The Maine Mutiny (10 page)

“No, but you’re likely in debt to Pettie up to your eyeballs.”

“That ain’t none of your business.”

“No use gettin’ green-eyed over Linc,” Paynter said. “If he’s got another source of income, we’d better be able to prove it. Only way we’ll ever push ’im out.”

Maynard hooted. “That’ll be the day. A Williams has been head of the lobstermen’s association for over a hundred years. That’s what Brady says.”

Paynter eyed Maynard. “Forget what Brady Holland says,” he said. “I don’t want to find out you carried tales to that punk, you hear me?”

“Linc ain’t a real king, and I can think of a dozen men’ud do a better job protectin’ our interests,” Bower said, stuffing the last of the sandwich into his mouth.

“Mebbe. But the men don’t like change,” Levi said. “I ain’t for bootin’ him unless the charge is true.”

“Now, how you gonna prove that?” Paynter said, climbing to his feet and nudging Maynard, who balled up the paper that had wrapped his lunch and tossed it in a bucket. “I gotta skite along, earn my keep,” Paynter yelled over his shoulder. The loud growl of his engine drowned out further conversation, until his boat pulled away from the little conclave and headed out to sea.

“Whew, amazing that motor still honks along,” Evan said, shaking his head.

“Alex is right, Levi. How’re we gonna prove it?” Bower said.

“We’re gonna keep an eye out is what we’re gonna do, and don’t be obvious about it or he’ll go all nasty-neat on us and that’ll be the end of it. If he sees us watchin’ and suspects we’re onto him, we might as well be shearin’ a pig.”

Shearing a pig,
I thought.
Well, there’s an unproductive task.
Between the meeting last night and the conversations I’d heard today, it was becoming clear that the problems of the lobstermen were more and more complicated. They thought their dealer wasn’t dealing straight, that he was underpaying them. Even worse, they feared he was paying off their association president, the one man they looked to to safeguard their interests and to act as their spokesman. Pettie was holding the Cabot Cove Lobsterfest over their heads, and Linc Williams had said nothing. If they didn’t cooperate, Pettie had a unique way of punishing them. There might not be enough lobsters put away for the big shore dinner that was to be the highlight of the festival. And who would the town blame for the shortage? Not the dealer. That was certain. Henry Pettie wanted the men to buckle down, take what he gave them, and not complain. But the voices were getting louder, not softer. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to have a full-fledged mutiny on his hands.

Lunch hour over, we sailed away from Ike Bower and took up the day’s tasks again, Evan reining in his father’s lobster traps, relieving them of their cargo, rebaiting, and dropping them back in the water in a new location that Levi determined was better than the last. Fully half the creatures captured were illegal for one reason or another, either too small, too large, or a breeding female, and were returned to the ocean to be caught another day. I began to see that lobstering was a hundred percent effort for only fifty percent gain.

“There’s some days we’re just feedin’ ’em,” Levi said, as the third trap in a row without a keeper sank back to the bottom. He held up a notch-tail to show me the eggs that were affixed to her belly. “See these berries?” he said. “You let them grow and they put out twice as much as the smaller hens. Sometimes you gotta sacrifice for the future.” He leaned over the side, laid the lobster on the surface, and watched as she drifted down out of sight.

Levi tapped information into his Thistle box and checked his depth finder, looking for the signs that indicated a gravel or hard bottom, and signaled Evan when to throw over the trap he’d emptied. The morning’s traps had been set in a straight line, but in the afternoon the buoys that showed where Levi’s traps were placed were clustered in small groups. “This spot has been good for us before,” he explained. “I want to make sure I’ve got it covered.”

“Yeah, and don’t give Holland any room to drop his load on top of ours,” Evan added.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“He’s been following us all day,” Evan said, nodding at a boat about a half mile aft of Levi’s.

I followed his glance. “But we’ve seen lots of other boats today,” I said. “How do you know who that is?”

“That’s Holland, all right. Does it all the time,” Evan said. “Has no idea where to put his traps, so he shadows the good fishermen and copies them.”

“I guess that’s flattering in a way,” I said.

