"Now Billy, you shrimp," cried David Bright, seizing his son by the
collar and giving him a friendly shake that would have been thought
severe handling by any but a fisher-boy, "don't go excitin' of yourself.
You'll never make a man worth speakin' of if you can't keep down your
feelin's."
But Billy could not keep down his feelings. They were too strong for
him. He was naturally of an excitable--what we may call a jovial--
jumping--disposition, and, although he had now been some months at sea,
he had not yet succeeded in crushing down that burst of delight with
which he viewed the cod-end of the great deep-sea net as it was hoisted
over the side by the power of block and tackle.
"You never trouble yourself about my feelin's, father, so long's I do my
dooty," said the boy with native insolence, as he looked eagerly over
the side at the mass of fish which gleamed faintly white as it neared
the surface, while he helped with all his little might to draw in the
net.
"But I want to teach you more than dooty, my boy," returned the skipper.
"I've got to make a man of you. I promised that to your mother, you
know. If you want to be a man, you must foller my example--be cool an'
steady."
"If I'm to foller your example, father, why don't you let me foller it
all round, an' smoke an' drink as well?"
"Shut up, you agrawatin' sinner," growled the skipper. "Heave away,
lads. Here, hand me the rope, an' send aft the tackle."
By this time the heavy beam had been secured to the side of the vessel,
most of the net hauled in, and the bag, or cod-end, was above the
surface filled almost to bursting with upwards of a ton of turbots,
soles, haddocks, plaice, dabs, whitings, etcetera, besides several
hundredweight of mud, weeds, stones, and oysters. Sometimes, indeed,
this bag does burst, and in one moment all the profit and toil of a
night's fishing is lost.
When the skipper had secured a strong rope round the bag and hooked it
on to a block and tackle made fast to the rigging, the order was given
to heave away, and gradually the ponderous mass rose like an oval
balloon, or buoy, over the vessel's side. When it cleared the rail it
was swung inwards and secured in a hanging position, with the lower end
sweeping the deck as the smack rolled from side to side. In all these
operations, from the prolonged heaving at the capstan to the hauling in
of the net, hand over hand, the men were exerting their great physical
powers to the uttermost--almost without a moment's relaxation--besides
being deluged at times by spray, which, however, their oiled frocks,
long boots, and sou'-westers prevented from quite drenching them. But
now all danger of loss was over, and they proceeded to liberate the
fish.
The cod-end had its lower part secured by a strong rope. All that had
to be done, therefore, was to untie the rope and open the bottom of the
net.
It fell to Luke Trevor to do this. Billy was standing by in eager
expectation. Ned Spivin stood behind him. Now, we have said that
Spivin was fond of chaffing his mates and of practical jokes. So was
Billy, and between these two, therefore, there was a species of rivalry.
When Spivin observed that Luke was about to pull out the last loop that
held the bag, he shouted in a loud voice of alarm--
"Hallo! Billy, catch hold of this rope, quick!"
Billy turned like a flash of light and seized the rope held out to him.
The momentary distraction was enough. Before he could understand the
joke the bottom of the bag opened, the ton-and-a-half, more or less, of
fish burst forth, spread itself over the deck like an avalanche, swept
Billy off his little legs, and almost overwhelmed him, to the immense
delight of Spivin, who impudently bent down and offered to help him to
rise.
"Come here, Billy, and I'll help you up," he said, kindly, as the tail
of a skate flipped across the boy's nose, and almost slid into his
mouth.
Billy made no reply, but, clearing himself of fish, jumped up, seized a
gaping cod by the gills, and sent it all alive and kicking straight into
Spivin's face. The aim was true. The man was blinded for a few moments
by the fish, and his mates were well-nigh choked with laughter.
"Come, come--no sky-larking!" growled the skipper. "Play when your work
is done, boys."
Thus reproved, the crew began to clear away the mass of weeds and
refuse, after which all hands prepared the trawl to be ready for going
down again, and then they set to work to clean and sort the fish. This
was comparatively easy work at that season of the year, but when winter
gales and winter frosts sweep over the North Sea, only those who suffer
it know what it is to stand on the slimy pitching deck with naked and
benumbed hands, disembowelling fish and packing them in small oblong
boxes called "trunks," for the London market. And little do Londoners
think, perhaps, when eating their turbot, sole, plaice, cod, haddock,
whiting, or other fish, by what severe night-work, amid bitter cold, and
too often tremendous risks, the food has been provided for them.
It is not, however, our purpose to moralise just now, though we might do
so with great propriety, but to tell our story, on which some of the
seemingly trifling incidents of that night had a special bearing. One
of those incidents was the cutting of a finger. Ned Spivin, whose
tendency towards fun and frolic at all times rendered him rather
slap-dash and careless, was engaged in the rather ignoble work of
cutting off skates' tails--these appendages not being deemed marketable.
This operation he performed with a hatchet, but some one borrowed the
hatchet for a few minutes, and Spivin continued the operation with his
knife. One of the tails being tough, and the knife blunt, the impatient
man used violence. Impatience and violence not unfrequently result in
damage. The tail gave way unexpectedly, and Spivin cut a deep gash in
his left hand. Cuts, gashes, and bruises are the frequent experience of
smacksmen. Spivin bound up the gash with a handkerchief, and went on
with his work.
Before their work was quite done, however, a gale, which had been
threatening from the nor'-west, set in with considerable force, and
rapidly increased, so that the packing of the last few trunks, and
stowing them into the hold, became a matter not only of difficulty but
of danger.
By that time the sky had clouded over, and the lantern in the rigging
alone gave light.
"It will blow harder," said Trevor to Billy as they stood under shelter
of the weather bulwarks holding on to the shrouds. "Does it never come
into your mind to think where we would all go to if the _Evening Star_
went down?"
