Page:Once a Week June to Dec 1863.pdf/442

 432 giv them so much learning as a fayther should do, sir; but (be still lads!) so careless they would kill a man in a minute, and never think no more about it at all, sir—that’s what they be.” The noble lads were rather a bore sometimes, when they would fight just at the wrong moment, but they certainly understood their trade well enough. When we were about nine miles from land we anchored, and fished for bait; the water being deep and having a sandy bottom, was a good place for gurnards, and also, unluckily, for dog-fish. These last pestered us not a little, snapping off the gurnards sometimes just as they were near the surface: so that after pulling up 200 feet of line, one got only the head of a “tubb” or a “soldier.” The tubbs are the large gurnards, with blue wing-like fins, the soldiers are smaller fish, with scarlet backs and white bellies. By the time the sun was low on the horizon, we had about a hundred fish for bait, besides “dogs” large and small, and a peculiarly unpleasant-looking fish called a “nuss.” This is a sort of dog-fish, not bluish-grey, but yellow, with brownish spots all over it, and without the sharp claw or spine on the dog-fish’s back. The clouds were gathering and the breeze was rising, and Penrose and sons wished to return, but I was determined to hold to my bargain and catch at least one conger. They held out fearful prophecies of having to beat about in the Channel for a day or two, and steer for Scilly or Penzance according to the wind; but finding that I really wanted to fish, they prepared for work. While we are sailing along a few miles to the nearest conger-ground, I may say a few words on the fish itself. There are two varieties at the Land’s End, the black and the white, but this seems to arise only from the difference of their habits. The black conger is never found in more than fifteen fathoms water, and this is also the limit of the large oar-weed. Those fish which hunt under the shadow of these weeds are black, those which live in the deep water (which averages forty fathoms from Land’s End to Scilly) are pale brown on the back. The people catch a good many at the entrance of bays with the “spillers,” and I have myself caught a fine fish on some spillers which we had laid down in the sandy bay for turbot and plaice.

The young congers hang about the rocks, which are bare at low tide, and in dabbling about for “whistlers and pettifoggers” one is often surprised at pulling out from his hole a vigorous young conger. Perhaps people in general do not know what whistlers and pettifoggers are: they are the different species of rockling, the whistlers or four-bearded rockling averaging about six inches in length, and being of a dark colour; the pettifogger sometimes reaching eighteen inches, and of a pale reddish colour, with spots. This last is a preternaturally ugly fish, but, like his brother the whistler, is most delicate eating, when fried. They are caught at low water, when the waves are just keeping the holes under the rocks full. You must find a rock with a free passage under it to the sea, and with a dark hole. Thrust in a withy-stick with a crab-baited hook, and you may catch a succession of these fish, who catch hold of the worsted round the bait, and if they drop off before you get your basket under them, will come again with a greedy rush to get before the small fry, which nibble the bait, such as gobies and blennies, and what they call there the toad-fish.

After this digression, we may return to our fishing twelve or thirteen miles out, with the sky black in the west, and a breeze inclined to get up. Down went the lines, forty fathom of thick cord, bound round for six feet above the two hooks with copper wire: the hook itself was of enormous size, and baited with half a bream twisted round it. After one or two false alarms I felt a good tug at mine, and hauled: up came a brace of very large cod. There are, besides the common cod, the ground or silver cod and the red cod, but not in any great numbers. The cod about there are not of much value, seldom running above an average of thirteen pounds, and being rather coarse in flesh; they are not much sport to catch, except near the shore with small tackle, when, unless you coax them very gently up to the gaff, they flap their tail and go with your tackle. In a minute or two young Penrose got a bite, and lost the fish: this shows that they are difficult to catch, for he is a first-rate fisherman, and understands the fish’s ways as well as most. Then a little pull at my hook,—very faint: I struck hard, and pulled in a couple of fathoms.

“What is it, Billy? Conger, cod, or skate?” handing him the line.

“That ’m a dog, sir; they’ve found us out, worse luck!” was the answer.

However, I hauled in hard, and was delighted to find no dog-fish, but a “handy conger,” that is, about sixteen pounds weight.

The weather was now clearing up, and we lit pipes, took a pull at the brandy, and made up our minds for work.

Young Billy caught a ling next, a fish which is very good to eat in steaks, but is not very nice to look at: it has a very unpleasant smell, and looks like a cod-fish in a consumption and pulled out long. After this we began to catch fish in good earnest, pulling in cod, conger, and ling, till all of a sudden I felt a tremendous jerk, and began to pull up with the utmost difficulty. That quarter of an hour was certainly hard work, kneeling at the end of the boat, pulling the line in over the gunwale, and cutting the skin from the inside of one’s hands. The others came round and looked on with great interest.

“I can’t tell what it is,” I gasped; “just feel the line, Billy!”

He took it in his hand, and shouted:

“Pull away, sir, I know; heave ’m up, heave ’m up, I know what the beast is!”

Then a flash through the water, and a sight of some monster, like an enormous mackerel, darting from one side to the other, and nearly pulling one’s arms from the sockets. It was a blue shark, nearly nine feet long. Billy fetched a small axe and a knife, and we had a most exciting struggle with him, now getting a cut at his head, now holding on while he darted round the head of the boat. In the end, we got him in, mashed a good deal about the head, but still flapping hard with his powerful tail. This was one of the finest