Chapter Five.
The Tempter’s Victory.
“I wouldn’t mind the frost or snow, or anything else,” growled Joe Stubley, pausing in the midst of his labours among the fish, “if it warn’t for them sea-blisters. Just look at that, Jim,” he added, turning up the hard sleeve of his oiled coat, and exposing a wrist which the feeble rays of the lantern showed to be badly excoriated and inflamed.
“Ay, it’s an ugly bracelet, an’ I’ve got one myself just begun on my left wrist,” remarked Jim Freeman, also suspending labour for a moment to glance at his mate’s wound. “If our fleet had a mission ship, like some o’ the other fleets, we’d not only have worsted mitts for our wrists, but worsted helmets for our heads an’ necks—to say nothin’ of lotions, pills an’ plasters.”
“If they’d only fetch us them things an’ let alone tracts, Bibles, an’ religion,” returned Stubley, “I’d have no objection to ’em, but what’s the use o’ religion to a drinkin’, swearin’, gamblin’ lot like us?”
“It’s quite clear that your notions about religion are muddled,” said David Duffy, with a short laugh. “Why, what’s the use o’ physic to a sick man, Stubs?”
“To make him wuss,” replied Stubs promptly.
“You might as well argify with a lobster as with Joe Stubs,” said Bob Lumsden, who, although burdened with the cares of the cooking department, worked with the men at cleaning and packing.
“What does a boy like you know about lobsters, ’cept to cook ’em?” growled Stubley. “You mind your pots an’ pans. That’s all your brains are fit for—if you have brains at all. Leave argification to men.”
“That’s just what I was advisin’ Duffy to do, an’ not waste his breath on the likes o’ you,” retorted the boy, with a grin.
The conversation was stopped at this point by the skipper ordering the men to shake out a reef, as the wind was moderating. By the time this was accomplished daybreak was lighting up the eastern horizon, and ere long the pale grey of the cold sea began to warm up a little under the influence of the not yet visible sun.
“Goin’ to be fine,” said Lockley, as he scanned the horizon with his glass.
“Looks like it,” replied the mate.
Remarks were few and brief at that early hour, for the men, being pretty well fagged, preferred to carry on their monotonous work in silence.
As morning advanced the fleet was clearly seen in all directions and at all distances around, holding on the same course as the Lively Poll. Gradually the breeze moderated, and before noon the day had turned out bright and sunny, with only a few thin clouds floating in the wintry sky. By that time the fish-boxes, or trunks, were all packed, and the men availed themselves of the brief period of idleness pending the arrival of the steam-carrier from Billingsgate to eat a hearty breakfast.
This meal, it may be remarked, was a moveable feast, depending very much on the duties in hand and the arrival of the steamer. To get the fish ready and shipped for market is always regarded as his first and all-important duty by the deep-sea trawler, who, until it is performed, will not condescend to give attention to such secondary matters as food and repose. These are usually taken when opportunity serves. Pipes and recreation, in the form of games at cards, draughts, dominoes, and yarns, are also snatched at intervals between the periods of severe toil. Nevertheless, there are times when the fisherman’s experience is very different. When prolonged calms render fishing impossible, then time hangs heavily on his hands, and—in regard to the fleet of which we write and all those similarly circumstanced—the only recreations available are sleeping, drinking, gambling, and yarn-spinning. True, such calms do not frequently occur in winter, but they sometimes do, and one of them prevailed on the afternoon of the particular winter’s day of which we treat.
After the departure of the carrier that day, the wind fell so much that the admiral deemed it advisable not to put down the nets. Before long the light air died away altogether, and the fleet was left floating idly, in picturesque groups and with flapping sails, on the glassy sea.
Among the groups thus scattered about, there was one smack which had quietly joined the fleet when the men were busy transhipping or “ferrying” the fish to the steam-carrier. Its rig was so similar to that of the other smacks that a stranger might have taken it for one of the fleet but the fishermen knew better. It was that enemy of souls, that floating grog-shop, that pirate of the North Sea, the coper.
“Good luck to ’ee,” muttered Joe Stubley, whose sharp, because sympathetic, eye was first to observe the vessel.
“It’s bad luck to you anyhow,” remarked Bob the cook, who chanced to pass at the moment.
“Mind your own business, Lumpy, an’ none o’ your sauce, if you don’t want a rope’s-endin’,” retorted the man.
“Ain’t I just mindin’ my own business? Why, wot is sauce but part of a cook’s business?” returned the boy.
“I won’t go to her,” thought Stephen Lockley, who overheard the conversation, and in whose breast a struggle had been going on, for he also had seen the coper, and, his case-bottle having run dry, he was severely tempted to have it replenished.
“Would it not be as well, skipper, to go aboard o’ the coper, as she’s so near at hand!” said the mate, coming aft at the moment.
“Well, no, Peter; I think it would be as well to drop the coper altogether. The abominable stuff the Dutchmen sell us is enough to poison a shark. You know I’m not a teetotaller, but if I’m to be killed at all, I’d rather be killed by good spirits than bad.”
“Right you are,” replied Jay, “but, you see, a lot of us are hard up for baccy, and—”
“Of course, of course; the men must have baccy,” interrupted the skipper, “an’ we don’t need to buy their vile brandy unless we like. Yes, get the boat out, Jay, an’ we’ll go.”
Stephen Lockley was not the first man who has deceived himself as to his motives. Tobacco was his excuse for visiting the floating den of temptation, but a craving for strong drink was his real motive. This craving had been created imperceptibly, and had been growing by degrees for some years past, twining its octopus arms tighter and tighter round his being, until the strong and hearty young fisherman was slowly but surely becoming an abject slave, though he had fancied himself heretofore as free as the breezes that whistled round his vessel. Now, for the first time, Lockley began to have uncomfortable suspicions about himself. Being naturally bold and candid, he turned sharply round, and, as it were, faced himself with the stern question, “Stephen, are you sure that it’s baccy that tempts you aboard of the coper? Are you clear that schnapps has nothing to do with it?”
