Birds of a feather flock together, undoubtedly--at sea as well as on
land. As surely as Johnston, and Moore, and Jim Frost, and such men,
hung about the mission-ship--ready to go aboard and to have a little
meeting when suitable calms occurred, so surely did David Bright, the
Swab, and other like-minded men, find themselves in the neighbourhood of
the Coper when there was nothing to be done in the way of fishing.
Two days after the events narrated in the last chapter, the Swab--whose
proper name was Dick Herring, and who sailed his own smack, the _White
Cloud_--found himself in the neighbourhood of the floating grog-shop.
"Get out the boat, Brock," said Herring to his mate--who has already
been introduced to the reader as Pimply Brock, and whose nose rendered
any explanation of that name unnecessary; "take some fish, an' get as
much as you can for 'em."
The Swab did not name what his mate was to procure in barter with the
fish, neither did Brock ask. It was an old-established order, well
understood.
Soon Brock and two hands were on their way to the floating
"poison-shop," as one of the men had named it. He was affectionately
received there, and, ere long, returned to the _White Cloud_ with a
supply of fire-water.
"You're good at a bargain, Brock," said his master, with an approving
nod, tossing off a glass of the demon that held him as if in chains of
steel--chains that no man could break. "I wish," he added, looking
round on the sea wistfully, "that some of our friends would come to join
us in a spree."
"So do I," said Brock, slightly inflaming his nasal pimples, by pouring
a glass of spirits down his throat.
There must be some strange, subtle sympathy between drunkards, for, at
the very time these two men expressed their wish, the master of the
_Evening Star_ said to Gunter, "Get out the boat. I'll go cruisin'."
It must not be supposed that by this he meant to declare his intention
of going off on a lengthened voyage in his little boat. David Bright
only meant that, having observed through his telescope the little
transaction between the _White Cloud_ and the Coper, his intention was
to pay that vessel a visit--to go carousing, or, as the North Sea
smacksmen have it, "cruisin'."
Gunter obeyed the order with satisfaction and alacrity.
"Jump in, Spivin, and you come too, Billy."
"I say, father," said the boy in a low voice, "are ye goin' to drink wi'
the Swab after what ye heard aboard the mission smack?"
"You clap a stopper on your jaw an' obey orders," replied the skipper
angrily.
Although full of light-hearted insolence, which his mates called cheek,
Billy was by no means a rebellious boy. He knew, from sad experience,
that when his father made up his mind to "go in for a drinking-bout,"
the consequences were often deplorable, and fain would he have dissuaded
him, but he also knew that to persist in opposing him would only make
matters worse, and probably bring severe chastisement on himself. With
an air of quiet gravity, therefore, that seemed very unnatural to him,
he leaped into the boat and took an oar.
"What cheer, David?" said the Swab, offering his rugged hand when the
former jumped on the deck of the _White Cloud_. "I thought you'd come."
"You was right, Dick," returned David, shaking the proffered hand.
"Come below, an' wet your whistle. Bring your men too," said Dick.
"This is a new hand?" pointing to Ned.
"Ay, he's noo, is Ned Spivin, but he can drink."
"Come down, then, all of 'ee."
Now, Ned Spivin was one of those yielding good-natured youths who find
it impossible to resist what may be styled good-fellowship. If you had
tried to force Ned Spivin, to order him, or to frighten him into any
course, he would have laughed in your face and fought you if necessary;
but if you tempted Ned to do evil by kindly tones and looks, he was
powerless to resist.
"You're right, skipper, I can drink--sometimes." They all went below,
leaving Billy on deck "to look after the boat," as his father said,
though, being made fast, the boat required no looking after.
Immediately the party in the little cabin had a glass round. Ere long
it occurred to them that they might have another glass. Of course they
did not require to be reminded of their pipes, and as nearly all the
crew was in the little cabin, besides the visitors, the fumes from pipes
and glasses soon brought the atmosphere to a condition that would have
failed to support any but the strongest kind of human life. It
supported these men well enough, however, for they soon began to use
their tongues and brains in a manner that might have surprised a
dispassionate observer.
It is, perhaps, needless to say that they interlarded their conversation
with fearful oaths, to which of course we can do no more than make
passing reference.
By degrees the conversation degenerated into disputation, for it is the
manner of some men, when "in liquor," to become intensely pugnacious as
well as owlishly philosophical. The subject-matter of dispute may be
varied, but the result is nearly always the same--a series of amazing
convolutions of the brain, which is supposed to be profound reasoning,
waxing hotter and hotter as the utterances grow thicker and thicker, and
the tones louder and louder, until the culminating point is reached when
the point which could not be proved by the mind is hammered home with
the fist.