“Mebbe, but if he comes too close he’ll foul our lines, or worse, he’ll be stealing our catch. I’d’a thought he’d’a learned by now,” Levi said, winking at his son.

Evan grinned. “Okay to tell the story?” he asked his father.

“Only if you don’t go printin’ it,” Levi replied, looking at me sternly.

I looked back and forth between father and son, who were clearly sharing a joke. “Scout’s honor,” I said.

Evan took off his cap and wiped his brow with his bare arm. “Holland made a mess of our lines one time, and Pop wanted to teach him a lesson. He took about fifteen traps and, when he knew Holland was on his tail, put ’em off a ledge near Arrow Point. But there weren’t nothin’ in them, only bricks. The lobsters were long gone from there. Holland was sure he’d catch what my father was catching, but all he did was waste his time and bait.”

“He finally figured it out by pulling one of my traps,” Levi added.

“And made a fool of himself at the association by accusing Pop of staking out a prime fishing ground to keep other lobstermen away.”

“I asked him how he knew what was in my traps,” Levi said, his eyes twinkling.

“The other men gave him what-for,” Evan added.

“You don’t mess with another man’s traps,” Levi said, sobering. “That’s his livelihood.”

“He would’ve been booted out if Linc wasn’t his uncle.”

“Linc Williams is Brady Holland’s uncle?” I said.

Levi nodded. “His sister’s boy. Troublemaker all his life.” He looked hard at Evan. “You keep away from Holland and his friends. I don’t want to hear bad about you.”

“And when did you ever?” Evan said, smirking at his father. “I’m your best son.”

“And the only one,” Levi said, trying to suppress a smile.

“Yeah, well, Anna would’ve liked that title.”

“She’s a tomboy, all right, but she’ll come ’round. So was your mother in her younger days.”

“Yeah, I know,” Evan said, laughing. “But she took one look at you and—”

“Put on a dress,” they finished together.

I joined in their laughter at what was a familiar family story. I didn’t remember Mary as a tomboy, but I’d heard tales of how she set her eyes on Levi and nothing would do until they were paired off and married. That persistence was still part of her personality, and she was always in demand when any committee was forming for a purpose. I imagined that was how I got to sit on Levi’s boat. Mary had “put on a dress” and convinced Levi to take me along.

The sun was high overhead as the men continued working without slowing their pace. They must have been tired. The work was physical, repetitive and grueling. As the afternoon wore on, the seas became rough, making it more difficult to balance the traps on the rail. Evan had to hold them steady with one hand, and empty and rebait them with the other. Added to the challenge of the rolling pitch, the heat took its toll.

I snugged down my fishing hat to shield my face from the sun’s rays. Evan’s face was bright red under his cap, and his T-shirt was dark with sweat that poured down his back and left two long stains under his arms. The temperature was working on the bait barrels, too, and the seaborne debris that littered the deck. What had been merely a briny smell in the morning was turning sour and pungent, and I began to regret the sandwich I’d so happily consumed earlier.

As the stench of rotting bait sharpened, I began to feel my gorge rise. At first I tried moving to the rail and facing the wind to get away from the smell. But it was only a temporary respite. The rough waters caused the boat to dip and rise as if caught in a wake. Grabbing the low rail and squatting down, I realized I could easily tumble overboard, and while I might welcome the coolness of the water and temporary escape from the reeking fish, my hosts wouldn’t thank me for having to interrupt their routine to save their passenger. I’d promised to stay out of their way, not make more work, and I was determined not to show my landlubber weakness by giving up my lunch to the sea. I’ve always been a good sailor, and the wave of nausea I experienced was as embarrassing as it was stomach-turning.

Breathing through my mouth, I stumbled back to my stool and fumbled in my fanny pack for the acupressure bands Seth had given me the night before. I drew them over my hands, positioning the hard button on the inside of my wrist as he’d shown me.

“Feelin’ a mite queasy?” Levi asked.

I nodded, not sure I could get the words out.

“Thought you looked a little funny. Those work for you?” Levi asked.

“I hope so,” I managed to say.

“I never tried them.”

“You get seasick?”

“Not anymore, but I did when I was his age,” he said, cocking his head toward Evan, who wasn’t looking all that well himself. “It’s one of the hazards of the trade.”

