One day a fishing-smack was on the eve of quitting the Short Blue fleet
for its little holiday of a week in port. It was the _Sparrow_, of
which Jim Frost was master. A flag was flying to indicate its
intention, and invite letters, etcetera, for home, if any of the crews
should feel disposed to send them.
Several boats put off from their respective smacks in reply to the
signal. One of these belonged to Singing Peter.
"Glad to see you, Peter," said Jim Frost as the former leaped on the
_Sparrow's_ deck.
"Same to you, lad. I wish you a pleasant spell ashore, and may the
Master be with you," returned Peter.
"The Master is sure to be with me," replied Frost, "for has he not said,
`I will never leave thee?' Isn't it a fine thing, Peter, to think that,
whatever happens, the Lord is here to guard us from evil?"
"Ay, Jim, an' to take us home when the time comes."
"`Which is far better,'" responded Jim.
"You'll not get away to-night," remarked Peter as he gazed out upon the
sea. "It's goin' to fall calm."
"No matter. I can wait."
"What say ye, lad, to a hymn?" said Peter.
"I'm your man," replied Jim, with a laugh, "I thought it wouldn't be
long before Singin' Peter would want to raise his pipe."
"He can't help it, d'ee see," returned Peter, answering the laugh with a
smile; "if I didn't sing I'd blow up. It's my safety-valve, Jim, an' I
like to blow off steam when I gets alongside o' like-minded men."
"We're all like-minded here. Fetch my accordion," said Jim, turning to
one of his men.
In a few minutes a lively hymn was raised in lusty tones which rolled
far and wide over the slumbering sea. Then these like-minded men
offered up several prayers, and it was observed that Jim Frost was
peculiarly earnest that night. Of course they had some more hymns, for
as the calm was by that time complete, and it was not possible for any
sailing vessel to quit the fleet, there was no occasion to hurry.
Indeed there is no saying how long these iron-framed fishermen would
have kept it up, if it had not been for a slight fog which warned the
visitors to depart.
As the night advanced the fog thickened, so that it was not possible to
see more than fifty yards around any of the fishing-smacks.
Now it is probably known to most people that the greatest danger to
which those who do business on the sea are exposed is during fog.
When all around is calm and peaceful; when the sound of voices comes
with muffled sound over the smooth water; when the eye sees nothing save
a ghostly white horizon all round close at hand; when almost the only
sound that breaks on the ear is the gentle lapping of the sea, or the
quiet creak of plank and spar, as the vessel slowly lifts and falls on
the gentle swell, and when landsmen perchance feel most secure--then it
is that the dark cloud of danger lowers most heavily, though perhaps
unrecognised, over the mariner, and stirs him to anxious watchfulness,
when apparently in profoundest repose.
Jim Frost knew well the dangers of the situation, but he had been long
accustomed to face all the dangers peculiar to his calling on the deep
without flinching--strong in the confidence of his well-tried courage
and seamanship, and stronger still in his trust in Him who holds the
water in the hollow of His hand. Many a time had he been becalmed in
fog on the North Sea. He knew what to do, kept the fog-horn blowing,
and took all the steps for safety that were possible in the
circumstances.
But, somehow, the young fisherman did not feel his usual easy-going
indifference on that particular night, though his trust in God was not
less strong. He felt no fear, indeed, but a solemn sobriety of spirit
had taken the place of his wonted cheery temperament, and, instead of
singing in lively tones as he paced the deck, he hummed airs of a slow
pathetic kind in a soft undertone.
It is often said that men receive mysterious intimations, sometimes, of
impending disaster. It may be so. We cannot tell. Certainly it seemed
as if Jim Frost had received some such intimation that night.
"I can't understand it, Evan," he said to his mate when the latter came
on deck a little after midnight to relieve him. "A feeling as if
something was going to happen has taken possession of me, and I can't
shake it off. You know I'm not the man to fancy danger when there's
none."
Evan--a youth whom he had been the means of rescuing when about to fall,
under great temptation--replied that perhaps want of sleep was the
cause.
"You know," he said, "men become little better than babbies when they
goes long without sleep, an' you've not had much of late. What with
that tearin' o' the net an' the gale that's just gone, an' that book,
you know--"
"Ah!" interrupted Jim, "you mustn't lay the blame on the book, Evan. I
haven't bin sittin' up _very_ late at it; though I confess I'm uncommon
fond o' readin'. Besides, it's a good book, more likely to quiet a
man's mind than to rouse it. How we ever got on without readin' before
that mission-ship came to us, is more than I can understand! Why, it
seems to have lifted me into a new world."
"That's so. I'm fond o' readin' myself," said Evan, who, although not
quite so enthusiastic or intellectual as his friend, appreciated very
highly the library-bags which had been recently sent to the fleet.