It is one of the characteristics of the slavery to which we refer, that although strong-minded and resolute men put pointed questions of this sort to themselves not unfrequently, they very seldom return answers to them. Their once vigorous spirits, it would seem, are still capable of an occasional heave and struggle—a sort of flash in the pan—but that is all. The influence of the depraved appetite immediately weighs them down, and they relapse into willing submission to the bondage. Lockley had not returned an answer to his own question when the mate reported that the boat was ready. Without a word he jumped into her, but kept thinking to himself, “We’ll only get baccy, an’ I’ll leave the coper before the lads can do themselves any harm. I’ll not taste a drop myself—not a single drop o’ their vile stuff.”
The Dutch skipper of the coper had a round fat face and person, and a jovial, hearty manner. He received the visitors with an air of open-handed hospitality which seemed to indicate that nothing was further from his thoughts than gain.
“We’ve come for baccy,” said Lockley, as he leaped over the bulwarks and shook hands, “I s’pose you’ve plenty of that?”
“Ya,” the Dutchman had “plenty tabac—ver sheep too, an’ mit sooch a goot vlavour!”
He was what the Yankees would call a ’cute fellow, that Dutchman. Observing the emphasis with which Lockley mentioned tobacco, he understood at once that the skipper did not want his men to drink, and laid his snares accordingly.
“Com’,” he said, in a confidential tone, taking hold of Lockley’s arm, “com’ b’low, an’ you shall zee de tabac, an’ smell him yourself.”
Our skipper accepted the invitation, went below, and was soon busy commenting on the weed, which, as the Dutchman truly pointed out, was “so sheep as well as goot.” But another smell in that cabin overpowered that of the tobacco. It was the smell of Hollands, or some sort of spirit, which soon aroused the craving that had gained such power over the fisherman.
“Have some schnapps!” said the Dutch skipper, suddenly producing a case-bottle as square as himself, and pouring out a glass.
“No, thank ’ee,” said Stephen firmly.
“No!” exclaimed the other, with well-feigned surprise. “You not drink?”
“Oh yes, I drink,” replied Lockley, with a laugh, “but not to-day.”
“I not ask you to buy,” rejoined the tempter, holding the spirits a little nearer to his victim’s nose. “Joost take von leetle glass for goot vellowship.”
It seemed rude to decline a proposal so liberally made, and with such a smiling countenance. Lockley took the glass, drank it off and went hurriedly on deck, followed by the Dutchman, with the case-bottle in one hand and the glass in the other. Of course the men had no objection to be treated. They had a small glass all round.
“That’s the stuff for my money!” cried Stubley, smacking his lips. “I say, old chap, let’s have a bottle of it. None o’ your thimblefuls for me. I like a good swig when I’m at it.”
“You’d better wait till we get aboard, Joe, before you begin,” suggested Lockley, who was well aware of Joe’s tendencies.
Joe admitted the propriety of this advice, but said he would treat his mates to one glass before starting, by “way o’ wetting their whistles.”
“Ya, joost von glass vor vet deir vistles,” echoed the Dutchman, with a wink and a look which produced a roar of laughter. The glass was accepted by all, including Lockley, who had been quite demoralised by the first glass.
The victory was gained by the tempter for that time at least. The fishermen who went for baccy, remained for schnapps, and some of them were very soon more than half drunk. It was a fierce, maddening kind of spirit, which produced its powerful effects quickly.
The skipper of the Lively Poll kept himself better in hand than his men, but, being very sociable in disposition, and finding the Dutchman a humorous and chatty fellow, he saw no reason to hurry them away. Besides, his vessel was close alongside, and nothing could be done in the fishing way during the dead calm that prevailed.
While he and his men were engaged in a lively conversation about nothing in particular—though they were as earnest over it as if the fate of empires depended on their judgment—the Dutch skipper rose to welcome another boat’s crew, which approached on the other side of the coper. So eager and fuddled were the disputants of the Lively Poll that they did not at first observe the newcomers.
It was the Fairy’s boat, with Dick Martin in charge.
“Hallo, Dick, mein boy; gif me your vlipper.”
A sign from Martin induced the Dutchman to lean over the side and speak in lower tones.
“Let’s have a keg of it,” said Dick, with a mysterious look. “Ned Bryce sent me for a good supply, an’ here’s fish to pay for it.”
The fish—which of course belonged to the owner of the Fairy, not to Ned Bryce—were quickly passed up, and a keg of spirits passed down. Then the Dutchman asked if Dick or his men wanted tabac or schnapps for themselves.
“I vill take jersey, or vish, or sail, or boots, or vat you please in exchange. Com’ aboard, anyhow, an’ have von leetle glass.”
Dick and his men having thus smartly transacted their chief business, leaped on deck, made fast their painter, let the boat drop astern, and were soon smoking and drinking amicably with the crew of the Lively Poll. Not long afterwards they were quarrelling. Then Dick Martin, who was apt to become pugnacious over his liquor, asserted stoutly that something or other “was.” Joe Stubley swore that it “was not,” whereupon Dick Martin planted his fist on Joe Stubley’s nose and laid its growly owner flat on the deck.
Starting up, Joe was about to retaliate, when Lockley, seizing him by the neck thrust him over the side into the boat, and ordered his more or less drunken crew to follow. They did so with a bad grace, but the order was given in a tone which they well understood must not be disobeyed.
