Never was there a fishing smack more inappropriately named than the
_Fairy_,--that unwieldy iron vessel which the fleet, in facetious
content, had dubbed the "Ironclad," and which had the honour of being
commanded by that free and easy, sociable--almost too sociable--skipper,
Ned Bryce.
She was steered by Dick Martin on the day of which we now write. Dick,
as he stood at the helm, with stern visage, bloodshot eyes, and
dissipated look, was not a pleasant object of contemplation, but as he
played a prominent part in the proceedings of that memorable day, we are
bound to draw attention to him. Although he had spent a considerable
portion of the night with his skipper in testing the quality of some
schnapps which they had recently procured from a _coper_, he had
retained his physical and mental powers sufficiently for the performance
of his duties. Indeed, he was one of those so-called seasoned casks,
who are seldom or never completely disabled by drink, although
thoroughly enslaved, and he was now quite competent to steer the _Fairy_
in safety through the mazes of that complex dance which the deep-sea
trawlers usually perform on the arrival of the carrying-steamer.
What Bryce called a chopping and a lumpy sea was running. It was
decidedly rough, though the breeze was moderate, so that the smacks all
round were alternately presenting sterns and bowsprits to the sky in a
violent manner that might have suggested the idea of a rearing and
kicking dance. When the carrier steamed up to the Admiral, and lay to
beside him, and the smacks drew towards her from all points of the
compass, the mazes of the dance became intricate, and the risk of
collisions called for careful steering.
Being aware of this, and being himself not quite so steady about the
head as he could wish, Skipper Bryce looked at Martin for a few seconds,
and then ordered him to go help to launch the boat and get the trunks
out, and send Phil Morgan aft.
Phil was not a better seaman than Dick, but he was a more temperate man,
therefore clearer brained and more dependable.
Soon the smacks were waltzing and kicking round each other on every
possible tack, crossing and re-crossing bows and sterns; sometimes close
shaving, out and in, down-the-middle-and-up-again fashion, which, to a
landsman, might have been suggestive of the 'bus, cab, and van throng in
the neighbourhood of that heart of the world, the Bank of England.
Sounds of hailing and chaffing now began to roll over the North Sea from
many stentorian lungs.
"What cheer? what cheer?" cried some in passing.
"Hallo, Tim! how are 'ee, old man! What luck?"
"All right, Jim; on'y six trunks."
"Ha! that's 'cause ye fished up a dead man yesterday."
"Is that you, Ted?"
"Ay, ay, what's left o' me--worse luck. I thought your mother was goin'
to keep you at home this trip to mind the babby."
"So she was, boy, but the babby fell into a can o' buttermilk an' got
drownded, so I had to come off again, d'ee see?"
"What cheer, Groggy Fox? Have 'ee hoisted the blue ribbon yet?"
"No, Stephen Lockley, I haven't, nor don't mean to, but one o' the fleet
seems to have hoisted the blue flag."
Groggy Fox pointed to one of the surrounding vessels as he swept past in
the _Cormorant_.
Lockley looked round in haste, and, to his surprise, saw floating among
the smaller flags, at a short distance, the great twenty-feet flag of a
mission vessel, with the letters MDSF (Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen) on
it, in white on a blue ground.
"She must have lost her reckoning," muttered Lockley, as he tried to
catch sight of the vessel to which the flag belonged--which was not
easy, owing to the crowd of smacks passing to and fro between it and
him.
Just at that moment a hearty cheer was heard to issue from the Admiral's
smack, the _Cherub_. At the same time the boat of the _Lively Poll_ was
launched into the sea, Duffy and Freeman and another hand tumbled into
her, and the skipper had to give his undivided attention to the
all-important matter of transhipping the fish.
Dozens of boats were by that time bobbing like corks on the heaving sea,
all making for the attendant steamer. Other dozens, which had already
reached her, were clinging on--the men heaving the fish-boxes aboard,--
while yet others were pushing off from the smacks last arrived to join
the busy swarm.
Among these was the boat of the _Fairy_, with Dick Martin and two men
aboard. It was heavily laden--too heavily for such a sea--for their
haul on the previous night had been very successful.
North Sea fishermen are so used to danger that they are apt to despise
it. Both Bryce and Martin knew they had too many trunks in the boat,
but they thought it a pity to leave five or six behind, and be obliged
to make two trips for so small a number, where one might do. Besides,
they could be careful. And so they were--very careful; yet despite all
their care they shipped a good deal of water, and the skipper stood on
the deck of the _Fairy_ watching them with some anxiety. Well he might,
for so high were the waves that not only his own boat but all the others
kept disappearing and re-appearing continually, as they rose on the
crests or sank into the hollows.
But Skipper Bryce had eyes for only one boat. He saw it rise to view
and disappear steadily, regularly, until it was about half-way to the
steamer; then suddenly it failed to rise, and next moment three heads
were seen amid the tumultuous waters where the boat should have been.
With a tremendous shout Bryce sprang to the tiller and altered the
vessel's course, but, as the wind blew, he knew well it was not in his
power to render timely aid. That peculiar cry which tells so
unmistakably of deadly disaster was raised from the boats nearest to
that which had sunk, and they were rowed towards the drowning men, but
the boats were heavy and slow of motion. Already they were too late,
for two out of the three men had sunk to rise no more--dragged down by
their heavy boots and winter clothing. Only one continued the struggle.
It was Dick Martin. He had grasped an oar, and, being able to swim,
kept his head up. The intense cold of the sea, however, would soon have
relaxed even his iron grip, and he would certainly have perished, had it
not been that the recently arrived mission vessel chanced to be a very
short distance to windward of him. A slight touch of the helm sent her
swiftly to his side. A rope was thrown. Martin caught it. Ready hands
and eager hearts were there to grasp and rescue. In another moment he
was saved, and the vessel swept on to mingle with the other smacks--for
Martin was at first almost insensible, and could not tell to which
vessel of the fleet he belonged.
Yes, the bad man was rescued, though no one would have sustained much
loss by his death; but in Yarmouth that night there was one woman, who
little thought that she was a widow, and several little ones who knew
not that they were fatherless. The other man who perished was an
unmarried youth, but he left an invalid mother to lifelong mourning over
the insatiable greed of the cold North Sea.
Little note was taken of this event in the fleet. It was, in truth, a
by no means unusual disaster. If fish are to be found, fair weather or
foul, for the tables on land, lives must be risked and lost in the
waters of the sea. Loss of life in ferrying the fish being of almost
daily occurrence, men unavoidably get used to it, as surgeons do to
suffering and soldiers to bloodshed. Besides, on such occasions, in the
great turmoil of winds and waves, and crowds of trawlers and shouting,
it may be only a small portion of the fleet which is at first aware that
disaster has occurred, and even these must not, cannot, turn aside from
business at such times to think about the woes of their fellow-men.
Meanwhile Dick Martin had fallen, as the saying is, upon his feet. He
was carried into a neatly furnished cabin, put between warm blankets in
a comfortable berth, and had a cup of steaming hot coffee urged upon him
by a pleasant-voiced sailor, who, while he inquired earnestly as to how
he felt, at the same time thanked the Lord fervently that they had been
the means of saving his life.