"But the strange thing is," said Jim, returning to the subject of his
impressions--"the strange thing is, that my mind is not runnin' on
danger or damaged gear, or books, or gales, but on my dear wife at home.
I've bin thinkin' of Nancy in a way that I don't remember to have done
before, an' the face of my darlin' Lucy, wi' her black eyes an' rosy
cheeks so like her mother, is never absent from my eyes for a moment."
"Want o' sleep," said the practical Evan. "You'd better turn in an'
have a good spell as long as the calm lasts."
"You remember the patch o' green in front o' my cottage in Gorleston?"
asked Jim, paying no attention to his mate's advice.
"Yes," answered Evan.
"Well, when I was sittin' for'ard there, not half-an-hour since, I seed
my Nancy a-sittin' on that green as plain as I see you, sewin' away at
somethin', an' Lucy playin' at her knee. They was so real-like that I
couldn't help sayin' `Nancy!' an' I do assure you that she stopped
sewin' an' turned her head a-one side for a moment as if she was
listenin'. An' it was all so real-like too."
"You was dreamin'; that was all," said the unromantic Evan.
"No, mate. I wasn't dreamin'," returned Jim. "I was as wide awake as I
am at this moment for I was lookin' out all round just as keen as if I
had not bin thinkin' about home at all."
"Well, you'd as well go below an' dream about 'em now if you can,"
suggested Evan, "an' I'll keep a sharp look-out."
"No, lad, I can't. I'm not a bit sleepy."
As Jim said this he turned and went to the bow of the smack.
At that moment the muffled sound of a steamer's paddles was heard.
Probably the fog had something to do with the peculiarity of the sound,
for next moment a fog-whistle sounded its harsh tone close at hand, and
a dark towering shadow seemed to rush down upon the _Sparrow_.
Even if there had been a breeze there would have been no time to steer
clear of the danger. As it was, the little vessel lay quite helpless on
the sea, Evan shouted down the companion for the men to turn out for
their lives. The man at the bow sounded the fog-horn loud and long. At
the same instant Jim Frost's voice rang out strong and clear a warning
cry. It was answered from above. There were sudden screams and cries.
The fog-whistle shrieked. Engines were reversed. "Hard a-port!" was
shouted. Steam was blown off, and, amid confusion and turmoil
indescribable, an ocean steamer struck the little _Sparrow_ amidships,
and fairly rammed her into the sea.
It could scarcely be said that there was a crash. The one was too heavy
and the other too light for that. The smack lay over almost gracefully,
as if submitting humbly to her inevitable doom. There was one great
cry, and next moment she was rolling beneath the keel of the monster
that had so ruthlessly run her down.
Not far off--so near indeed that those on board almost saw the
catastrophe--lay the _Evening Star_. They of course heard the cries and
the confusion, and knew only too well what had occurred.
To order out the boat was the work of an instant. With powerful strokes
Joe, Spivin, Trevor, and Gunter, caused it to leap to the rescue. On
reaching the spot they discovered and saved the mate. He was found
clinging to an oar, but all the others had disappeared. The steamer
which had done the deed had lowered a boat, and diligent search was made
in all directions round the spot where the fatal collision had occurred.
No other living soul, however, was found. Only a few broken spars and
the upturned boat of the smack remained to tell where Jim Frost, and the
rest of his like-minded men, had exchanged the garb of toil for the
garments of glory!
As a matter of course this event made a profound impression for a time
on board of the _Evening Star_ and of such vessels as were near enough
next morning to be informed of the sad news. A large portion of the
fleet, however, was for some time unaware of what had taken place, and
some of the masters and crews, who were averse to what they styled
"psalm-singin' and prayin'," did not seem to be much affected by the
loss.
Whether grieved or indifferent however, the work of the fleet had to be
done. Whether fishermen live or die, sink or swim, the inexorable
demand of Billingsgate for fish must be met! Accordingly, next day
about noon, a fresh breeze having sprung up, and a carrier-steamer being
there ready for her load, the same lively scene which we have described
in a previous chapter was re-enacted, and after the smacks were
discharged they all went off as formerly in the same direction, like a
shoal of herrings, to new fishing-grounds.
When they had got well away to the eastward and were beating up against
a stiff northerly breeze, David Bright who stood near the helm of the
_Evening Star_, said to his son in a peculiarly low voice--
"Now, Billy, you go below an' fetch me a glass of grog."
Billy went below as desired, but very unwillingly, for he well knew his
father's varying moods, and recognised in the peculiar tone in which the
order was given, a species of despondency--almost amounting to despair--
which not unfrequently ushered in some of his worst fits of
intemperance.
"Your fadder's in de blues to-day," said Zulu, as he toiled over his
cooking apparatus in the little cabin; "when he spok like dat, he goes
in for heavy drink."
