One night, some days after the incident just recorded, the _Evening
Star_ shot her gear, in obedience to orders, on the port hand, and
proceeded, with the rest of the fleet, to give a pressing invitation to
those fish which inhabited that particular shoal in the North Sea known
to fishermen by the name of Skimlico. The name, when properly spelt,
runs thus: Schiermonik-oog. But our fishermen, with a happy disregard
of orthography, and, perhaps, with an eye to that brevity which is said
to be the soul of wit, prefer to call it Skimlico.
When the gear was down the men retired to their little cabin to refresh
themselves with a meal and a pipe.
The skipper, who had recovered neither his spirits nor his self-respect
since his recent fall, preferred to remain on deck. Billy, who had
never lost either, joined the revellers below--with all the more
satisfaction that Evan, the rescued mate of the _Sparrow_, was with
them.
"Out o' the road, Zulu," cried Ned Spivin, pushing the cook aside, and
sitting down close to the fire, "I'll have a bit o' fish."
He stuck on the end of his knife a piece of sole, out of which the life
had barely departed, and held it up before the fire to roast.
"Hand me a mug o' tea, an' a biscuit, Zulu," said Joe Davidson; "fill it
up, boy. I like good measure."
"Are them taters ready?" asked Luke Trevor. "An' the plum-duff? You
haven't got any for us to-day, have 'ee?"
"Shut up!" cried Zulu. "How many hands you tink I've got?"
"Eight at the very least," said Spivin, "an' I can prove it."
"How you do dat?" asked Zulu, opening up his great eyes.
"Easy. Hold out your paws. Isn't that one hand?" (pointing to his
left.)
"Yes."
"An' doesn't that make two hands?" (pointing to his right.)
"Yes."
"Well, ain't one hand and two hands equal to three hands, you booby? an'
don't you know that monkeys have hands instead o' feet? So as you're a
monkey, that's six hands. And haven't you a handsome face, an' a
handsome figgur, which is eight, you grampus! Come, use one o' your
many hands an' pass the biscuits."
"Sartinly!" said Zulu, at once kicking a small bit of biscuit which
Spivin still held in his hand to the other end of the cabin, where it
fell into the lap of Trevor, who thanked Zulu kindly, and ate it up.
"Oh! forgib me, massa," cried Zulu, in mock repentance. "I's nebber
nebber do it again! But you know you ax me to use one o' my hands to
pass de biskit. Well, I 'bey orders. I use 'im, an' pass de biskit on
to Luke."
"Come, Ned, Zulu's more than a match for you there. Let him alone,"
cried Joe Davidson, "and don't be so stingy with your sugar, Zulu.
Here, fill up again."
The conversation at this point became what is sometimes styled general,
but was interrupted now and then, as one and another of the men dropped
into the anecdotal tone, and thus secured undivided attention for a
longer or shorter space according to his powers in story-telling.
"What a appetite you've got, Luke," said Joe, as he helped his comrade
to a second large plateful of salt beef, potatoes, and duff.
"Hold on, Joe! I've a pretty fair appetite, but am not quite up to
that."
"Nonsense, Luke, you've only got to try. A man has no notion what 'e
can do till 'e tries."
"Ah, that's true," said Ned Spivin, checking a lump of salt beef on the
end of his clasp-knife half way to his mouth; "did I ever tell 'ee,
lads, that little hanecdote about a man we called Glutton, he was such
an awful eater?"
"No, never heard on it," said several voices.
"Well, then, this is 'ow it was," said Spivin, clearing his voice. "You
must know, I was once in Callyforny, where all the goold comes from. Me
an' most o' my mates had runned away from our ship to the diggin's, you
see, which of course none on us would have thought of doin'--oh dear
no--if it hadn't bin that the skipper runned away too; so it was no use
for us to stop behind, d'ee see? Well, we was diggin' one day, in a
place where there was a lot o' red Injins--not steam engines, you know,
but the sort o' niggers what lives out there. One o' them Injins was
named Glutton--he was such an awful eater--and one o' my mates, whose
name was Samson, bet a bag o' goold-dust, that he'd make the glutton eat
till he bu'sted. I'm afeard that Samson was groggy at the time.
Howiver, we took him up, an' invited Glutton to a feast next day. He
was a great thin savage, over six futt high, with plenty breadth of beam
about the shoulders, and a mouth that seemed made a' purpus for
shovellin' wittles into. We laid in lots of grub because we was all
more or less given to feedin'--an' some of us not bad hands at it.