As they pushed off, Stubley staggered and fell into the sea. Another moment and he would have been beyond all human aid, but Lockley caught a glimpse of his shaggy black head as it sank. Plunging his long right arm down, and holding on to the boat with his left, he caught the drowning man by the hair. Strong and willing arms helped, and Stubley was hauled inboard—restored to life, opportunity, and hope—and flung into the bottom of the boat.
The oars were shipped, and they pulled for the Lively Poll. As they rode away they saw that other boats were proceeding towards the coper. The men in them were all anxious to buy baccy. No mention was made of drink. Oh dear no! They cared nothing for that, though, of course, they had no sort of objection to accept the wily Dutchman’s generous offer of “von leetle glass vor goot vellowship.”
Chapter Six.
The Power of Sympathy.
One fine afternoon, not long after the visit to the coper, Bob Lumsden, alias Lumpy, was called from his culinary labours to assist in hauling in the net.
Now it is extremely interesting to note what a wonderful effect the power of loving sympathy can have on a human being. Lumpy was a human being—though some of his mates insisted that he must have been descended from a cod-fish, because his mouth was so large. No doubt it was, and when the boy laughed heartily he was, indeed, apt to remind one of that fish; nevertheless it was a good, well-shaped mouth, though large, with a kindly expression about it, and a set of splendid white teeth inside of it. But, whether human or fishy in his nature, Bob Lumsden had been overwhelmed by a flood of sympathy ever since that memorable day when he had first caught a glimpse of the sweet, pale face of the little invalid Eve Mooney. It was but a brief glimpse, yet it had opened a new sluice in Lumpy’s heart through which the waters of tenderness gushed in a wild torrent.
One of the curious results of this flood was that Bob was always more prompt to the summons to haul up the trawl than he had ever been before, more energetic in clawing the net inboard, and more eager to see and examine the contents of the cod-end. The explanation is simple. He had overheard his skipper say how fond Eve was of shells—especially of those which came from the bottom of the North Sea, and of all sorts of pretty and curious things, wherever they came from.
From that hour Bob Lumpy became a diligent collector of marine curiosities, and the very small particular corner of the vessel which he called his own became ere long quite a museum. They say that sympathy is apt to grow stronger between persons of opposite constitutions. If this be so, perhaps it was his nature—his bold, hearty, gushing, skylarking spirit, his strong rugged frame, his robust health, his carroty hair, his appley cheeks, his eagle nose, his flashing eyes—that drew him so powerfully to the helpless, tender little invalid, with her delicate frame and pale cheeks, straight little nose, bud of a mouth, and timid, though by no means cowardly, spirit.
On another occasion Bob overheard Lockley again talking about Eve. “I’m sorry for the poor thing,” he said to Peter Jay, as they paced the deck together; “she’s got such a wretched home, an’ her mother’s such a drunken bru—”
Lockley checked himself, and did not finish the sentence.
“The doctor says,” he resumed, “that if Eve had only a bath-chair or suthin’ o’ that sort, to get wheeled about in the fresh air, she’d very likely get better as she growed older—specially if she had good victuals. You see, small as she is, and young as she looks, she’s over fifteen. But even if she had the chair, poor thing! who would wheel it for her? It would be no use unless it was done regular, an’ her mother can’t do it—or won’t.”
From that hour Bob Lumpy became a miser. He had been a smoker like the rest of the crew, but he gave up “baccy.” He used to take an occasional glass of beer or spirits when on shore or on board the copers, but he became a total abstainer, much to his own benefit in every way, and as a result he became rich—in an extremely small way.
There was a very small, thin, and dirty, but lively and intelligent boy in Yarmouth, who loved Bob Lumsden better, if possible, than himself. His name was Pat Stiver. The affection was mutual. Bob took this boy into his confidence.
One day, a considerable time after Bob’s discovery of Eve, Pat, having nothing to do, sauntered to the end of Gorleston Pier, and there to his inexpressible joy, met his friend. Before he had recovered sufficiently from surprise to utter a word, Bob seized him by the arms, lifted him up, and shook him.
“Take care, Lumpy,” cried the boy, “I’m wery tender, like an over-young chicken. You’d better set me down before I comes in pieces.”
“Why, Stiver, you’re the very man I was thinkin’ of,” said Lumpy, setting the boy on the edge of the pier, and sitting down beside him.
Stiver looked proud, and felt six inches taller.
“Listen,” said Bob, with an earnest look that was apt to captivate his friends; “I want help. Will you do somethin’ for me?”
“Anything,” replied the boy with emphasis, “from pitch and toss to manslaughter!”
“Well, look here. You know Eve Mooney?”
“Do I know the blessedest angel in all Gorleston? In course I does. Wot of her?”
“She’s ill—very ill,” said Lumpy.
“You might as well tell me, when it’s daytime, that the sun’s up,” returned Pat.
“Don’t be so awful sharp, Stiver, else I’ll have to snub you.”
“Which you’ve on’y got to frown, Bob Lumpy, an’ the deed’s done.”
Bob gave a short laugh, and then proceeded to explain matters to his friend: how he had been saving up his wages for some time past to buy a second-hand bath-chair for Eve, because the doctor had said it would do her so much good, especially if backed up with good victuals.
“It’s the wittles as bothers me, Stiver,” said Bob, regarding his friend with a puzzled expression.
“H’m! well,” returned the small boy seriously, “wittles has bothered me too, off an’ on, pretty well since I was born, though I’m bound to confess I does get a full blow-out now an’—”
“Hold on, Stiver; you’re away on the wrong tack,” cried Bob, interrupting. “I don’t mean the difficulty o’ findin’ wittles, but how to get Eve to take ’em.”
“Tell her to shut her eyes an’ open her mouth, an’ then shove ’em in,” suggested Pat.
“I’ll shove you into the sea if you go on talking balderdash,” said Bob. “Now, look here, you hain’t got nothin’ to do, have you!”