"I know that well enough," returned Billy, almost angrily.
"Why you no try him wid a 'speriment?" asked the cook, wrinkling up his
nose and displaying his tremendous gums.
"For any sake don't open your mouth like that, Zulu, but tell me what
you mean by a 'speriment," said the boy.
"How kin I tell what's a 'speriment if I'm not to open my mout'?"
"Shut up, you nigger! an' talk sense."
"Der you go agin, Billy. How kin I talk sense if I'm to shut up? Don't
you know what a 'speriment is? Why it's--it's--just a 'speriment you
know--a dodge."
"If you mean a dodge, why don't you say a dodge?" retorted Billy; "well,
what is your dodge? look alive, for daddy'll be shoutin' for his grog in
a minute."
"You jus' listen," said the cook, in a hoarse whisper, as he opened his
enormous eyes to their widest, "you jus' take a wine-glass--de big 'un
as your fadder be fond of--an' put in 'im two teaspoonfuls o' vinegar,
one tablespoonful o' parafine hoil, one leetle pinch o' pepper, an' one
big pinch ob salt with a leetle mustard, an' give 'im dat. Your fadder
never take time to smell him's grog--always toss 'im off quick."
"Yes, an' then he'd toss the wine-glass into my face an' kick me round
the deck afterwards, if not overboard," said Billy, with a look of
contempt. "No, Zulu, I don't like your 'speriment, but you've put a
notion into my head, for even when a fool speaks a wise man may learn--"
"Yes, I often tink dat," said the cook, interrupting, with a look of
innocence. "You quite right, so speak away, Billy, an' I'll learn."
"You fetch me the wine-glass," said the boy, sharply.
Zulu obeyed.
"Now, fill it up with water--so, an' put in a little brown sugar to give
it colour. That's enough, stir him up. Not bad rum--to _look_ at.
I'll try father wi' that."
Accordingly, our little hero went on deck and handed the glass to his
father--retreating a step or two, promptly yet quietly, after doing so.
As Zulu had said, David Bright did not waste time in smelling his
liquor. He emptied the glass at one gulp, and then gazed at his son
with closed lips and gradually widening eyes.
"It's only sugar and water, daddy," said Billy, uncertain whether to
laugh or look grave.
For a few moments the skipper was speechless. Then his face flushed,
and he said in a voice of thunder, "Go below an' fetch up the keg."
There was no disobeying _that_ order! The poor boy leaped down the
ladder and seized the rum-keg.
"Your 'speriment might have been better after all, Zulu," he whispered
as he passed up again, and stood before his father.
What may have passed in the mind of that father during the brief
interval we cannot tell, but he still stood with the empty wine-glass in
his hand and a fierce expression on his face.
To Billy's surprise, however, instead of seizing the keg and filling out
a bumper, he said sternly--"See here," and tossed the wine-glass into
the sea. "Now lad," he added, in a quiet voice, "throw that keg after
it."
The poor boy looked at his sire with wondering eyes, and hesitated.
"Overboard with it!" said David Bright in a voice of decision.
With a mingling of wild amazement, glee, and good-will, Billy, exerting
all his strength, hurled the rum-keg into the air, and it fell with a
heavy splash upon the sea.
"There, Billy," said David, placing his hand gently on the boy's head,
"you go below and say your prayers, an' if ye don't know how to pray,
get Luke Trevor to teach you, an' don't forget to thank God that your
old father's bin an' done it at last."
We are not informed how far Billy complied with these remarkable orders,
but certain we are that David Bright did not taste a drop of strong
drink during the remainder of that voyage. Whether he tasted it
afterwards at all must be left for this chronicle to tell at the proper
time and place.
At present it is necessary that we should return to Yarmouth, where
Captain Bream, in pursuance of his deep-laid schemes, entered a
bookseller's shop and made a sweeping demand for theological literature.
"What particular work do you require, sir?" asked the surprised and
somewhat amused bookseller.
"I don't know that I want any one in particular," said the captain, "I
want pretty well all that have bin published up to this date. You know
the names of 'em all, I suppose?"
"Indeed no, sir," answered the man with a look of uncertainty.
"Theological works are very numerous, and some of them very expensive.
Perhaps if--"
"Now, look here. I've got neither time nor inclination to get upon the
subject just now," said the captain. "You just set your clerk to work
to make out a list o' the principal works o' the kind you've got on
hand, an' I'll come back in the evenin' to see about it. Never mind the
price. I won't stick at that--nor yet the quality. Anything that
throws light on religion will do."
"But, sir," said the shopman, "some of the theological works of the
present day are supposed--at least by the orthodox--to throw darkness
instead of light on religion."
