Manx Bradley was an admiral--"admiral of the fleet"--though it must be
admitted that his personal appearance did not suggest a position so
exalted.
With rough pilot coat and sou'-wester, scarred and tarred hands, easy,
rolling gait, and boots from heel to hip, with inch-thick soles, like
those of a dramatic buccaneer, he bore as little resemblance to the
popular idea of a lace-coated, brass-buttoned, cock-hatted admiral as a
sea-urchin bears to a cockle-shell. Nevertheless Manx was a real
admiral--as real as Nelson, and much harder worked.
His fleet of nearly two hundred fishing-smacks lay bobbing about one
fine autumn evening on the North Sea. The vessels cruised round each
other, out and in, hither and thither, in all positions, now on this
tack, now on that, bowsprits pointing north, south, east, and west, as
if without purpose, or engaged in a nautical game of "touch."
Nevertheless all eyes were bent earnestly on the admiral's vessel, for
it was literally the "flagship," being distinguishable only by a small
flag attached to its fore stay.
The fleet was hovering, awaiting orders from the admiral. A fine smart
"fishing breeze" was blowing. The setting sun sparkled on the
wave-crests; thin fleecy clouds streaked the sky; everything gave
promise of a satisfactory night, and a good haul of fish in the morning.
With the quiet air of an amiable despot Manx nodded his venerable head.
Up went the signal, and in a few minutes the fleet was reduced to order.
Every smack swept round into position, and, bending over on the same
tack, they all rushed like a shoal of startled minnows, away in the same
direction--the direction signalled by the admiral. Another signal from
our venerable despot sent between one and two hundred trawl-nets down to
the bottom of the sea, nets that were strong enough to haul up tons of
fish, and rocks, and wreckage, and rubbish, with fifty-feet beams, like
young masts, with iron enough in bands and chains to sink them, and so
arranged that the beams were raised a few feet off the ground, thus
keeping the mouths of the great nets open, while cables many fathoms in
length held the gears to their respective vessels.
So the North Sea Fishermen began the night's work--the _Nancy_, the
_Coquette_, the _Rattler_, the _Truant_, the _Faith_, the _Playfellow_,
the _Cherub_, and all the rest of them. Of course, although the breeze
was fresh, they went along slowly, because of the ponderous tails that
they had to draw.
Do you ask, reader, why all this order? why this despotic admiral, and
all this unity of action? why not "every man for himself"? Let me reply
by asking you to think for a moment.
Wind blowing in one direction, perhaps you are aware, does not
necessarily imply vessels sailing in the same direction. With variation
of courses possible, nearly two hundred tails out astern, and no unity
of action, there would arise the certainty of varied and striking
incident. The _Nancy_ would go crashing into the bows of the
_Coquette_, the bowsprit of the _Rallier_ would stir up the cabin of the
_Truant_, the tail of the _Faith_ would get entangled with that of the
_Cherub_, and both might hook on to the tail of the _Playfellow_; in
short, the awful result would be wreck and wretchedness on the North
Sea, howling despair in the markets of Columbia and Billingsgate, and no
fish for breakfast in the great metropolis. There is reason for most
things--specially good reason for the laws that regulate the fisheries
of the North Sea, the fleets of which are over twelve in number, and the
floating population over twelve thousand men and boys.
For several hours this shoal of vessels, with full sails and twinkling
lights, like a moving city on the deep, continued to tug and plunge
along over the "banks" of the German ocean, to the satisfaction of the
fishermen, and the surprise no doubt of the fish. About midnight the
admiral again signalled, by rocket and flares, "Haul up," and
immediately, with capstan, bar, and steam, the obedient crews began to
coil in their tails.
It is not our intention to trouble the reader with a minute account of
this process or the grand result, but, turning to a particular smack, we
solicit attention to that. She is much like the others in size and rig.
Her name is the _Lively Poll_. Stephen Lockley is her skipper, as fine
a young fisherman as one could wish to see--tall, handsome, free,
hearty, and powerful. But indeed all deep-sea fishermen possess the
last quality. They would be useless if not physically strong. Many a
Samson and Hercules is to be found in the North Sea fleets. "No better
nursery or training-school in time of war," they say. That may be true,
but it is pleasanter to think of them as a training-school for times of
peace.
The night was very dark. Black clouds overspread the sky, so that no
light save the dim rays of a lantern cheered the men as they went tramp,
tramp, round the capstan, slowly coiling in the trawl-warp. Sheets of
spray sometimes burst over the side and drenched them, but they cared
nothing for that, being pretty well protected by oilskins, sou'-westers,
and sea-boots. Straining and striving, sometimes gaining an inch or
two, sometimes a yard or so, while the smack plunged and kicked, the
contest seemed like a doubtful one between _vis inertiae_ and the human
will. Two hours and a half it lasted, until the great trawl-beam came
to the surface, and was got up on the vessel's side, after which these
indomitable men proceeded to claw up the huge net with their fingers,
straining and heaving with might and main.
