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Spring Days on the James River 
By HARRY A. STONE 
D 
E shad hab done commence ter run up 
de James rivvah.” 
This message carried in some mys¬ 
terious manner from one to another of the little 
ridge farms lying back of the fringe of great 
plantations on the James from Newport News to 
Richmond tells of spring to these scattered 
darkey families more truly than swelling leaf 
buds or trilling bluebirds. It is the signal for 
the annual pilgrimage to the “fishing shore,” a 
pilgrimage almost as ancient as John Smith and 
Pocahontas, one of the quaintest survivals of 
Tidewater Virginia. 
Like their fathers and grandfathers before 
them in the days “befo’ de wah” and in the 
remoter days of the colony, these inland farmers 
are for three months each year fishermen, and 
like the prototypes of their craft, cling to the 
old traditions of the net and oar with a tenacity 
that has defied the forces which have swept away 
old customs and old landmarks even in this con¬ 
servative community. Strangely enough the an¬ 
cestors of these James River fishermen were al¬ 
most without exception free men before the war, 
the exception usually being the fisherman of 
some large plantation owner. 
The gray haze was hanging over the uplands, 
the smoke of burning brush in the clearings was 
in the air; the woodlands were taking on a sort 
of ethereal gray-green tint; and venturesome 
bluebirds were already piping in the under¬ 
growth, when by some medium as swift as the 
telegraph and far more mysterious, the sum¬ 
mons to the river reached the fishing families 
who for days had been living in a sort of half 
suppressed excitement. 
All winter long the wives and daughters of 
the household had been busy mending the worn 
seines or knitting new ones when the old were 
past repair. During the intervals of winter plow¬ 
ing and wood cutting, the men had been patching 
the clumsy flat-bottomed boats or building new 
ones, the latter but seldom, however, for no 
craft is apparently too old or too crazy to daunt 
one of these James River fishermen. Lead lines 
and cork lines had been overhauled, and the long 
ropes tested to see if they could be trusted to 
bear the strain of the full net. 
When the expected summons comes, boats, 
nets, bedding and camp equipage are hastily 
loaded on wagons or carts, the women and chil¬ 
dren of the family usually perch aloft on per¬ 
ilous peaks of household goods. 
Over roads seemingly impassable and through 
apparently bottomless depths of mud the diminu¬ 
tive mules draw their nondescript loads down 
from the back ridges toward the James. Each 
family has its fishing ground, 'to which it returns 
year after year. This is usually on some great 
plantation, to whose owner the darkies, although 
free, owe a sort of feudal loyalty. For three 
months the family home will be the little log 
shanty on the shore wedged in between the fish 
house and the net house or sometimes forming 
simply a lean-to addition to these buildings. The 
shore reached, boats, seines and camp equipage 
are unloaded by willing hands, and in a marvel¬ 
ously short time the family is settled, and ready 
to receive the boarders who will make up the 
fishing crew. 
All winter long the silent river stretches its 
length gray and deserted, save by the solitary 
duck hunter or by the passage of the tri-weekly 
steamers. Dark, mysterious, unpicturesque but 
possessed of a rare and subdued beauty of its 
own, it seems perpetually brooding over the van¬ 
ished life of an older day or the tragic struggle 
which it so long mirrored. But for three months 
in the spring the dreamy quiet is changed to a 
busy, boisterous activity. The tourist fortunate 
enough to make the passage between Richmond 
and Norfolk during the fishing season is able to 
catch a passing glimpse of one of the most pict¬ 
uresque survivals in the South. 
From the deck of the steamer can be heard 
the click of the oars in the rowlocks, the boister¬ 
ous shouts of the darkies, and the singing of the 
crews as they bend to the oars or strain at the 
windlass as the full nets are drawn to the shore. 
In these prosaic days there is no more fascinat¬ 
ing glimpse of the old South than this, while if 
the tourist stops at one of the old plantation 
landings on the James to watch the scene at 
close quarters he is carried back at once more 
than ioo years. 
Nearly three hundred years ago the muddy 
waters of the James began to yield their toll of 
fish to the earliest colonists, and to-day the an¬ 
nual harvest from its turbid waters is gathered 
by descendants of the slaves and “free niggers” 
of colonial days by methods that differ in no de¬ 
tail from those practiced by their ancestors. 
There are negro fishing families in Charles City 
county to-day who have authentic traditions of 
free ancestors engaged in the shad fishing well 
over ioo years ago. 
From the earliest times the fishing shore 
formed one of the most valuable assets of the 
great plantation owner. There is hardly a deed 
of sale among the archives of the old court 
house of Charles City county which fails to 
make mention of the fishing shore as one of the 
important sources of revenue of the land owner. 
Times have changed in the Old Dominion. The 
names that once were associated with the splen 
did plantations have for the most part passed 
into history. The old life of the great estates is 
gone forever. The very negroes who made up 
the agricultural population have drifted to the 
cities or to the North. The shipping that dotted 
the bosom of the James is largely a thing of the 
past, but the fishing and the quaint customs of 
the darkies engaged in the industry are unal¬ 
tered. 
On the James it is the shore that settles the 
character of the fishing. The fishing shore must 
have a fairly level and smooth beach with shelv¬ 
ing flats running out toward the channel 150 or 
200 yards at an average depth of about three 
feet. If the great haul seine is used the fishing 
shore must be leased from the plantation owner, 
although in some instances, as at Berkeley, the 
historic home of the Harrison family, the fishing 
is made part of the business of the estate. There 
are some half dozen important fishing shores, in¬ 
cluding Berkeley, where authentic records show 
that fishing has been carried on since earliest 
colonial times. Tommyhunk and Pikes Point 
are next in importance to Berkeley. In addition 
to these there are scores of more or less valu¬ 
able shores scattered up and down the river from 
the Roads to Richmond. The rental of one of , 
the important shores is considerable, while for 
the less valuable time honored custom has es¬ 
tablished a toll of fish as the proper compensa¬ 
tion. • . 
If the drift net is used the fishing shore is not 
essential. In this class of fishing the shore outfit 
consists simply of a bunk house, kitchen and net 
and fish house. The haul seine fishing is the 
typical industry of the James. The outfit consists 
of a long flat-bottomed rowboat with seats for 
ten oarsmen. At the stern is a long wooden 
roller over which the seine is paid out; “laid 
out” is the local term. Just forward of the roller , 
and on the gunwale is the step for the captain’s 
steering oar. The seine is from 700 to 800 yards 
in length, and is made, of No. 15 hard laid twine 
with 21'2-inch meshes so arranged that it shall 
fish to a depth of 17 to 20 feet in its deepest part, 
which comprises about 200 yards of its length. 
The remaining 500 to 600 yards is made up of 
the wings, which fish to a depth of 2 > l A to 10 
feet. The seine is knitted to a cork line and to 
a lead line, and is fastened to a spreader at each 
end, which locally is called the staff. One end 
is secured to about 150 yards of heavy rope, 
while at the water end is fastened a rope about 
2,500 feet in length. 
The fishing crew consists of fourteen men, ten 
oarsmen, the net man and the captain, compris¬ 
ing the boat’s crew, and two men who handle 