“If you mean in the way o’ my purfession, Bob, you’re right. I purfess to do anything, but nobody as yet has axed me to do nothin’. In the ways o’ huntin’ up wittles, howsever, I’ve plenty to do. It’s hard lines, and yet I ain’t extravagant in my expectations. Most coves require three good meals a day, w’ereas I’m content with one. I begins at breakfast, an’ I goes on a-eatin’ promiskoously all day till arter supper—w’en I can get it.”
“Just so, Stiver. Now, I want to engage you professionally. Your dooties will be to hang about Mrs Mooney’s but in an offhand, careless sort o’ way, like them superintendent chaps as git five or six hundred a year for doin’ nuffin, an’ be ready at any time to offer to give Eve a shove in the chair. But first you’ll have to take the chair to her, an’ say it was sent to her from—”
“Robert Lumsden, Esquire,” said Pat, seeing that his friend hesitated.
“Not at all, you little idiot,” said Bob sharply. “You mustn’t mention my name on no account.”
“From a gentleman, then,” suggested Pat.
“That might do; but I ain’t a gentleman, Stiver, an’ I can’t allow you to go an’ tell lies.”
“I’d like to know who is if you ain’t,” returned the boy indignantly. “Ain’t a gentleman a man wot’s gentle? An’ w’en you was the other day a-spreadin’ of them lovely shells, an’ crabs, an’ sea-goin’ kooriosities out on her pocket-hankercher, didn’t I see that you was gentle?”
“I’ll be pretty rough on you, Pat, in a minit, if you don’t hold your jaw,” interrupted Bob, who, however, did not seem displeased with his friend’s definition of a gentleman. “Well, you may say what you like, only be sure you say what’s true. An’ then you’ll have to take some nice things as I’ll get for her from time to time w’en I comes ashore. But there’ll be difficulties, I doubt, in the way of gettin’ her to take wittles w’en she don’t know who they comes from.”
“Oh, don’t you bother your head about that,” said Pat. “I’ll manage it. I’m used to difficulties. Just you leave it to me, an’ it’ll be all right.”
“Well, I will, Pat; so you’ll come round with me to the old furnitur’ shop in Yarmouth, an’ fetch the chair. I got it awful cheap from the old chap as keeps the shop w’en I told him what it was for. Then you’ll bring it out to Eve, an’ try to git her to have a ride in it to-day, if you can. I’ll see about the wittles arter. Hain’t quite worked that out in my mind yet. Now, as to wages. I fear I can’t offer you none—”
“I never axed for none,” retorted Pat proudly.
“That’s true Pat; but I’m not a-goin’ to make you slave for nuthin’. I’ll just promise you that I’ll save all I can o’ my wages, an’ give you what I can spare. You’ll just have to trust me as to that.”
“Trust you, Bob!” exclaimed Pat, with enthusiasm, “look here, now; this is how the wind blows. If the Prime Minister o’ Rooshia was to come to me in full regimentals an’ offer to make me capting o’ the Horse Marines to the Hemperor, I’d say, ‘No thankee, I’m engaged,’ as the young woman said to the young man she didn’t want to marry.”
The matter being thus satisfactorily settled, Bob Lumsden and his little friend went off to Yarmouth, intent on carrying out the first part of their plan.
It chanced about the same time that another couple were having a quiet chat together in the neighbourhood of Gorleston Pier. Fred Martin and Isa Wentworth had met by appointment to talk over a subject of peculiar interest to themselves. Let us approach and become eavesdroppers.
“Now, Fred,” said Isa, with a good deal of decision in her tone, “I’m not at all satisfied with your explanation. These mysterious and long visits you make to London ought to be accounted for, and as I have agreed to become your wife within the next three or four months, just to please you, the least you can do, I think, is to have no secrets from me. Besides, you have no idea what the people here and your former shipmates are saying about you.”
“Indeed, dear lass, what do they say?”
“Well, they say now you’ve got well they can’t understand why you should go loafing about doin’ nothin’ or idling your time in London, instead of goin’ to sea.”
“Idlin’ my time!” exclaimed Fred with affected indignation. “How do they know I’m idlin’ my time? What if I was studyin’ to be a doctor or a parson?”
“Perhaps they’d say that was idlin’ your time, seein’ that you’re only a fisherman,” returned Isa, looking up in her lover’s face with a bright smile. “But tell me, Fred, why should you have any secret from me?”
“Because, dear lass, the thing that gives me so much pleasure and hope is not absolutely fixed, and I don’t want you to be made anxious. This much I will tell you, however: you know I passed my examination for skipper when I was home last time, and now, through God’s goodness, I have been offered the command of a smack. If all goes well, I hope to sail in her next week; then, on my return, I hope to—to take the happiest. Well, well, I’ll say no more about that, as we’re gettin’ near mother’s door. But tell me, Isa, has Uncle Martin been worrying mother again when I was away?”
“No. When he found out that you had got the money that was left to her, and had bought an annuity for her with it, he went away, and I’ve not seen him since.”
“That’s well. I’m glad of that.”
“But am I to hear nothing more about this smack, not even her name?”
“Nothing more just now, Isa. As to her name, it’s not yet fixed. But, trust me, you shall know all in good time.”
As they had now reached the foot of Mrs Martin’s stair, the subject was dropped.
They found the good woman in the act of supplying Granny Martin with a cup of tea. There was obvious improvement in the attic. Sundry little articles of luxury were there which had not been there before.
“You see, my boy,” said Mrs Martin to Fred, as they sat round the social board, “now that the Lord has sent me enough to get along without slavin’ as I used—to do, I takes more time to make granny comfortable, an’ I’ve got her a noo chair, and noo specs, which she was much in want of, for the old uns was scratched to that extent you could hardly see through ’em, besides bein’ cracked across both eyes. Ain’t they much better, dear?”
