear; heaven do be—" Solomon had not strength enough te complete the sentence. “B'y! B'y!"” He opened his eyes and turned them to her face. There was a gleam of a tender smile in them. “The seven thunders,” she said. “The uttern’s of the seven thunders—what was they, b'y?” “’An’ the seven thunders uttered their voices,’ ” he mumbled, n'— She waited, rigid, listening, to hear the rest; but no words came to her ears. “Does you hear me, b'y?"” she sald. “‘An’ seven—thunders—uttered thelr volces,”” he gasped, “‘an’ the seven thunders—said—said—' " The light failed and all the light and golden glory went out of the sky, for the first cloud of a tempest had cur- tained the sun. “‘An’ sald—" " ghe prompted. *‘An’ uttered—an’ sala—an'—said—" " “Oh, what?” she moaned. Now, in that night, when the body of old Solomon Stride, a worn-out hulk, aged and wrecked in the toll of the deep, fell into the hands of Death, the sea, like a lusty youth, raged furiously in those parts. The ribs of many schooners, slimy and rotten, and the hite bones of men in the offshore lepths, knew of its strength in that hour—of its black, hard wrath, In gust and wave and breaker. Eternal in might and malignance is the sea! It groweth not old with the men who toil from its coasts. As it4s written, the life of a man I8 a shadow, swiftly passing, and the "y! of his strength are less; but the sea shall en- dure in the might of youth to the wreck of the world.