Before we began the feast Samson, who seemed to be repentin' of his bet,
took us a-one side an' says, `Now mind,' says he, `I can't say exactly
_how_ he'll bu'st, or _when_ he'll bu'st, or what sort of a bu'st he'll
make of it.' `Oh, never mind that,' says we, laughin'. `We won't be
par-tickler how he does it. If he bu'sts at all, in any fashion, we'll
be satisfied, and admit that you've won.'
"Well, we went to work, an' the way that Injin went in for grub was
quite awful. You wouldn't have believed it if you'd seen it."
"P'r'aps not," said Zulu, with a grin.
"An' when we'd all finished we sat glarin' at him, some of us half
believin' that he'd really go off, but he took no notice. On he went
until he'd finished a small leg o' pork, two wild-ducks, six plover,
eight mugs o' tea, an' fifteen hard-boiled eggs. But there was no sign
o' bu'stin'. Glutton was as slim to look at as before he began. At
this pint Samson got up an' went out o' the hut. In a minute or so he
came back with a bark basket quite shallow, but about fourteen inches
square, an' full of all kinds of eggs--for the wild-birds was breedin'
at the time. `What's that for?' says we. `For Glutton, when he's ready
for 'em,' says he. `There's six dozen here, an' if that don't do it,
I've got another basket ready outside.' With that he sets the basket
down in front o' the Injin, who just gave a glance at it over a goose
drumstick he was tearin' away at. Well, Samson turned round to sit down
in his place again, when somethin' or other caught hold of his foot
tripped him up, an' down he sat squash! into the basket of eggs. You
niver did see sich a mess! There was sich a lot, an' Samson was so
heavy, that the yolks squirted up all round him, an' a lot of it went
slap into some of our faces. For one moment we sat glarin', we was so
took by surprise, and Glutton was so tickled that he gave a great roar
of laughter, an' swayed himself from side to side, an' fore an' aft like
a Dutchman in a cross sea. Of course we joined him. We couldn't help
it, but we was brought up in the middle by Samson sayin', while he
scraped himself, `Well, boys, I've won.' `Won!' says I, `how so? He
ain't bu'sted yet.' `Hasn't he?' cried Samson. `Hasn't he gone on
eatin' till he bu'sted out larfin?' We was real mad at 'im, for a'
course that wasn't the kind o' bu'stin we meant; and the end of it was,
that we spent the most o' that night disputin' the pint whether Samson
had lost or won. We continued the dispute every night for a month, an'
sometimes had a free fight over it by way of a change, but I don't think
it was ever settled. Leastways it wasn't up to the time when I left the
country."
"Here, Zulu, hand me a mug o' tea," said Billy Bright; "the biggest one
you've got."
"What's make you turn so greedy?" asked Zulu.
"It's not greed," returned Billy, "but Ned's little story is so hard an'
tough, that I can't get it down dry."
"I should think not. It would take the Glutton himself to swallow it
with a bucket of tea to wash it down," said Luke Trevor.
At this point the conversation was interrupted by an order from the
skipper to go on deck and "jibe" the smack, an operation which it would
be difficult, as well as unprofitable, to explain to landsmen. When it
was completed the men returned to the little cabin, where conversation
was resumed.
"Who'll spin us a _yarn_ now, something more believable than the last?"
asked Billy, as they began to refill pipes.
"Do it yourself, boy," said Joe.
"Not I. Never was a good hand at it," returned Billy, "but I know that
the mate o' the _Sparrow_ there can spin a good yarn. Come, Evan, tell
us about that dead man what came up to point out his own murderer."
"I'm not sure," said Evan, "that the story is a true one, though there's
truth at the bottom of it, for we all know well enough that we sometimes
pick up a corpse in our nets."
"Know it!" exclaimed Joe, "I should think we do. Why, it's not so long
ago that I picked one up myself. But what were ye goin' to say, mate?"
"I was goin' to say that this yarn tells of what happened long before
you an' me was born; so we can't be wery sure on it you know."
"Why not?" interrupted Ned Spivin. "The battle o' Trafalgar happened
long before you an' me was born; so did the battle o' Waterloo, yet
we're sure enough about them, ain't we?"
"Right you are, Ned," returned Evan; "it would be a bad look-out for the
world if we couldn't believe or prove the truth of things that happened
before we was born!"
"Come, shut up your argiments," growled Gunter, "an' let Evan go on wi'
his yarn."
"Well, as I was a-goin' to say," resumed Evan, "the story may or may not
be true, but it's possible, an' it was told to me when I was a boy by
the old fisherman as said he saw the dead man his-self. One stormy
night the fleet was out--for you must know the fishin' was carried on in
the old days in the same way pretty much, though they hadn't steamers to
help 'em like we has now. They was goin' along close-hauled, with a
heavy sea on, not far, it must have been, from the Silver Pits--though
they wasn't discovered at that time."