The old woman, seated in the attic window, turned her head towards the tea-table and nodded benignantly once or twice; but the kind look soon faded into the wonted air of patient contentment, and the old head turned to the sea as the needle turns to the pole, and the soft murmur was heard, “He’ll come soon now.”
Chapter Seven.
A Rescue.
Never was there a fishing smack more inappropriately named than the Fairy,—that unwieldy iron vessel which the fleet, in facetious content, had dubbed the “Ironclad,” and which had the honour of being commanded by that free and easy, sociable—almost too sociable—skipper, Ned Bryce.
She was steered by Dick Martin on the day of which we now write. Dick, as he stood at the helm, with stern visage, bloodshot eyes, and dissipated look, was not a pleasant object of contemplation, but as he played a prominent part in the proceedings of that memorable day, we are bound to draw attention to him. Although he had spent a considerable portion of the night with his skipper in testing the quality of some schnapps which they had recently procured from a coper, he had retained his physical and mental powers sufficiently for the performance of his duties. Indeed, he was one of those so-called seasoned casks, who are seldom or never completely disabled by drink, although thoroughly enslaved, and he was now quite competent to steer the Fairy in safety through the mazes of that complex dance which the deep-sea trawlers usually perform on the arrival of the carrying-steamer.
What Bryce called a chopping and a lumpy sea was running. It was decidedly rough, though the breeze was moderate, so that the smacks all round were alternately presenting sterns and bowsprits to the sky in a violent manner that might have suggested the idea of a rearing and kicking dance. When the carrier steamed up to the Admiral, and lay to beside him, and the smacks drew towards her from all points of the compass, the mazes of the dance became intricate, and the risk of collisions called for careful steering.
Being aware of this, and being himself not quite so steady about the head as he could wish, Skipper Bryce looked at Martin for a few seconds, and then ordered him to go help to launch the boat and get the trunks out, and send Phil Morgan aft.
Phil was not a better seaman than Dick, but he was a more temperate man, therefore clearer brained and more dependable.
Soon the smacks were waltzing and kicking round each other on every possible tack, crossing and re-crossing bows and sterns; sometimes close shaving, out and in, down-the-middle-and-up-again fashion, which, to a landsman, might have been suggestive of the ’bus, cab, and van throng in the neighbourhood of that heart of the world, the Bank of England.
Sounds of hailing and chaffing now began to roll over the North Sea from many stentorian lungs.
“What cheer? what cheer?” cried some in passing.
“Hallo, Tim! how are ’ee, old man! What luck?”
“All right, Jim; on’y six trunks.”
“Ha! that’s ’cause ye fished up a dead man yesterday.”
“Is that you, Ted?”
“Ay, ay, what’s left o’ me—worse luck. I thought your mother was goin’ to keep you at home this trip to mind the babby.”
“So she was, boy, but the babby fell into a can o’ buttermilk an’ got drownded, so I had to come off again, d’ee see?”
“What cheer, Groggy Fox? Have ’ee hoisted the blue ribbon yet?”
“No, Stephen Lockley, I haven’t, nor don’t mean to, but one o’ the fleet seems to have hoisted the blue flag.”
Groggy Fox pointed to one of the surrounding vessels as he swept past in the Cormorant.
Lockley looked round in haste, and, to his surprise, saw floating among the smaller flags, at a short distance, the great twenty-feet flag of a mission vessel, with the letters MDSF (Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen) on it, in white on a blue ground.
“She must have lost her reckoning,” muttered Lockley, as he tried to catch sight of the vessel to which the flag belonged—which was not easy, owing to the crowd of smacks passing to and fro between it and him.
Just at that moment a hearty cheer was heard to issue from the Admiral’s smack, the Cherub. At the same time the boat of the Lively Poll was launched into the sea, Duffy and Freeman and another hand tumbled into her, and the skipper had to give his undivided attention to the all-important matter of transhipping the fish.
Dozens of boats were by that time bobbing like corks on the heaving sea, all making for the attendant steamer. Other dozens, which had already reached her, were clinging on—the men heaving the fish-boxes aboard,—while yet others were pushing off from the smacks last arrived to join the busy swarm.
Among these was the boat of the Fairy, with Dick Martin and two men aboard. It was heavily laden—too heavily for such a sea—for their haul on the previous night had been very successful.
North Sea fishermen are so used to danger that they are apt to despise it. Both Bryce and Martin knew they had too many trunks in the boat, but they thought it a pity to leave five or six behind, and be obliged to make two trips for so small a number, where one might do. Besides, they could be careful. And so they were—very careful; yet despite all their care they shipped a good deal of water, and the skipper stood on the deck of the Fairy watching them with some anxiety. Well he might, for so high were the waves that not only his own boat but all the others kept disappearing and re-appearing continually as they rose on the crests or sank into the hollows.
But Skipper Bryce had eyes for only one boat. He saw it rise to view and disappear steadily, regularly, until it was about half-way to the steamer; then suddenly it failed to rise, and next moment three heads were seen amid the tumultuous waters where the boat should have been.
With a tremendous shout Bryce sprang to the tiller and altered the vessel’s course, but as the wind blew he knew well it was not in his power to render timely aid. That peculiar cry which tells so unmistakably of deadly disaster was raised from the boats nearest to that which had sunk, and they were rowed towards the drowning men, but the boats were heavy and slow of motion. Already they were too late, for two out of the three men had sunk to rise no more—dragged down by their heavy boots and winter clothing. Only one continued the struggle. It was Dick Martin. He had grasped an oar, and, being able to swim, kept his head up. The intense cold of the sea, however, would soon have relaxed even his iron grip, and he would certainly have perished, had it not been that the recently arrived mission vessel chanced to be a very short distance to windward of him. A slight touch of the helm sent her swiftly to his side. A rope was thrown. Martin caught it. Ready hands and eager hearts were there to grasp and rescue. In another moment he was saved, and the vessel swept on to mingle with the other smacks—for Martin was at first almost insensible, and could not tell to which vessel of the fleet he belonged.