To little Billy, who had been left in sole charge of the deck, and whose
little mind had been strangely impressed on board the mission-ship, the
words and sounds, to say nothing of the fumes, which proceeded from the
cabin furnished much food for meditation. The babel of tongues soon
became incessant, for three, if not four or five, of the speakers had
become so impressed with the importance of their opinions, and so
anxious to give their mates the benefit, that they all spoke at once.
This of course necessitated much loud talking and gesticulation by all
of them, which greatly helped, no doubt, to make their meaning clear.
At least it did not render it less clear. As the din and riot increased
so did the tendency to add fuel to the fire by deeper drinking, which
resulted in fiercer quarrelling.
At last one of the contending voices shouted so loud that the others for
a few moments gave way, and the words became audible to the little
listener on deck. The voice belonged to Gunter.
"You said," he shouted fiercely, "that I--"
"No, I didn't," retorted Brock, breaking in with a rather premature
contradiction.
"Hear him out. N-nothin' like fair play in ar-argiment," said an
extremely drunken voice.
"Right you are," cried another; "fire away, Gunter."
"You said," resumed Gunter with a little more of argument in his tone,
though still vehemently, "that I said--that--that--well, whativer it was
I said, I'll take my davy that I niver said anything o' the sort."
"That's a lie," cried Brock.
"You're another," shouted Gunter, and waved his hand contemptuously.
Whether it was accident or design we know not, but Gunter's hand knocked
the pipe out of Brook's mouth.
To Billy's ear the well-known sound of a blow followed, and he ran to
look down into the cabin, where all was instantly in an uproar.
"Choke him off," cried David Bright. "Knock his brains out," suggested
Herring. Billy could not see well through the dense smoke, but
apparently the more humane advice was followed, for, after a good deal
of gasping, a heavy body was flung upon the floor.
"All right, shove him into a bunk," cried the Swab.
At the same moment Ned Spivin sprang on deck, and, stretching himself
with his arms extended upwards, drew a long breath of fresh air.
"There, Billy," he said, "I've had enough of it."
"Of grog, d'ye mean?" asked the boy.
"No, but of the hell-upon-earth down there," replied the young man.
"Well, Ned, I should just think you _have_ had enough o' that," said
Billy, "an' of grog too--though you don't seem much screwed after all."
"I'm not screwed at all, Billy--not even half-seas-over. It's more the
smoke an' fumes that have choked me than the grog. Come, lad, let's go
for'ard an' git as far from it as we can."
The man and boy went to the bow of the vessel, and seated themselves
near the heel of the bowsprit, where the sounds from the cabin reached
them only as a faint murmur, and did not disturb the stillness of the
night.
And a day of quiet splendour it certainly was--the sea as calm as glass,
insomuch that it reflected all the fleecy clouds that hung in the bright
sky. Even the ocean-swell had gone to rest with just motion enough left
to prove that the calm was not a "dead" one, but a slumber. All round,
the numerous vessels of the Short Blue fleet floated in peaceful
idleness. At every distance they lay, from a hundred yards to the
far-off horizon.
We say that they floated peacefully, but we speak only as to appearance,
for there were other hells in the fleet, similar to that which we have
described, and the soft sound of distant oars could be distinguished now
and then as boats plied to and fro between their smacks and the Coper,
fetching the deadly liquid with which these hells were set on fire.
Other sounds there were, however, which fell pleasantly on the ears of
the two listeners.
"Psalm-singers," said Billy.
"They might be worse," replied Ned. "What smack does it come from,
think 'ee?"
"The _Boy Jim_, or the _Cephas_--not sure which, for I can't make out
the voices. It might be from the _Sparrow_, but that's it close to us,
and there could be no mistake about Jim Frost's voice if he was to
strike up."
"What! has Jim Frost hoisted the Bethel-flag?"
"Ay, didn't you see it flyin' last Sunday for the first time?"
"No, I didn't," returned Ned, "but I'm glad to hear it, for, though I'm
not one o' that set myself. I do like to see a man not ashamed to show
his colours."
The flag to which they referred is supplied at half cost to the fleet by
the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen--and is hoisted every Sabbath-day by
those skippers in the fleet who, having made up their minds boldly to
accept all the consequences of the step, have come out decidedly on the
Lord's side.
While the two shipmates were conversing thus in low tones, enjoying the
fresh air and the calm influences around them, the notes of an accordion
came over the water in tones that were sweetened and mellowed by
distance.
"Ha! that's Jim Frost now," said Billy, in subdued excitement, while
pleasure glittered in his eyes. "Oh! Ned, I _does_ like music. It
makes my heart fit to bu'st sometimes, it does. An' Jim plays that--
that what's 'is name--so beautiful!"