"Yo, ho!" cried the skipper, "heave her in, boys!"
"Hoy!" growled Peter Jay, the mate, giving a tug that should have torn
the net to pieces--but didn't!
"Looks like as if we'd got hold of a lump o' wreck," gasped Bob Lumsden,
the smack's boy, who was also the smack's cook.
"No, no, Lumpy," remarked David Duffy, who was no respecter of names or
persons, "it ain't a wreck, it's a mermaid. I've bin told they weigh
over six ton when young. Look out when she comes aboard--she'll bite."
"I do believe it's old Neptune himself," said Jim Freeman, another of
the "hands." "There's his head; an' something like his pitchfork."
"It does feel heavier than I ever knowed it afore," remarked Fred
Martin.
"That's all along of your bein' ill, Fred," said the mate.
"It may be so," returned Martin, "for I do feel queer, an' a'most as
weak as a baby. Come heave away!"
It was indeed a huge mass of wreck entangled with sea-weed which had
rendered the net so heavy on that occasion, but there was also a
satisfactory mass of fish in the "cod-end," or bag, at the extremity of
the net, for, when, by the aid of the winch, this cod-end was finally
got inboard, and the cord fastening the bottom of it was untied, fish of
all kinds gushed over the wet decks in a living cataract.
There were a few expressions of satisfaction from the men, but not much
conversation, for heavy work had still to be done--done, too, in the
dark. Turbot, sole, cod, skate, and all the other treasures of the
deep, had to be then and there gutted, cleaned, and packed in square
boxes called "trunks," so as to be ready for the steam-carrier next
morning. The net also had to be cleared and let down for another catch
before daybreak.
Now it is just possible that it may never have occurred to the reader to
consider how difficult, not to say dangerous, must be the operation of
gutting, cleaning, and packing fish on a dark night with a smack dancing
a North Sea hornpipe under one's feet. Among the dangers are two which
merit notice. The one is the fisherman's liability, while working among
the "ruck," to run a sharp fish-bone into his hand, the other to gash
himself with his knife while attempting to operate on the tail of a
skate. Either accident may be slight or it may be severe.
A sudden exclamation from one of the men while employed in this cleaning
and packing work told that something had happened.
"There goes Martin," growled Joe Stubley; "you can always tell when it's
him, 'cause he don't curse an' swear."
Stubley--or Stubby, as his mates called him--did not intend this for a
compliment by any means, though it may sound like one. Being an
irreligious as well as a stupid man, he held that all who professed
religion were hypocritical and silly. Manliness, in poor Jo's mind,
consisted of swagger, quiet insolence, cool cursing, and general
godlessness. With the exception of Fred Martin, the rest of the crew of
the _Lively Poll_ resembled him in his irreligion, but they were very
different in character,--Lockley, the skipper being genial; Peter Jay,
the mate, very appreciative of humour, though quiet and sedate; Duffy,
jovial and funny; Freeman, kindly, though reckless; and Bob, the
boy-cook, easy-going both as to mind and morals. They all liked Martin,
however, in spite of his religion, for he practised much and preached
little.
"What's wrong?" asked Lockley, who stood at the tiller looking out for
lights ahead.
"Only a bone into my left hand," replied Martin, going on with his
somewhat dirty labours.
"Well that it's no worse, boy," observed Freeman, "for we've got no
medicine-chest to fly to like that lucky Short-Blue fleet."
"That's true, Jim," responded Martin; "I wish we had a Gospel smack with
our fleet, for our souls need repairing as well as our bodies."
"There you go," growled Stubley, flinging down a just finished fish with
a flap of indignation. "A feller can't mention the name o' them mission
craft without rousin' you up to some o' your hypocritical chaff. For my
part, if it wasn't for the medicine-chest and the mittens, I think we'd
be better by a long way without Gospel ships, as ye call 'em. Why, what
good 'ave they done the Short-Blues? I'm sure _we_ doesn't want
churches, or prayin', or psalm-singin' or book--"
"Speak for yourself, Jo," interrupted Puffy.
"Although your head may be as thick as a three-inch plank, through which
nothin' a'most can pass either from books or anything else, you mustn't
think we've bin all built on the same lines. I likes a good book
myself, an', though I don't care about prayin' or psalm-singin', seein'
I don't understand 'em, I say `good luck' to the mission smacks, if it
was for nothin' else than the books, an' doctor stuff, an' mitts what
the shoregoin' ladies--bless their hearts!--is so fond o' sendin' to
us."