Yes, the bad man was rescued, though no one would have sustained much loss by his death; but in Yarmouth that night there was one woman, who little thought that she was a widow, and several little ones who knew not that they were fatherless. The other man who perished was an unmarried youth, but he left an invalid mother to lifelong mourning over the insatiable greed of the cold North Sea.
Little note was taken of this event in the fleet. It was, in truth, a by no means unusual disaster. If fish are to be found, fair weather or foul, for the tables on land, lives must be risked and lost in the waters of the sea. Loss of life in ferrying the fish being of almost daily occurrence, men unavoidably get used to it, as surgeons do to suffering and soldiers to bloodshed. Besides, on such occasions, in the great turmoil of winds and waves, and crowds of trawlers and shouting, it may be only a small portion of the fleet which is at first aware that disaster has occurred, and even these must not, cannot, turn aside from business at such times to think about the woes of their fellow-men.
Meanwhile Dick Martin had fallen, as the saying is, upon his feet. He was carried into a neatly furnished cabin, put between warm blankets in a comfortable berth, and had a cup of steaming hot coffee urged upon him by a pleasant-voiced sailor, who, while he inquired earnestly as to how he felt, at the same time thanked the Lord fervently that they had been the means of saving his life.
Chapter Eight.
Tells of more than one Surprise.
“Was that your boat that went down?” shouted Groggy Fox of the Cormorant, as he sailed past the Fairy, after the carrying-steamer had left, and the numerous fishing-smacks were gradually falling into order for another attack on the finny hosts of the sea.
They were almost too far apart for the reply to be heard, and possibly Bryce’s state of mind prevented his raising his voice sufficiently, but it was believed that the answer was “Yes.”
“Poor fellows!” muttered Fox, who was a man of tender feelings, although apt to feel more for himself than for any one else.
“I think Dick Martin was in the boat,” said the mate of the Cormorant, who stood beside his skipper. “I saw them when they shoved off, and though it was a longish distance, I could make him out by his size, an’ the fur cap he wore.”
“Well, the world won’t lose much if he’s gone,” returned Fox; “he was a bad lot.”
It did not occur to the skipper at that time that he himself was nearly, if not quite, as bad a “lot.” But bad men are proverbially blind to their own faults.
“He was a cross-grained fellow,” returned the mate, “specially when in liquor, but I never heard no worse of ’im than that.”
“Didn’t you?” said Fox; “didn’t you hear what they said of ’im at Gorleston?—that he tried to do his sister out of a lot o’ money as was left her by some cove or other in furrin parts. An’ some folk are quite sure that it was him as stole the little savin’s o’ that poor widdy, Mrs Mooney, though they can’t just prove it agin him. Ah, he is a bad lot, an’ no mistake. But I may say that o’ the whole bilin’ o’ the Martins. Look at Fred, now.”
“Well, wot of him?” asked the mate, in a somewhat gruff tone.
“What of him!” repeated the skipper, “ain’t he a hypocrite, with his smooth tongue an’ his sly ways, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, an’ now—where is he?”
“Well, where is he!” demanded the mate, with increasing gruffness.
“Why, in course nobody knows where he is,” retorted the skipper; “that’s where it is. No sooner does he get a small windfall—leastwise, his mother gets it—than he cuts the trawlers, an’ all his old friends without so much as sayin’ ‘Good-bye,’ an’ goes off to Lunnon or somewheres, to set up for a gentleman, I suppose.”
“I don’t believe nothin’ o’ the sort,” returned the mate indignantly. “Fred Martin may be smooth-tongued and shy if you like, but he’s no hypercrite—”
“Hallo! there’s that mission ship on the lee bow,” cried Fox, interrupting his mate, and going over to the lee side of the smack, whence he could see the vessel with the great blue flag clearly. “Port your helm,” he added in a deep growl to the man who steered. “I’ll give her a wide berth.”
“If she was the coper you’d steer the other way,” remarked the mate, with a laugh.
“In course I would,” retorted Fox, “for there I’d find cheap baccy and brandy.”
“Ay, bad brandy,” said the mate; “but, skipper, you can get baccy cheaper aboard the mission ships now than aboard the coper.”
“What! at a shillin’ a pound?”
“Ay, at a shillin’ a pound.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“But it’s a fact,” returned the mate firmly, “for Simon Brooks, as was in the Short-Blue fleet last week, told me it’s a noo regulation—they’ve started the sale o’ baccy in the Gospel ships, just to keep us from going to the copers.”
“That’ll not keep me from going to the copers,” said Groggy Fox, with an oath.
“Nor me,” said his mate, with a laugh; “but, skipper, as we are pretty nigh out o’ baccy just now, an’ as the mission ship is near us, an’ the breeze down, I don’t see no reason why we shouldn’t go aboard an’ see whether the reports be true. We go to buy baccy, you know, an’ we’re not bound to buy everything the shop has to sell! We don’t want their religion, an’ they can’t force it down our throats whether we will or no.”
Groggy Fox vented a loud laugh at the bare supposition of such treatment of his throat, admitted that his mate was right, and gave orders to launch the boat. In a few minutes they were rowing over the still heaving but now somewhat calmer sea, for the wind had fallen suddenly, and the smacks lay knocking about at no great distance from each other.
It was evident from the bustle on board many of them, and the launching of boats over their bulwarks, that not a few of the men intended to take advantage of this unexpected visit of a mission vessel. No doubt their motives were various. Probably some went, like the men of the Cormorant, merely for baccy; some for medicine; others, perhaps, out of curiosity; while a few, no doubt, went with more or less of desire after the “good tidings,” which they were aware had been carried to several of the other fleets that laboured on the same fishing-grounds.