We may interrupt Evan here, to explain that the Silver Pits is a name
given to a particular part of the North Sea which is frequented by
immense numbers of soles. The man who by chance discovered the spot
kept his secret, it is said, long enough to enable him to make a
considerable amount of money. It was observed, however, that he was in
the habit of falling behind the fleet frequently, and turning up with
splendid hauls of "prime" fish. This led to the discovery of his haunt,
and the spot named the Silver Pits, is still a prolific fishing-ground.
"Well," continued Evan, "there was a sort of half furriner aboard. He
wasn't a reg'lar fisherman--never served his apprenticeship to it, you
know,--an' was named Zola. The skipper, whose name was John Dewks,
couldn't abide him, an' they often used to quarrel, specially when they
was in liquor. There was nobody on deck that night except the skipper
and Zola, but my old friend--Dawson was his name--was in his bunk lyin'
wide awake. He heard that Zola an' the skipper was disputin' about
somethin', but couldn't make out what was said--only he know'd they was
both very angry. At last he heard the skipper say sharply--`Ha! would
you dare?'
"`Yes, I vill dare,' cries Zola, in his broken English, `I vill cut your
throat.' With that there seemed to be a kind of scuffle. Then there
was a loud cry, and Dawson with the other men rushed on deck.
"`Oh!' cried Zola, lookin' wild, `de skipper! him fall into de sea!
Quick, out wid de boat!'
"Some ran to the boat but the mate stopped 'em. `It's no use, boys.
She couldn't live in such a sea, an' our poor skipper is fathoms down by
this time. It would only sacrifice more lives to try.' `This was
true,' Dawson said, `for the night was as dark as pitch, an' a heavy sea
on.'
"Dawson went to the man an' whispered in his ear. `You know you are
lying, Zola; you cut the skipper's throat.'
"`No, I didn't; he felled overboard,' answered the man in such an
earnest tone that Dawson's opinion was shook. But next day when they
was at breakfast, he noticed that the point of Zola's clasp-knife was
broken off.
"`Hallo! Zola,' says he, `what's broke the point of your knife?'
"The man was much confused, but replied quickly enough that he broke it
when cleaning fish--it had dropped on the deck an' broke.
"This brought back all Dawson's suspicion, but as he could prove nothing
he thought it best to hold his tongue. That afternoon, however, it fell
calm, an' they found themselves close aboard of one of the smacks which
had sailed astern of them on the port quarter durin' the night. She
appeared to be signallin', so the mate hove-to till he came up.
"`We've got the body o' your skipper aboard,' they said, when near
enough to hail.
"Dawson looked at Zola. His lips were compressed, and he was very
stern, but said nothin'. Nobody spoke except the mate, who told them to
shove out the boat and fetch the body. This was done, and it was found
that the poor man had been wounded in the breast. `Murdered!' the men
whispered, as they looked at Zola.
"`Why you looks at me so?' he says, fiercely; `skipper falls over an'
sink; git among wrecks at de bottom, an' a nail scratch him.'
"Nobody answered, but when the corpse was put down in the hold the mate
examined it and found the broken point of Zola's knife stickin' in the
breast-bone.
"That night at supper, while they were all eatin' an' talkin' in low
tones, the mate said in an easy off-hand tone, `Hand me your knife,
Zola, for a moment.' Now, his askin' that was so natural-like that the
man at once did what he was asked, though next moment he saw the
mistake. His greatest mistake, however, was that he did not fling the
knife away when he found it was broken; but they do say that `murder
will out.' The mate at once fitted the point to the broken knife. Zola
leaped up and tried to snatch another knife from one o' the men, but
they was too quick for him. He was seized, and his hands tied, and they
were leadin' him along the deck to put him in the hold when he burst
from them and jumped overboard. They hove-to at once, an' out with the
boat, but never saw Zola again; he must have gone down like a stone."
"That was a terrible end," said Joe, "and him all unprepared to die."
"True, Joe, but are _we_ all prepared to die?" rejoined Evan, looking
around, earnestly. "It is said that there's a day comin' when the sea
shall give up _all_ its dead, and the secrets of men, whatever they are,
shall be revealed."
From this point Evan, whose earnest spirit was always hungering after
the souls of men, led the conversation to religious subjects, and got
his audience into a serious, attentive state of mind.
We have said that David Bright had remained that light on deck, but he
did not on that account lose all that went on in the little cabin. He
heard indeed the light conversation and chaff of the earlier part of the
night but paid no heed to it. When, however, Evan began the foregoing
anecdote, his attention was aroused, and as the speaker sat close to the
foot of the companion every word he uttered was audible on deck.