"His accordion," said Ned.
"Yes--his accordium--"
"No, Billy, not accordium, but accordion."
"Well, well--no matter. I don't care a button what you calls it, so
long as Jim plays it. Why, he'd make his fortin' if he was to play that
thing about the streets o' Lun'on. Listen."
Jim Frost deserved all the praise that the enthusiastic boy bestowed on
him, for, besides possessing a fine ear and taste for music, and having
taught himself to play well, he had a magnificent tenor voice, and took
great delight in singing the beautiful hymns which at that time had been
introduced to the fleet. On this particular day he was joined by his
crew, whose voices--more or less tuneful--came rolling over the water in
a great volume of melody.
"He's got Singin' Peter a-visitin' him," said Billy. "Don't you hear
him?"
"Ay, I hear him, boy. There's no mistakin' Singin' Peter's voice. I'd
know it among a thousand."
"If it's hell here," remarked Billy, with a great sigh of satisfaction,
after the hymn was done, "it do seem like heaven over there. I only
wish we had Jim Frost on board of us instead of that brute Gunter."
"Don't be hard on Gunter, Billy," said Ned. "We don't know what he's
got to bear. Some men are born, you see, wi' narves that are for ever
screwin' at 'em, an' ticklin' of 'em up; an' other men have narves that
always keep smoothin' of 'em down. The last are the pleasantest to have
to do with, no doubt, but the others ain't quite so bad as they look
sometimes. Their bark is worse than their bite."
"Hush!" exclaimed the boy, holding up a finger at the moment, for Jim
Frost's accordion again sent forth its rich tones in the prelude to a
hymn. A few moments later and the tuneful voices came rolling towards
them in that beautiful hymn, the chorus of which ends:--
"We shall know each other better when the mists are rolled away."
When the last verse was sung little Billy found a tear struggling to get
out of each eye, and a lump sticking in his throat, so he turned his
head away to conceal them.
"Ain't it beautiful?" he said, when the lump had disappeared.
"And ain't it curious," answered Ned, "that it should touch on what we
was talkin' about afore they began? P'r'aps we shall know John Gunter
better `when the mists are rolled away.'"
Billy shook his head dubiously. "I'm not so sure o' that," he said.
"Anyhow, there's a deal o' mist to be rolled away before we can know
_him_ better."
"There's a breeze comin' up from the south'ard," remarked Ned, who, to
say truth, did not seem to care very much about getting to know his
surly shipmate better; "we'll have to get your father aboard soon."
"That won't be an easy matter," said Billy, and he was right, for when
David Bright was set down with a friend, and a glass, and a pack of
cards, it was very difficult to move him. He was, indeed, as fond of
gambling as of drinking, and lost much of his hardly earned gains in
that way. Billy, therefore, received little but abuse when he tried to
induce him to return to his own vessel, but the freshing of the breeze,
and a sudden lurch of the smack, which overturned his glass of grog into
Gunter's lap, induced him at last to go on deck.
There the appearance of things had changed considerably. Clouds were
beginning to obscure the bright sky, the breeze had effectually
shattered the clear mirror of the sea, and a swell was beginning to roll
the _White Cloud_, so that legs which would have found it difficult to
steady their owners on solid land made sad work of their office on the
heaving deck.
"Haul up the boat," cried Brock in a drivelling voice as he came on
deck; "where are you steerin' to? Let me take the helm."
He staggered toward the tiller as he spoke, but Dick Herring and one of
his mates, seeing that he was quite unable to steer, tried to prevent
him. Brock, however, had reached that stage of drunkenness in which men
are apt to become particularly obstinate, and, being a powerful man,
struggled violently to accomplish his purpose.
"Let him have it," said Herring at last. "He can't do much damage."
When set free, the miserable man grasped the tiller and tried to steady
himself. A lurch of the vessel, however, rendered his effort abortive.
The tiller fell to leeward. Brock went headlong with it, stumbled over
the side, and, before any one could stretch out a hand to prevent it,
fell into the sea and sank.
His comrades were apparently sobered in an instant. There was no need
for the hurried order to jump into the boat alongside. Ned Spivin and
Billy were in it with the painter cast off and the oars out in a couple
of seconds. The boat of the _White Cloud_ was also launched with a
speed, that only North Sea fishermen, perhaps, can accomplish, and both
crews rowed about eagerly while the smack lay-to. But all without
success. The unfortunate man was never more seen, and the visitors left
the vessel in sobered silence, and rowed, without exchanging a word, to
their own smack, which lay about a quarter of a mile distant on the port
quarter.