The Lively Poll: A Tale of the North Sea by R. M. Ballantyne (best book clubs .TXT) 📖

Now, although it is an undoubted fact that the skippers of the North Sea trawling smacks are first-rate seamen, it is an equally certain fact that strong drink can render them unfit for duty. One of the skippers was, if we may say so, unmanned by drink at the time the fleet sheered off from the steam-carrier, as stated in the last chapter. He was named Georgie Fox—better known in the fleet as Groggy Fox.

Unfortunately for himself as well as others, Skipper Fox had paid a visit to one of the copers the day before for the purpose of laying in a stock of tobacco, which was sold by the skipper of the floating grog-shop at 1 shilling 6 pence a pound. Of course Fox had been treated to a glass of fiery spirits, and had thereafter been induced to purchase a quantity of the same. He had continued to tipple until night, when he retired in a fuddled state to rest. On rising he tippled again, and went on tippling till his fish were put on board the steamer. Then he took the helm of his vessel, and stood with legs very wide apart, an owlish gaze in his eyes, and a look of amazing solemnity on his visage.

When a fleet sheers off from a steam-carrier after delivery of cargo, the sea around is usually very much crowded with vessels, and as these cross and re-cross or run past or alongside of each other before finally settling into the appointed course, there is a good deal of hearty recognition—shouting, questioning, tossing up of arms, and expressions of goodwill—among friends. Several men hailed and saluted Fox as his smack, the Cormorant, went by, but he took no notice except with an idiotic wink of both eyes.

“He’s bin to the coper,” remarked Puffy, as the Cormorant crossed the bow of the Lively Poll. “I say, Lumpy, come here,” he added, as Bob Lumsden came on deck. “Have ’ee got any o’ that coffee left?”

“No, not a drop. I gave the last o’t to Fred Martin just as he was goin’ away.”

“Poor Fred!” said Puffy. “He’s in for suthin’ stiff, I doubt, measles or mulligrumps, if not wuss.”

“A great pity,” remarked Peter Jay, who stood at the helm, “that Martin couldn’t hold out a week longer when our turn comes round to run for Yarmouth.”

“It’s well we got him shipped off to-day,” said Lockley. “That hand of his would have made him useless before another day was out. It’s a long time for a man in his state to be without help, that run up to Lun’on. Port your helm a bit, Jay. Is it the Cormorant that’s yawin’ about there in that fashion?”

“Ay, it’s the Cormorant,” replied Jay. “I seed her just now a’most run foul o’ the Butterfly.”

“She’ll be foul of us. Hi! Look out!” cried Lockley, becoming excited, as he saw the Cormorant change her course suddenly, without apparent reason, and bear straight down upon his vessel.

There was, indeed, no reason for the strange movements of the smack in question, except that there was at the helm a man who had rendered his reason incapable of action. With dull, fishy eyes, that stared idiotically at nothing, his hand on the tiller, and his mind asleep, Georgie Fox stood on the deck of the Cormorant steering.

“Starboard a bit, Jay,” said Lockley, with an anxious look, “she’ll barely clear us.”

As he spoke, Fox moved his helm slightly. It changed the course of his vessel only a little, but that little sufficed to send the cutwater of the Cormorant straight into the port bows of the Lively Poll with a tremendous crash, for a smart breeze was blowing at the time. The bulwarks were cut down to the deck, and, as the Cormorant recoiled and again surged ahead, the bowsprit was carried away, and part of the topmast brought down.

Deep and fierce was the growl that burst from Lockley’s lips at this disaster, but that did not mend matters. The result was that the Lively Poll had to quit the fleet a week before her time of eight weeks afloat was up, and run to Yarmouth for repairs. Next day, however, it fell calm, and several days elapsed before she finally made her port.

Meanwhile Fred Martin reached London, with his feverish complaint greatly aggravated, and his undressed wound much worse. In London he was detained some hours by his employers, and then sent on to Yarmouth, which he reached late in the afternoon, and ultimately in a state of great suffering and exhaustion, made his way to Gorleston, where his mother lived.

With his mind in a species of wild whirl, and acute pains darting through his wounded hand and arm, he wended his way slowly along the road that led to his mother’s house. Perhaps we should style it her attic, for she could claim only part of the house in which she dwelt. From a quaint gable window of this abode she had a view of the sea over the houses in front.

Part of Fred’s route lay along the banks of the Yare, not far from its mouth. At a spot where there were many old anchors and cables, old and new trawl-beams, and sundry other seafaring rusty and tarry objects, the young fisherman met a pretty young girl, who stopped suddenly, and, with her large blue eyes expressing unspeakable surprise, exclaimed, “Fred!”

The youth sprang forward, seized the girl with his uninjured hand, and exclaimed, “Isa!” as he drew her towards him.

“Fred—not here. Behave!” said Isa, holding up a warning finger.

Fred consented to behave—with a promise, however, that he would make up for it at a more fitting time and place.

“But what is the matter!” asked Isa, with an anxious look, laying her pretty little hands on the youth’s arm.

Yes, you need not smile, reader; it is not a perquisite of ladies to have pretty little hands. Isa’s hands were brown, no doubt, like her cheeks, owing to exposure and sunshine, and they were somewhat roughened by honest toil; but they were small and well-shaped, with taper fingers, and their touch was very tender as she clasped them on her lover’s arm.

“Nothing serious,” replied the youth lightly; “only an accident with a fish-bone, but it has got to be pretty bad for want of attention; an’ besides I’m out o’ sorts somehow. No physic, you see, or doctors in our fleet, like the lucky dogs of the Short-Blue. I’ve been knocked up more or less for some weeks past, so they sent me home to be looked after. But I won’t need either physic or doctor now.”

“No? why not?” asked the girl, with a simple look.

“Cause the sight o’ your sweet face does away with the need of either.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Fred.”

“If that’s nonsense,” returned the fisherman, “you’ll never hear me talk sense again as long as I live. But how about mother, Isa? Is she well!”

“Quite well. I have just left her puzzling herself over a letter from abroad that’s so ill-written that it would bother a schoolmaster to read it. I tried to read it, but couldn’t. You’re a good scholar, Fred, so you have come just in time to help her. But won’t she be surprised to see you!”

Thus conversing, and walking rather slowly, the pair made their way to the attic of Mrs Martin, where the unexpected sight of her son threw the patient woman into a great flutter of surprise and pleasure. We use the word “patient” advisedly, for Mrs Martin was one of those wholesome-minded creatures who, having to battle vigorously for the bare necessaries of life in the face of many adverse circumstances, carry on the war with a degree of hearty, sweet-tempered resolution