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in it. Their carpentry finished, the men set about carefully applying paint to the little crafts. They all used yellow, paler than lemon but with a nice glow, as was the practice.
    Then they began hauling chocks aboard; these were large puncheons they retrieved from the store sheds. They needed six large puncheons for each boat to make into liver butts, where the Captain would render the miserable-tasting cod liver oil. They also dragged on board four large fish crates where they would cut, throat, and head the fish they caught. Then they made two large fish tubs by sawing a puncheon in two. These were for washing the dressed fish.
    Still on the merchant’s time, the men checked the splitting tables and stored their trawl tubs and bait jacks. Then it was time to build the gurry kids on deck; these were large wooden boxes or pounds in which fish offal or “gurry” would be stowed.
    At night they scarfed their suppers as usual, washed, dried, and stacked their dishes, and made the last repairs to their bait hooks. At this stage there was a little time for rest, and they all knew they would need it when they got to the Banks.
    But first, another dreaded job had to be done. The Laura Claire needed salt, lots of salt to preserve the fish. The men braced their bodies as they loaded 250 hogsheads of salt onto the schooner. They split into three groups to do this in the most efficient manner possible. The first group was stationed in the Brinton fishing rooms where they shovelled the salt into the wheelbarrows. The salt was heavy, much more than the heaviest snow, and seemed to be in unlimited supply. The second group, of which Richard was part, wheeled the salt on board the schooner. They used a bridge of planks the men had made at the crack of dawn. Pushing the wheelbarrow up the planks and onto the boat was the most difficult part, and more than one man rushed forward to help Richard with it, though never his father. The third group of men stood on deck; in their calloused hands were shovels which they used to throw the salt into the pounds in the hold. Their backs strained as they did this and, again, the sweat poured off them. They ignored pulled muscles and kept working all day. It was still the merchant’s time.

Chapter Eight
    O ne morning Captain Brinton called Richard to the bridge. The Captain patted his chest, a habit he’d carried over from his asthmatic childhood, as the boy walked in slowly, tentatively. Clearly Richard was frightened to death of the Skipper, which, of course, Brinton easily recognized. He knew that the boy must surely fear being summoned by the Captain. No doubt he was afraid he’d be sent back home for some infraction that only the Skipper had noticed. Brinton surveyed the clothes stretched tight on the boy’s growing body – he was covered in a sweater coat that seemed to be shrinking – and saw the paleness of his face. He tried to set the lad at ease.
    â€œHow old are you, son?” he asked in a low voice, trying to sound gentle.
    â€œFifteen, sir,” Richard answered, staring at the deck.
    â€œFifteen,” the Captain repeated, thinking the boy looked barely into his teens. He paused. “Well, I suppose that’s an all right age for a boy to start Banks fishing. And your father is with you.”
    â€œYes, sir,” Richard said, still eyeing the deck.
    â€œRelax, lad,” the Captain said. “I hope it’s going well for you.”
    â€œYes, sir,” said Richard.
    â€œGood, then,” Brinton answered. “Will you run up to the store for me and get this order? It’s my personal order. I need tobacco and such for the spring trip. It’s all written here.” He pulled a note from his breast pocket and glanced over it. “Can you read, young Hanrahan?”
    â€œYes, sir, a little, I mean, I ...” Richard’s tongue seemed to be thick and unmoving.
    â€œThat’s good, very good,” the