The Lively Poll: A Tale of the North Sea by R. M. Ballantyne (best book clubs .TXT) đ
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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Manx Bradley was an admiralââadmiral of the fleetââthough it must be admitted that his personal appearance did not suggest a position so exalted.
With rough pilot coat and souâ-wester, scarred and tarred hands, easy, rolling gait, and boots from heel to hip, with inch-thick soles, like those of a dramatic buccaneer, he bore as little resemblance to the popular idea of a lace-coated, brass-buttoned, cock-hatted admiral as a sea-urchin bears to a cockle-shell. Nevertheless Manx was a real admiralâas real as Nelson, and much harder worked.
His fleet of nearly two hundred fishing-smacks lay bobbing about one fine autumn evening on the North Sea. The vessels cruised round each other, out and in, hither and thither, in all positions, now on this tack, now on that, bowsprits pointing north, south, east, and west, as if without purpose, or engaged in a nautical game of âtouch.â Nevertheless all eyes were bent earnestly on the admiralâs vessel, for it was literally the âflagship,â being distinguishable only by a small flag attached to its fore stay.
The fleet was hovering, awaiting orders from the admiral. A fine smart âfishing breezeâ was blowing. The setting sun sparkled on the wave-crests; thin fleecy clouds streaked the sky; everything gave promise of a satisfactory night, and a good haul of fish in the morning.
With the quiet air of an amiable despot Manx nodded his venerable head. Up went the signal, and in a few minutes the fleet was reduced to order. Every smack swept round into position, and, bending over on the same tack, they all rushed like a shoal of startled minnows, away in the same directionâthe direction signalled by the admiral. Another signal from our venerable despot sent between one and two hundred trawl-nets down to the bottom of the sea, nets that were strong enough to haul up tons of fish, and rocks, and wreckage, and rubbish, with fifty-feet beams, like young masts, with iron enough in bands and chains to sink them, and so arranged that the beams were raised a few feet off the ground, thus keeping the mouths of the great nets open, while cables many fathoms in length held the gears to their respective vessels.
So the North Sea Fishermen began the nightâs workâthe Nancy, the Coquette, the Rattler, the Truant, the Faith, the Playfellow, the Cherub, and all the rest of them. Of course, although the breeze was fresh, they went along slowly, because of the ponderous tails that they had to draw.
Do you ask, reader, why all this order? why this despotic admiral, and all this unity of action? why not âevery man for himselfâ? Let me reply by asking you to think for a moment.
Wind blowing in one direction, perhaps you are aware, does not necessarily imply vessels sailing in the same direction. With variation of courses possible, nearly two hundred tails out astern, and no unity of action, there would arise the certainty of varied and striking incident. The Nancy would go crashing into the bows of the Coquette, the bowsprit of the Rallier would stir up the cabin of the Truant, the tail of the Faith would get entangled with that of the Cherub, and both might hook on to the tail of the Playfellow; in short, the awful result would be wreck and wretchedness on the North Sea, howling despair in the markets of Columbia and Billingsgate, and no fish for breakfast in the great metropolis. There is reason for most thingsâspecially good reason for the laws that regulate the fisheries of the North Sea, the fleets of which are over twelve in number, and the floating population over twelve thousand men and boys.
For several hours this shoal of vessels, with full sails and twinkling lights, like a moving city on the deep, continued to tug and plunge along over the âbanksâ of the German ocean, to the satisfaction of the fishermen, and the surprise no doubt of the fish. About midnight the admiral again signalled, by rocket and flares, âHaul up,â and immediately, with capstan, bar, and steam, the obedient crews began to coil in their tails.
It is not our intention to trouble the reader with a minute account of this process or the grand result, but, turning to a particular smack, we solicit attention to that. She is much like the others in size and rig. Her name is the Lively Poll. Stephen Lockley is her skipper, as fine a young fisherman as one could wish to seeâtall, handsome, free, hearty, and powerful. But indeed all deep-sea fishermen possess the last quality. They would be useless if not physically strong. Many a Samson and Hercules is to be found in the North Sea fleets. âNo better nursery or training-school in time of war,â they say. That may be true, but it is pleasanter to think of them as a training-school for times of peace.
The night was very dark. Black clouds overspread the sky, so that no light save the dim rays of a lantern cheered the men as they went tramp, tramp, round the capstan, slowly coiling in the trawl-warp. Sheets of spray sometimes burst over the side and drenched them, but they cared nothing for that, being pretty well protected by oilskins, souâ-westers, and sea-boots. Straining and striving, sometimes gaining an inch or two, sometimes a yard or so, while the smack plunged and kicked, the contest seemed like a doubtful one between vis inertiae and the human will. Two hours and a half it lasted, until the great trawl-beam came to the surface, and was got up on the vesselâs side, after which these indomitable men proceeded to claw up the huge net with their fingers, straining and heaving with might and main.
âYo, ho!â cried the skipper, âheave her in, boys!â
âHoy!â growled Peter Jay, the mate, giving a tug that should have torn the net to piecesâbut didnât!
âLooks like as if weâd got hold of a lump oâ wreck,â gasped Bob Lumsden, the smackâs boy, who was also the smackâs cook.
