so oily with the fishy deposit that it
requires a strong wind to ruffle its surface.
Everywhere on the shore and hill sides,
and on the numberless islands, rises the
smoke of camps. Busy swarms surround
the curing-houses and the inn, while the
beach is strewn with fishermen stretched at
length, and dreaming till night time. In
the afternoon, the fleet slowly begins to
disappear, melting away out into the ocean,
not to reappear till long after the grey of
the next dawn.

Did you ever go out for a night with the
herring fishers? If you can stand cold and
wet, you would enjoy the thing hugely,
especially if you have a boating mind. Imagine
yourself on board a west-country smack,
running out of Boisdale harbour with the
rest of the fleet. It is afternoon, and there
is a nice fresh breeze from the south-west.
You crouch in the stern by the side of the
helmsman, and survey all around you with
the interest of a novice. Six splendid
fellows, in various picturesque attitudes,
lounge about the great, broad, open hold, and
another is down in the forecastle boiling
coffee. If you were not there, half of these
would be taking their sleep down below. It
seems a lazy business, so far; but wait! By
sunset the smack has run fifteen miles up
the coast, and is going seven or eight miles
east of Ru Hamish lighthouse; many of
the fleet still keep her company, steering
thick as shadows in the summer twilight.
How thick the gulls gather yonder! That
dull plash ahead of the boat was the plunge
of a solan goose. That the herrings are
hereabout, and in no small numbers, you might
be sure, even without that bright phosphorescent
light which travels in patches in the
water to leeward. Now is the time to see
the lounging crew dart into sudden activity.
The boat's head is brought up to the wind,
and the sails are lowered in an instant.* One
man grips the helm, another lugs out the
back rope of the net, a third the "skunk,"
or body, a fourth is placed to see the buoys
clear and heave them out, the rest attend
forward, keeping a sharp look-out for other
nets, ready, in case the boat should run too
fast, to steady her by dropping the anchor
a few fathoms into the sea. When all the
nets are out, the boat is brought bow on to
the net, the "swing" (as they call the rope
attached to the net) secured to the smack's
"bits," and all hands then lower the mast
as quickly as possible. The mast lowered,
secured, and made all clear for hoisting at
a moment's notice, and the candle lantern
set up in the iron stand made for the purpose
of holding it, the crew leave one lookout
on deck, with instructions to call them
up at a fixed hour, and turn in below for a
nap in their clothes: unless it so happens
that your brilliant conversation, seasoned
with a few bottles of whisky, should tempt
them to steal a few more hours from the
summer night. Day breaks, and every
man is on deck. All hands are busy at
work, taking the net in over the bow, two
supporting the body, the rest hauling the
back rope, save one, who takes the net
into the hold, and another who arranges it
from side to side in the hold to keep the
vessel even. Tweet! tweet! that thin
cheeping sound, not unlike the razor-like
call of the bat, is made by the dying herrings
at the bottom of the boat. The sea to leeward,
the smack's hold, the hands and arms
of the men, are gleaming like silver. As
many of the fish as possible are shaken
loose during the process of hauling in, but
the rest are left in the net until the smack
gets to shore. Three or four hours pass
away in this wet and tiresome work. At
last, however, the nets are all drawn in, the
mast is hoisted, the sail set, and while the
cook (there being always one man having
this branch of work in his department)
plunges below to make breakfast, the boat
makes for Loch Boisdale. Everywhere on
the water, see the fishing-boats making for
the same bourne, blessing their luck or
cursing their misfortune, just as the
fortune of the night may have been. All sail
is set if possible, and it is a wild race to
the market. Even when the anchorage is
reached, the work is not quite finished; for
the fish has to be measured out in "cran"
baskets,* and delivered at the curing station.
By the time that the crew have got their
morning dram, have arranged the nets
snugly in the stern, and have had some
herrings for dinner, it is time to be off
again to the harvest field. Half the crew
turn in for sleep, while the other half hoist
sail and conduct the vessel out to sea.

Huge, indeed, are the swarms that
inhabit Boisdale, afloat or ashore, during
this harvest; but, partly because each man
has business on hand, and partly because
there is plenty of sea room, there are few
breaches of the peace. On Saturday night

* There is fashion everywhere. An east-country boat
always shoots across the wind, of course carrying some
sail, while a west-country boat shoots before the wind
with bare poles.

* A cran holds rather more than a herring barrel,
and the average value of a cran measure of herrings is
about one pound sterling.