At the time, our fallen skipper was giving way to despair. He had been
so thoroughly determined to give up drink; had been so confident of the
power of his really strong will, and had begun the struggle so well and
also continued for a time so successfully, that this fall had quite
overwhelmed him. It was such a thorough fall, too, accompanied by such
violence to his poor boy, and to one of his best men, that he had no
heart for another effort. And once again the demon tempter came to him,
as he stood alone there, and helpless on the deserted deck. A faint
gleam of light, shooting up the companion, illuminated his pale but
stern features which had an unusual expression on them, but no eye was
there to look upon those features, save the all-searching Eye of God.
"It was soon over with _him_!" he muttered, as he listened to Evan
telling of Zola's leap into the sea. "An' a good riddance to myself as
well as to the world it would be if I followed his example. I could
drop quietly over, an' they'd never find it out till--but--"
"Come, don't hesitate," whispered the demon. "I thought you were a man
once, but now you seem to be a coward after all!"
It was at this critical point that Evan, the mate of the _Sparrow_, all
ignorant of the eager listener overhead, began to urge repentance on his
unbelieving comrades, and pointed to the Crucified One--showing that no
sinner was beyond hope, that Peter had denied his Master with oaths and
curses, and that even the thief on the cross had life enough left for a
saving look.
"We have nothing to _do_, lads, only to _submit_," he said, earnestly.
"Nothing to do!" thought David Bright in surprise, not unmingled with
contempt as he thought of the terrible fight he had gone through before
his fall.
"Nothing to do!" exclaimed John Gunter in the cabin, echoing, as it
were, the skipper's thought, with much of his surprise and much more of
his contempt. "Why, mate, I thought that you religious folk felt bound
to pray, an' sing, an' preach, an' work!"
"No, lad--no--not for _salvation_," returned Evan; "we have only to
_accept_ salvation--to cease from refusing it and scorning it. After we
have got it from and in Jesus, we will pray, and sing, and work, ay, an'
preach too, if we can, for the love of the Master who `loved us and gave
Himself for us.'"
Light began to break in on the dark mind of David Bright, as he listened
to these words, and earnestly did he ponder them, long after the speaker
and the rest of the crew had turned in.
Daylight began to flow softly over the sea, like a mellow influence from
the better land, when the net was hauled.
Soon the light intensified and showed the rest of the fleet floating
around in all directions, and busily engaged in the same work--two of
the nearest vessels being the mission smack and that of Singing Peter.
Ere long the fish were cleaned, packed, put on board the steamer and off
to market. By that time a dead calm prevailed, compelling the fishermen
to "take things easy."
"Billy," said David Bright, "fetch me that bit of wood and a hatchet."
Billy obeyed.
"Now then, let's see how well you'll cut that down to the size o' this
trunk--to fit on where that bit has bin tore off."
The skipper was seated on a pile of boxes; he flung his left hand with a
careless swing, on the fish-box on which Billy was about to cut the
piece of wood, and pointed to the trunk which needed repair. Billy
raised the axe and brought it down with the precision and vigour
peculiar to him. Instead of slicing off a lamp of wood, however, the
hatchet struck a hard knot, glanced off, and came down on his father's
open palm, into which it cut deeply.
"Oh! father," exclaimed the poor boy, dropping the axe and standing as
if petrified with horror as the blood spouted from the gaping wound,
flowed over the fish-box, and bespattered the deck.
He could say no more.
"Shove out the boat, boys," said the skipper promptly, as he shut up the
wounded hand and bound it tightly in that position with his
pocket-handkerchief to stop the bleeding.
Joe Davidson, who had seen the accident, and at once understood what was
wanted, sprang to the boat at the same moment with Luke and Spivin. A
good heave, at the tackle; a hearty shove with strong shoulders, and the
stern was over the rail. Another shove and it was in the sea.
"Lucky we are so close to her," said Joe, as he jumped into the boat
followed by Luke and Gunter.
"Lucky indeed," responded Luke.
Somehow David Bright managed to roll or jump or scramble into his boat
as smartly with one hand as with two. It is a rare school out there on
the North Sea for the practice of free-hand gymnastics!
"Bear away for the mission smack, Joe."
No need to give Joe that order. Ere the words had well passed the
skipper's lips he and Luke Trevor were bending their powerful backs,
and, with little Billy at the steering oar, the boat of the _Evening
Star_ went bounding over the waves towards the fisherman's floating
refuge for wounded bodies and souls.