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Updated: June 10, 2025
Above him there were wild undulating slopes covered with rich green gorse; below were the cliffs of Gurnard's Cove, with rocky projections that resemble the castellated work of man's hand, and intermingled therewith much of the materiel connected with the pilchard fishery, with masses of masonry so heavy and picturesque as to resemble Nature's handiwork.
Anyhow, if he lives or dies, we're devilish pressed for time. I'm beginning to think we'll have to work at night, too." "At night?" "There's a full moon. Here she comes now." Swan looked at the full moon, which, as the darkness increased, grew in radiance. Pilchard breathed more smoke through his nose, then said with a sigh: "That's hard luck, Swan. I'm sorry." "Hey?"
"Had a letter from the company today," Pilchard observed, suddenly. "That so?" "They're going to send a fellow down from Frisco on the steamer that touches on the 25th. Everything plays into their hands. Steamer reaches here the day the contract expires." "Well, that's all right." "They request that I meet the fellow and show him around." "That's easy, too."
Savory was the smell of fried pilchard and hake; more savory still that of roast porpoise; most savory of all that of fifty huge squab pies, built up of layers of apples, bacon, onions, and mutton, and at the bottom of each a squab, or young cormorant, which diffused both through the pie and through the ambient air a delicate odor of mingled guano and polecat.
In this rude shanty, knocked together by the workmen to hold their tools, on a heap of sacks and blankets, Swan lay as he had dropped the night before. Pilchard had found him there, and the full moon coming in at the wide opening had revealed a fearful sight Swan in the throes of terrific fever, his face scarlet, his eyes ferrety and congested, and his swollen tongue lolling between his lips.
Pilchard brought out that ever-ready smile that was so delightful. "But it's about time to go home. This is a terrible climate. We've lost every white man that came down, eleven all told, except myself and and one other, who's dying over in that shed now. Maybe maybe he's dead " Pilchard jerked with his thumb towards a shanty just where the docks joined the land....
Inasmuch as a pilchard catch worth £800 was in dispute, feeling ran high between the Nancepean Daws and the Lanyon Gulls.
His nerves could not have held out much longer; but after he had filled himself with several drinks and was sitting in gauzy pajamas beside an open window, things began to look brighter. Ten days might develop unheard-of things. To work all night on the borders of a swamp in this rainy season, which is almost certain death for a white man Pilchard closed his eyes and peacefully slept....
He went back to bed and slept dreamlessly. Next evening, as half-past eight was striking, he was at his customary post by the river, above the "Dog and Pilchard." A heavy storm was mounting up behind the Cathedral, black clouds being piled tier on tier as though some gigantic shopman were shooting out rolls of carpet for the benefit of some celestial purchaser.
He suddenly felt dizzy as he looked at the hot distance where some big leaves were waving dizzy as he knew that he must fail. "By God!" he exclaimed, striking the pile of dirt. "By God! I'll do it!" Pilchard put on his hat and smiled. He had been waiting for this. "If you say you will, I bet you will!" he told Swan. "That's why you'll always come out ahead."
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