"Ay, an the cheap baccy, too, that they say they're a-goin' to send to
us," added Freeman.
"P'r'aps they'll send us cheap grog at last," said Puffy, with a laugh.
"They'll hardly do that," remarked Martin; "for it's to try an' keep us
from goin' for our baccy to the _copers_ that they've started this new
plan."
"I wish 'em success," said Lockley, in a serious tone. And there was
good ground for that wish, for our genial and handsome skipper was
peculiarly weak on the point of strong drink, that being to him a
powerful, almost irresistible, temptation.
When the fish-cleaning and packing were completed, the men went below to
snatch a few hours' repose. Wet, weary, and sleepy, but with a large
stock of reserve strength in them, they retired to the little cabin, in
which they could scarcely stand up without bumping their heads, and
could hardly turn round without hitting their elbows on something or
other. Kicking off their long boots, and throwing aside oilskin coats
and sou'-westers, they tumbled into their narrow "bunks" and fell asleep
almost without winking.
There was one among them, however, who did not sleep long that night.
Fred Martin was soon awakened by the pain of his wound, which had begun
to inflame, and by a feeling of giddiness and intense uneasiness with
which he had been troubled for several days past.
Turning out at last, he sat down in front of the little iron stove that
served to cook food as well as to warm the cabin, and, gazing into the
embers, began to meditate on his strangely uncomfortable sensations.
"Hallo, Martin, anything wrong?" asked the mate, who descended at that
moment to relight his pipe.
"I believe there is, mate. I never felt like this afore. I've fowt
against it till I can hardly stand. I feel as if I was goin' to knock
under altogether. This hand, too, seems gittin' bad. I do think my
blood must be poisoned, or somethin' o' that sort. You know I don't
easily give in, but when a feller feels as if little red-hot wires was
twistin' about inside of him, an' sees things goin' round as if he was
drunk, why--"
"Why, it's time to think of goin' home," interrupted Jay, with a laugh.
"But let's have a look at you, Fred. Well, there does seem to be some
o' your riggin' slack. Have you ever had the measles?"
"Not as I knows of."
"Looks like it," said the mate, lighting his pipe. "P'r'aps it'll be as
well to send you into dock to refit. You'd better turn in again,
anyhow, for a snooze would do you good."
Fred Martin acted on this advice, while Jay returned to the deck; but it
was evident that the snooze was not to be had, for he continued to turn
and toss uneasily, and to wonder what was wrong with him, as strong
healthy men are rather apt to do when suddenly seized with sickness.
At grey dawn the admiral signalled again. The order was to haul up the
nets, which had been scraping the bottom of the sea since midnight, and
the whole fleet set to work without delay.
Martin turned out with the rest, and tried to defy sickness for a time,
but it would not do. The strong man was obliged to succumb to a
stronger than he--not, however, until he had assisted as best as he
could in hauling up the trawl.
This second haul of the gear of the _Lively Poll_ illustrated one of
those mishaps, to which all deep-sea trawlers are liable, and which are
of frequent occurrence. A piece of wreck or a lost anchor, or
something, had caught the net, and torn it badly, so that when it
reached the surface all the fish had escaped.
"A night's work for nothing!" exclaimed Stephen Lockley, with an oath.
"_Might_ have been worse," suggested Martin.
By that time it was broad daylight, and as they had no fish to pack, the
crew busied themselves in removing the torn net from the beam, and
fitting on a new one. At the same time the crews of the other smacks
secured their various and varied hauls, cleaned, packed, and got ready
for delivery.
The smoke of the steam-carrier was seen on the horizon early in the
forenoon, and all the vessels of the fleet made for her, as chickens
make for their mother in times of danger.
We may not pause here to describe the picturesque confusion that
ensued--the arriving, congregating, tacking, crossing, and re-crossing
of smacks; the launching of little boats, and loading them with
"trunks;" the concentration of these round the steamer like minnows
round a whale; the shipping of the cargo, and the tremendous hurry and
energy displayed in the desire to do it quickly, and get the fish fresh
to market. Suffice it to say that in less than four hours the steamer
was loaded, and Fred Martin, fever-stricken and with a highly inflamed
hand and arm, started on a thirty-six hours' voyage to London.
Then the fleet sheered off and fell into order, the admiral issued his
instructions, and away they all went again to continue the hard,
unvarying round of hauling and toiling and moiling, in heat and cold,
wet and dry, with nothing to lighten the life or cheer the heart save a
game at "crib" or "all fives," or a visit to the _coper_, that terrible
curse of the North Sea.