The Lively Poll: A Tale of the North Sea by R. M. Ballantyne (best book clubs .TXT) đ
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «The Lively Poll: A Tale of the North Sea by R. M. Ballantyne (best book clubs .TXT) đ». Author R. M. Ballantyne
Never was there a fishing smack more inappropriately named than the Fairy,âthat unwieldy iron vessel which the fleet, in facetious content, had dubbed the âIronclad,â and which had the honour of being commanded by that free and easy, sociableâalmost too sociableâskipper, 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 âbus, 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.
âWhat cheer? what cheer?â cried some in passing.
âHallo, Tim! how are âee, old man! What luck?â
âAll right, Jim; onây six trunks.â
âHa! thatâs âcause ye fished up a dead man yesterday.â
âIs that you, Ted?â
âAy, ay, whatâs left oâ meâworse luck. I thought your mother was goinâ to keep you at home this trip to mind the babby.â
âSo she was, boy, but the babby fell into a can oâ buttermilk anâ got drownded, so I had to come off again, dâee see?â
âWhat cheer, Groggy Fox? Have âee hoisted the blue ribbon yet?â
âNo, Stephen Lockley, I havenât, nor donât mean to, but one oâ the fleet seems to have hoisted the blue flag.â
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.
âShe must have lost her reckoning,â muttered Lockley, as he tried to catch sight of the vessel to which the flag belongedâwhich 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 Admiralâs 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 onâthe men heaving the fish-boxes aboard,âwhile 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 ladenâtoo heavily for such a seaâfor 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 wereâvery 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 vesselâs 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 moreâdragged 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 smacksâfor 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.
âWas that your boat that went down?â 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 Bryceâs state of mind prevented his raising his voice sufficiently, but it was believed that the answer was âYes.â
âPoor fellows!â muttered Fox, who was a man of tender feelings, although apt to feel more for himself than for any one else.
âI think Dick Martin was in the boat,â said the mate of the Cormorant, who stood beside his skipper. âI saw them when they shoved off, and though it was a longish distance, I could make him out by his size, anâ the fur cap he wore.â
âWell, the world wonât lose much if heâs gone,â returned Fox; âhe was a bad lot.â
It did not occur to the skipper at that time that he himself was nearly, if not quite, as bad a âlot.â But bad men are proverbially blind to their own faults.
âHe was a cross-grained fellow,â returned the mate, âspecially when in liquor, but I never heard no worse of âim than that.â
âDidnât you?â said Fox; âdidnât you hear what they said of âim at Gorleston?âthat he tried to do his sister out of a lot oâ money as was left her by some cove or other in furrin parts. Anâ some folk are quite sure that it was him as stole the little savinâs oâ that poor widdy, Mrs Mooney, though they canât just prove it agin him. Ah, he is a bad lot, anâ no mistake. But I may say that oâ the whole bilinâ oâ the Martins. Look at Fred, now.â
âWell, wot of him?â asked the mate, in a somewhat gruff tone.
âWhat of him!â repeated the skipper, âainât he a hypocrite, with his smooth tongue anâ his sly ways, as if butter wouldnât melt in his mouth, anâ nowâwhere is he?â
âWell, where is he!â demanded the mate, with increasing gruffness.
âWhy, in course nobody knows where he is,â retorted the skipper; âthatâs where it is. No sooner does he get a small windfallâleastwise, his mother gets itâthan he cuts the trawlers, anâ all his old friends without so much as sayinâ âGood-bye,â anâ goes off to Lunnon or somewheres, to set up for a gentleman, I suppose.â
âI donât believe nothinâ oâ the sort,â returned the mate indignantly. âFred Martin may be smooth-tongued and shy if you like, but heâs no hypercriteââ
âHallo! thereâs that mission ship on the lee bow,â 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. âPort your helm,â he added in a deep growl to the man who steered. âIâll give her a wide berth.â
âIf she was the coper youâd steer the other way,â remarked the mate, with a laugh.
âIn course I would,â retorted Fox, âfor there Iâd find cheap baccy and brandy.â
âAy, bad brandy,â said the mate; âbut, skipper, you can get baccy cheaper aboard the mission ships now than aboard the coper.â
âWhat! at a shillinâ a pound?â
âAy, at a shillinâ a pound.â
âI
Comments (0)