"No, Luke. I can't say as it does. Somehow I never think of father's
smack goin' down."
"And yet," returned Luke in a meditative tone, "it may happen, you know,
any night. It's not six months since the _Raven_ went down, with all
hands, though she was as tight a craft as any in the fleet, and her
captain was a first-rate seaman, besides bein' steady."
"Ay, but then, you see," said Billy, "she was took by three heavy seas
one arter the other, and no vessel, you know, could stand that."
"No, not even the _Evening Star_ if she was took that fashion, an' we
never know when it's goin' to happen. I suspect, Billy, that the
psalm-singers, as Gunter calls 'em, has the best of it. They work as
well as any men in the fleet--sometimes I think better--an' then they're
always in such a jolly state o' mind! If good luck comes, they praise
God for it, an' if bad luck comes they praise God that it's no worse.
Whatever turns up they appear to be in a thankful state o' mind, and
that seems to me a deal better than growlin', swearin', and grumblin',
as so many of us do at what we can't change. What d'ee think, Billy?"
"Well, to tell 'ee the truth, Luke, I don't think about it at all--
anyhow, I've never thought about it till to-night."
"But it's worth thinkin' about, Billy?"
"That's true," returned the boy, who was of a naturally straightforward
disposition, and never feared to express his opinions freely.
Just then a sea rose on the weather quarter, threatening, apparently, to
fall inboard. So many waves had done the same thing before, that no one
seemed to regard it much; but the experienced eye of the skipper noticed
a difference, and he had barely time to give a warning shout when the
wave rushed over the side like a mighty river, and swept the deck from
stem to stern. Many loose articles were swept away and lost, and the
boat which lay on the deck alongside of the mast, had a narrow escape.
Billy and his friend Luke, being well under the lee of the bulwarks,
escaped the full force of the deluge, but Ned Spivin, who steered, was
all but torn from his position, though he clung with all his strength to
the tiller and the rope that held it fast. The skipper was under the
partial shelter of the mizzenmast, and clung to the belaying-pins. John
Gunter was the only one who came to grief. He was dashed with great
violence to leeward, but held on to the shrouds for his life. The mate
was below at the moment and so was Zulu, whose howl coming from the
cabin, coupled with a hiss of water in the fire, told that he had
suffered from the shock.
The immense body of water that filled the main-sail threw the vessel for
a short time nearly on her beam-ends--a position that may be better
understood when we say that it converts one of the sides of the vessel
into the floor, the other side into the ceiling, and the floor and deck
respectively into upright walls!
Fortunately the little smack got rid of the water in a few seconds,
arose slowly, and appeared to shake herself like a duck rising out of
the sea. Sail had already been reduced to the utmost; nevertheless, the
wind was so strong that for three hours afterwards the crew never caught
sight of the lee-bulwarks, so buried were they in foam as the _Evening
Star_ leaned over and rushed madly on her course.
Towards morning the wind moderated a little, and then the crew gazed
anxiously around on the heaving grey waves, for well did they know that
such a squall could not pass over the North Sea without claiming its
victims.
"It blowed that 'ard at one time," said Ned Spivin to Joe Davidson,
"that I expected to see the main-mast tore out of 'er."
"I'm afeard for the _Rainbow_," said Joe. "She's nothin' better than a
old bunch o' boards."
"Sometimes them old things hold out longer than we expect," returned
Ned.
He was right. When the losses of that night came to be reckoned up,
several good vessels were discovered to be missing, but the rotten old
_Rainbow_ still remained undestroyed though not unscathed, and a sad
sight met the eyes of the men of the fleet when daylight revealed the
fact that some of the smacks had their flags flying half-mast,
indicating that many men had been washed overboard and lost during the
night.
As the day advanced, the weather improved, and the fishermen began to
look anxiously out for the steamer which was to convey their fish to
market, but none was to be seen. Although a number of steamers run
between Billingsgate and the Short Blue fleet, it sometimes happens that
they do not manage to find the fleet at once, and occasionally a day or
more is lost in searching for it--to the damage of the fish if the
weather be warm. It seemed as if a delay of this kind, had happened on
the occasion of which we write; the admiral therefore signalled to let
down the nets for a day haul.
While this was being done, a vessel was seen to join the fleet from the
westward.
"That's Singin' Peter," said David Bright to his mate. "I'd know his
rig at any distance."
"So it is. P'raps he's got letters for us."
Singing Peter was one of the many fishermen who had been brought to a
knowledge of Jesus Christ and saved from his sins. Wild and careless
before conversion, he afterwards became an enthusiastic follower of the
Lamb of God, and was so fond of singing hymns in His praise that he
became known in the fleet by the sobriquet of Singing Peter. His
beaming face and wholly changed life bore testimony to what the Holy
Spirit had wrought in him.
Peter had been home to Gorleston on his week of holiday, and had now
returned to the fleet for his eight weeks' fishing-cruise, carrying a
flag to show that he had just arrived, bringing letters and clothes,
etcetera, for some of the crews.
"I used to think Peter warn't a bad feller," said David Bright, as the
new arrival drew near; "he was always good company, an' ready for his
glass, but now he's taken to singin' psalms, I can make nothin' of 'im."
"There's them in the fleet that like him better since he took to that,"
said Luke Trevor.
"It may be so, lad, but that's not accordin' to _my_ taste," retorted
the skipper.
David was, however, by no means a surly fellow. When Peter's vessel
came within hail, he held up his hand and shouted--
"What cheer! what cheer, Peter!" as heartily as possible.
Singing Peter held up his hand in reply, and waved it as he shouted
back--
"What cheer! All well, praise the Lord!"
"D'ye hear that Billy?" said Luke, in a low voice. "_He_ never forgets
to praise the Lord."