Whatever the reasons, it was evident that a goodly number of men were making for the vessel with the great blue flag. Some had already reached her; more were on their way. The Cormorant’s boat was among the last to arrive.
“What does MDSF stand for?” asked Skipper Fox, as they drew near.
“Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen,” answered the mate, whose knowledge on this and other points of the Mission were due to his intercourse with his friend Simon Brooks of the Short-Blue. “But it means more than that,” he continued. “When we are close enough to make ’em out, you’ll see little letters above the MDSF which make the words I’ve just told you, an’ there are little letters below the MDSF which make the words Mighty Deliverer, Saviour, Friend.”
“Ay! That’s a clever dodge,” observed Groggy Fox, who, it need hardly be said, was more impressed with the ingenuity of the device than with the grand truth conveyed.
“But I say, mate, they seems to be uncommonly lively aboard of her.”
This was obviously the case, for by that time the boat of the Cormorant had come so near to the vessel that they could not only perceive the actions of those on board, but could hear their voices. The curiosity of Skipper Fox and his men was greatly roused, for they felt convinced that the mere visit of a passing mission ship did not fully account for the vigorous hand-shakings of those on the deck, and the hearty hailing of newcomers, and the enthusiastic cheers of some at least of the little boats’ crews as they pulled alongside.
“Seems to me as if they’ve all gone mad,” remarked Groggy Fox, with a sarcastic grin.
“I would say they was all drunk, or half-seas over,” observed the mate, “if it was a coper, but in a Gospel ship that’s impossible, ’cause they’re teetotal, you know. Isn’t that the boat o’ the Admiral that’s pullin’ alongside just now, skipper?”
“Looks like it, mate. Ay, an’ that’s Stephen Lockley of the Lively Poll close astarn of ’im—an’ ain’t they kickin’ up a rumpus now!”
Fox was right, for when the two little boats referred to ranged alongside of the vessel, and the men scrambled up the side on to her deck, there was an amount of greeting, and hand-shaking, and exclaiming in joyful surprise, which threw all previous exhibitions in that way quite into the shade, and culminated in a mighty cheer, the power of which soft people with shore-going throats and lungs and imaginations cannot hope to emulate or comprehend!
The cheer was mildly repeated with mingled laughter when the crowd on deck turned to observe the arrival of the Cormorant’s boat.
“Why, it’s the skipper o’ the Ironclad!” exclaimed a voice. “No, it’s not. It’s the skipper o’ the Cormorant,” cried another.
“What cheer? what cheer, Groggy Fox?” cried a third, as the boat swooped alongside, and several strong arms were extended. “Who’d have looked for you here? There ain’t no schnapps.”
“All right, mates,” replied Fox, with an apologetic smile, as he alighted on the deck and looked round; “I’ve come for baccy.”
A short laugh greeted this reply, but it was instantly checked, for at the moment Fred Martin stepped forward, grasped the skipper’s horny hand, and shook it warmly, as well as powerfully, for Fred was a muscular man, and had fully recovered his strength.
“You’ve come to the right shop for baccy,” he said; “I’ve got plenty o’ that, besides many other things much better. I bid you heartily welcome on board of the Sunbeam in the name of the Lord!”
For a few seconds the skipper of the Cormorant could not utter a word. He gazed at Fred Martin with his mouth partially, and his eyes wide, open. The thought that he was thus cordially received by the very man whose character he had so lately and so ungenerously traduced had something, perhaps, to do with his silence.
“A–are—are you the skipper o’ this here wessel!” he stammered.
“Ay, through God’s goodness I am.”
“A mission wessel!” said Fox, his amazement not a whit abated as he looked round.
“Just so, a Gospel ship,” answered Fred, giving the skipper another shake of the hand.
“You didn’t mistake it for a coper, did ’ee?” asked David Duffy, who was one of the visitors.
The laugh which followed this question drowned Groggy Fox’s reply.
“And you’ll be glad to hear,” said Fred, still addressing Fox, “that the Sunbeam is a new mission ship, and has been appointed to do service for God in this fleet and no other; so you’ll always be able to have books and baccy, mitts, helmets, comforters, medicines, and, best of all, Bibles and advice for body and soul, free gratis when you want ’em.”
“But where’s the doctor to give out the medicines,” asked Fox, who began to moderate his gaze as he recovered self-possession.
“Well, mate,” answered Fred, with a bashful air, “I am doctor as well as skipper. Indeed, I’m parson too—a sort of Jack-of-all-trades! I’m not full fledged of course, but on the principle, I fancy, that ‘half a loaf is better than no bread,’ I’ve been sent here after goin’ through a short course o’ trainin’ in surgery—also in divinity; something like city missionaries and Scripture-readers; not that trainin’, much or little, would fit any man for the great work unless he had the love of the Master in his heart. But I trust I have that.”
“You have, Fred, thank God!” said the Admiral of the fleet.
“And now, Skipper Fox,” continued Fred facetiously, “as I’m a sort of doctor, you must allow me to prescribe something for your complaint. Here, boy,” he added, hailing one of his crew, “fetch Skipper Fox a draught o’ that physic—the brown stuff that you keep in the kettle.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” answered a youthful voice, and in another minute Pat Stiver forced his way through the crowd, bearing in his hand a large cup or bowl of coffee.
“It’s not exactly the tipple I’m used to,” said Fox, accepting the cup with a grin, and wisely resolving to make the best of circumstances, all the more readily that he observed other visitors had been, or still were, enjoying the same beverage. “Howsever, it’s not to be expected that sick men shall have their physic exactly to their likin’, so I thank ’ee all the same, Dr Martin!”