"All right," returned the captain, "throw 'em all in. I don't expect
divines to agree any more than doctors. Besides, I've got a chart to
steer by, called the Bible, that'll keep me clear o' rocks an' shoals.
You make your mind easy, an' do as I bid you. Get the books together by
six o'clock this evening, an' the account made out, for I always pay
cash down. Good-day."
Leaving the bookseller to employ himself with this astounding "order,"
Captain Bream next went to that part of the town which faces the
sea-beach, and knocked at the door of a house in the window of which was
a ticket with "lodgings" inscribed on it.
"Let me see your rooms, my good girl," said the captain to the little
maid who opened the door.
The little maid looked up at the captain with some surprise and no
little hesitancy. She evidently feared either that the rooms would not
be suitable for the applicant or that the applicant would not be
suitable for the rooms. She admitted him, however, and, leading him
up-stairs, ushered him into the parlour of the establishment.
"Splendid!" exclaimed the captain on beholding the large window, from
which there was seen a glorious view of the sea, so near that the ships
passing through the deep water close to the beach seemed as if they were
trying which of them could sail nearest to land without grounding.
"Splendid!" he repeated with immense satisfaction as he turned from the
view to the room itself; "now this is what I call fortunate. The very
thing--sofa for Miss Jessie--easy-chair for Miss Kate--rocking chair for
both of 'em. Nothin' quite suitable for me, (looking round), but that's
not difficult to remedy. Glass over the chimney to see their pretty
faces in, and what have we here--a press?"
"No, sir," said the little maid, pushing open the door, "a small room
off this one, sir."
"Glorious!" shouted the captain, entering and striking the top of the
door-way with his head in doing so. "Nothing could be better. This is
the theological library! Just the thing--good-sized window, same view,
small table, and--well, I declare! if there ain't _empty_ bookshelves!"
"Very sorry, sir," said the little maid, hastening to apologise; "we
have no books, but they'll be handy for any books you may bring to the
sea-side with you, sir, or for any little knick-knacks and odds and
ends."
"Yes, yes, my good girl. I'll fetch a few theological odds and ends
to-night that'll p'r'aps fill 'em up. By the way, you've a bedroom, I
hope?"
He looked anxious, and the maid, who seemed inclined to laugh, said that
of course they had, a nice airy bedroom on the same floor on the other
side of the passage--also commanding the sea.
The captain's face beamed again.
"And now, my girl--but, by the way, I shall want another bedroom. Have
you--"
"I'm sorry to say that we have not. The rest of the house is quite
full."
Captain Bream's face again became anxious. "That's bad," he said; "of
course I can get one out o' the house, but it would be inconvenient."
"There _is_ a hattic, sir," said the maid, "but it is 'igh up, and so
very small, that I fear--"
"Let me see the attic," said the captain, promptly.
The maid conducted him up another flight of steps to a room, or rather
closet, which did not appear to be more than five feet broad and barely
six feet long; including the storm-window, it might have been perhaps
seven feet long. It was situated in a sort of angle, so that from the
window you could have a view of a piece of slate roof, and two crooked
chimney pots with a slice of the sea between them. As there was much
traffic on the sea off that coast, the slice referred to frequently
exhibited a ship or a boat for a few seconds.
"My study!" murmured the captain, looking round on the bare walls, and
the wooden chair, and a low bedstead which constituted the furniture.
"Not much room for the intellect to expand here. However, I've seen
worse."
"We consider it a very good hattic, sir," said the little maid, somewhat
hurt by the last remark.
"I meant no offence, my dear," said the captain, with one of his
blandest smiles, "only the berth _is_ rather small, d'ee see, for a man
of my size. It is first-rate as far as it goes, but if it went a little
further--in the direction of the sea, you know--it might give me a
little more room to kick about my legs. But it'll do. It'll do. I'll
take all the rooms, so you'll consider them engaged."
"But you haven't asked the price of 'em yet sir," said the little maid.
"I don't care tuppence about the price, my dear. Are you the landlady?"
"La! no, sir," replied the girl, laughing outright as they returned to
the parlour.
"Well then, you send the landlady to me, and I'll soon settle matters."
When the landlady appeared, the captain was as good as his word. He at
once agreed to her terms, as well as her stipulations, and paid the
first week's rent in advance on the spot.
"Now," said he, on leaving, "I'll come back this evening with a lot of
books. To-morrow forenoon, the ladies for whom the rooms are taken will
arrive, please God, and you will have everything ready and in apple-pie
order for 'em. I'll see about grub afterwards, but in the meantime you
may give orders to have sent in to-morrow a lot o' fresh eggs and milk
and cream--lots of cream--and fresh butter and tea and coffee an'
suchlike. But I needn't do more than give a wink to a lady of your
experience."
With this last gallant remark Captain Bream left the lodging and
strolled down to the sea-beach.