âNo, no, Lumpy,â remarked David Duffy, who was no respecter of names or persons, âit ainât a wreck, itâs a mermaid. Iâve bin told they weigh over six ton when young. Look out when she comes aboardâsheâll bite.â
âI do believe itâs old Neptune himself,â said Jim Freeman, another of the âhands.â âThereâs his head; anâ something like his pitchfork.â
âIt does feel heavier than I ever knowed it afore,â remarked Fred Martin.
âThatâs all along of your beinâ ill, Fred,â said the mate.
âIt may be so,â returned Martin, âfor I do feel queer, anâ aâmost as weak as a baby. Come heave away!â
It was indeed a huge mass of wreck entangled with sea-weed which had rendered the net so heavy on that occasion, but there was also a satisfactory mass of fish in the âcod-end,â or bag, at the extremity of the net, for, when, by the aid of the winch, this cod-end was finally got inboard, and the cord fastening the bottom of it was untied, fish of all kinds gushed over the wet decks in a living cataract.
There were a few expressions of satisfaction from the men, but not much conversation, for heavy work had still to be doneâdone, too, in the dark. Turbot, sole, cod, skate, and all the other treasures of the deep, had to be then and there gutted, cleaned, and packed in square boxes called âtrunks,â so as to be ready for the steam-carrier next morning. The net also had to be cleared and let down for another catch before daybreak.
Now it is just possible that it may never have occurred to the reader to consider how difficult, not to say dangerous, must be the operation of gutting, cleaning, and packing fish on a dark night with a smack dancing a North Sea hornpipe under oneâs feet. Among the dangers are two which merit notice. The one is the fishermanâs liability, while working among the âruck,â to run a sharp fish-bone into his hand, the other to gash himself with his knife while attempting to operate on the tail of a skate. Either accident may be slight or it may be severe.
A sudden exclamation from one of the men while employed in this cleaning and packing work told that something had happened.
âThere goes Martin,â growled Joe Stubley; âyou can always tell when itâs him, âcause he donât curse anâ swear.â
Stubleyâor Stubby, as his mates called himâdid not intend this for a compliment by any means, though it may sound like one. Being an irreligious as well as a stupid man, he held that all who professed religion were hypocritical and silly. Manliness, in poor Joâs mind, consisted of swagger, quiet insolence, cool cursing, and general godlessness. With the exception of Fred Martin, the rest of the crew of the Lively Poll resembled him in his irreligion, but they were very different in character,âLockley, the skipper being genial; Peter Jay, the mate, very appreciative of humour, though quiet and sedate; Duffy, jovial and funny; Freeman, kindly, though reckless; and Bob, the boy-cook, easy-going both as to mind and morals. They all liked Martin, however, in spite of his religion, for he practised much and preached little.
âWhatâs wrong?â asked Lockley, who stood at the tiller looking out for lights ahead.
âOnly a bone into my left hand,â replied Martin, going on with his somewhat dirty labours.
âWell that itâs no worse, boy,â observed Freeman, âfor weâve got no medicine-chest to fly to like that lucky Short-Blue fleet.â
âThatâs true, Jim,â responded Martin; âI wish we had a Gospel smack with our fleet, for our souls need repairing as well as our bodies.â
âThere you go,â growled Stubley, flinging down a just finished fish with a flap of indignation. âA feller canât mention the name oâ them mission craft without rousinâ you up to some oâ your hypocritical chaff. For my part, if it wasnât for the medicine-chest and the mittens, I think weâd be better by a long way without Gospel ships, as ye call âem. Why, what good âave they done the Short-Blues? Iâm sure we doesnât want churches, or prayinâ, or psalm-singinâ or bookââ
âSpeak for yourself, Jo,â interrupted Puffy.
âAlthough your head may be as thick as a three-inch plank, through which nothinâ aâmost can pass either from books or anything else, you mustnât think weâve bin all built on the same lines. I likes a good book myself, anâ, though I donât care about prayinâ or psalm-singinâ, seeinâ I donât understand âem, I say âgood luckâ to the mission smacks, if it was for nothinâ else than the books, anâ doctor stuff, anâ mitts what the shoregoinâ ladiesâbless their hearts!âis so fond oâ sendinâ to us.â
âAy, an the cheap baccy, too, that they say theyâre a-goinâ to send to us,â added Freeman.
âPârâaps theyâll send us cheap grog at last,â said Puffy, with a laugh.
âTheyâll hardly do that,â remarked Martin; âfor itâs to try anâ keep us from goinâ for our baccy to the copers that theyâve started this new plan.â
âI wish âem success,â said Lockley, in a serious tone. And there was good ground for that wish, for our genial and handsome skipper was peculiarly weak on the point of strong drink, that being to him a powerful, almost irresistible, temptation.
When the fish-cleaning and packing were completed, the men went below to snatch a few hoursâ repose. Wet, weary, and sleepy, but with a large stock of reserve strength in them, they retired to the little cabin, in which they could scarcely stand up without bumping their heads, and could hardly turn round without hitting their elbows on something or other. Kicking off their long boots, and throwing aside oilskin coats and souâ-westers, they tumbled into their narrow âbunksâ and fell asleep almost without winking.
There was one among them, however, who did not sleep long that night. Fred Martin was soon
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