This reply was received with much approval, and the character of Groggy Fox immediately experienced a considerable rise in the estimation of his comrades of the fleet.
Attention was drawn from him just then by the approach of another boat.
“There is some genuine surgeon’s work coming to you in that boat, Fred, if I mistake not,” remarked Stephen Lockley, as he stood beside his old friend.
“Hasn’t that man in the stern got his head tied up?”
“Looks like it.”
“By the way, what of your uncle, Dick Martin?” asked the Admiral. “It was you that picked him up, wasn’t it?”
This reference to the sad event which had occurred that morning solemnised the fishermen assembled on the Sunbeam’s deck, and they stood listening with sympathetic expressions as Fred narrated what he had seen of the catastrophe, and told that his uncle was evidently nothing the worse of it, and was lying asleep in the cabin, where everything had been done for his recovery and comfort.
In the boat which soon came alongside was a fisherman who had met with a bad accident some days before. A block tackle from aloft had fallen on his head and cut it severely. His mates had bound it up in rough-and-ready fashion; but the wound had bled freely, and the clotted blood still hung about his hair. Latterly the wound had festered, and gave him agonising pain. His comrades being utterly ignorant as to the proper treatment, could do nothing for him. Indeed, the only effectual thing that could be done was to send the poor man home. This sudden and unexpected appearance of one of the mission ships was therefore hailed as a godsend, for it was well-known that these vessels contained medicines, and it was believed that their skippers were more or less instructed in the healing art. In this belief they were right; for in addition to the well-appointed medicine-chest, each vessel has a skipper who undergoes a certain amount of instruction, and possesses a practical and plain book of directions specially prepared under the supervision of the Board of Trade for the use of captains at sea.
One can imagine, therefore, what a relief it was to this poor wounded man to be taken down into the cabin and have his head at last attended to by one who “knew what he was about.” The operation of dressing was watched with the deepest interest and curiosity by the fishermen assembled there, for it was their first experience of the value, even in temporal matters, of a Gospel ship. Their ears were open, too, as well as their eyes, and they listened with much interest to Fred Martin as he tried, after a silent prayer for the Holy Spirit’s influence, to turn his first operation to spiritual account in his Master’s interest.
“Tell me if I hurt you,” he said, observing that his patient winced a little when he was removing the bandage.
“Go on,” said the man quietly. “I ain’t a babby to mind a touch of pain.”
The cabin being too small to hold them all, some of the visitors clustered round the open skylight, and gazed eagerly down, while a few who could not find a point of vantage contented themselves with listening. Even Dick Martin was an observer at that operation, for, having been roused by the bustle around him, he raised himself on an elbow, and looking down from his berth, could both hear and see.
“There now,” said Fred Martin, when at last the bandage was removed and the festering mass laid bare. “Hand the scissors, Pat.”
Pat Stiver, who was assistant-surgeon on that occasion, promptly handed his chief the desired instrument, and stood by for further orders.
“I’ll soon relieve you,” continued Fred, removing the clotted hair, etcetera, in a few seconds, and applying a cleansing lotion. “I cut it off, you see, just as the Great Physician cuts away our sins, and washes us clean in the fountain of His own blood. You feel better already, don’t you?”
“There’s no doubt about that,” replied the patient looking up with a great sigh of relief that told far more than words could convey.
We will not record all that was said and done upon that occasion. Let it suffice to say that the man’s wound was put in a fair way of recovery without the expense and prolonged suffering of a trip home.
Thereafter, as a breeze was beginning to blow which bid fair to become a “fishing breeze,” it became necessary for the visitors to leave in haste, but not before a few books, tracts, and worsted mittens had been distributed, with an earnest invitation from the skipper of the Sunbeam to every one to repeat the visit whenever calm weather should permit, and especially on Sundays, when regular services would be held on deck or in the hold.
On this occasion Bob Lumpy and Pat Stiver had met and joined hands in great delight, not unmingled with surprise.
“Well, who’d ever have expected to find you here?” said Bob.
“Ah, who indeed?” echoed Pat. “The fact is, I came to be near you, Bob.”
“But how did it happen? Who got you the sitivation? Look alive! Don’t be long-winded, I see they’re gittin’ our boat ready.”
“This is ’ow it was, Bob. I was shovin’ Eve about the roads in the bath-chair, as you know I’ve bin doin’ ever since I entered your service, w’en a gen’lem’n come up and axed all about us. ‘Would ye like a sitivation among the North Sea fishermen?’ says he. ‘The very ticket,’ says I. ‘Come to Lun’on to-night, then,’ says he. ‘Unpossible,’ says I, fit to bu’st wi’ disappointment; ‘’cos I must first shove Miss Eve home, an’ git hold of a noo shover to take my place.’ ‘All right,’ says he, laughin’; ‘come when you can. Here’s my address.’ So away I goes; got a trustworthy, promisin’ young feller as I’ve know’d a long time to engage for Miss Eve, an’ off to Lun’on, an’—here I am!”
“Time’s up,” cried the Admiral at this point, shaking hands with Fred Martin; while Bob Lumsden sprang from the side of his little friend, and there was a general move towards the boats.
“Good-bye, mate,” said Skipper Fox, holding out his hand.
“Stop, friends,” cried Fred, in a loud voice; “that’s not the way we part on board o’ the Sunbeam.”
Taking off his hat and looking up,—a sign that all understood, for they immediately uncovered and bowed their heads,—the missionary skipper, in a few brief but earnest words, asked for a blessing on the work which he had been privileged that day to begin, that Satan might be foiled, and the name of Jesus be made precious among the fishermen of the North Sea.
Thereafter the boats scattered towards their various smacks, their crews rejoicing in this latest addition to the fleet. Even Groggy Fox gave it as his opinion that there might be worse things after all in the world than “mission wessels!”