“What did you do for it?”

Levi shrugged. “I threw up.”

I managed to hold steady for another hour and heaved a silent sigh of relief when Levi turned his boat around and headed back toward Cabot Cove. By land standards, it was early to end a working day, but we’d been on the water for almost ten hours, and I could barely uncurl my hand from the cleat I’d been gripping to balance myself on the rocking boat. I was surprised to realize that the acupressure bands had calmed my stomach, and was grateful I hadn’t had to take the pills Seth had supplied, which I’d brought with me as a precaution.

Evan spent the ride back hosing down the boat and shoveling overboard what remained of the rotten bait, to the delight of the gulls, which had appeared again as soon as Levi gunned the engine and turned toward home. My body was sore and my hair was stiff from the salty spray and flecks of things I didn’t want to think about, but when the harbor hove into sight, I felt the relaxation that accompanies a good day’s work, and the exhilaration of having landed what appeared to me to be a good-sized catch.

Levi slowed down as we passed the buoys that marked the mouth of the harbor, and navigated around other boats in the shipping lane, angling his boat toward a dock about a quarter mile down the shore from Nudd’s. There was a large shack at one end and two gasoline pumps at the other. We were not the first lobster boat in and had to wait as Henry Pettie’s assistants weighed several catches ahead of ours.

While Levi tied up the boat and went to check on the day’s price, Evan climbed onto the boards and grabbed two of the blue plastic bins that lined the dock. He dropped them onto the deck and jumped down after them, leaning down to pull off the board that served as the hatch cover.

“May I help?” I asked, looking down at the mass of green and orange lobsters that gleamed in the afternoon sun.

“Sure, if you want to.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Grab my father’s gloves over there, and I’ll show you.”

Evan used a net ring with short handles on either side to scoop out the lobsters. He balanced the ring on the corner of the blue bin. “You have to be real careful with them,” he said. “Rough handling makes ’em drop a claw. The culls are less valuable.” Together we transferred the lobsters by hand to the cart, which Evan called a tote, placing them gently inside. Each bin, the sides slotted to let water flow through, held a hundred pounds of lobster, and we’d filled two of them before Levi returned, his eyes stormy.

“Why are you letting her work?” he said. “She’s a guest.”

“I asked to help,” I said quickly, not wanting Evan to get the brunt of Levi’s anger.

“That’s not the point.”

“I’ve been watching you work all day,” I said. “There wasn’t anything I could do before but get in your way. Don’t be angry at Evan. I just wanted to be able to say I helped, at least in some small measure.”

Levi frowned at me and held out one hand. I stripped off the gloves and laid them in his palm. “You’re making me feel like a naughty child,” I said.

“Not blamin’ you.”

“I know that, but don’t blame Evan either. It was my idea.”

“You’re a guest.”

“And guests should know their place. I’m terribly sorry for overstepping my bounds. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

He grunted but didn’t argue further, taking the scoop and bending over the hatch.

I smiled at Evan and he winked back at me, both of us pleased we’d escaped the tongue-lashing that had surely been awaiting us had I not apologized so quickly.

“What are they goin’ for, Pop?”

“Ten cents a pound less than yesterday,” Levi ground out, resting the scoop on the edge of the tote. “And he’s blamin’ the big companies down in Boston this time. When the price goes up, it’s all his doing. When he’s cheatin’ us, it’s Boston’s fault.”

“Why don’t we form a co-op?” Evan asked. “They’ve got them in Stonington and South Bristol and Swan’s Island. No reason we couldn’t do it, too.”

“It’s hard for the men to change what they know,” Levi said. “But a little more of this may convince them. You keep researchin’ it on the computer.”

“Is ten cents a pound a big drop?” I asked.

“It’s more than forty dollars out of my pocket. You multiply that by all of Cabot Cove’s lobstermen, assumin’ he’s payin’ us all the same price, and I’ll bet it’s almost two thousand bucks a week to him. That’s a big incentive to cheat us, don’t you think?”

“It’s a lot of money, yes. But haven’t you been working with Mr. Pettie for a long time? Why would he jeopardize his relationship with you?”