Let us now, good reader, outstrip the _Sunbeam_, and, proceeding to the
fleet in advance of her, pay a night visit to one or two of the smacks.
We are imaginative creatures, you see, and the powers of imagination
are, as you know, almost illimitable. Even now, in fact, we have you
hovering over the dark sea, which, however, like the air above it, is
absolutely calm, so that the numerous lanterns of the fishing-vessels
around are flickering far down into the deep, like gleams of
perpendicular lightning.
It is Saturday night, and the particular vessel over which we hover is
the _Lively Poll_. Let us descend into her cabin.
A wonderful change has come over the vessel's crew since the advent of
the mission smack. Before that vessel joined the fleet, the chief
occupation of the men during the hours of leisure was gambling,
diversified now and then with stories and songs more or less profane.
On the night of which we write almost universal silence pervaded the
smack, because the men were profoundly engaged with book and pamphlet.
They could all read, more or less, though the reading of one or two
involved much spelling and knitting of the brows. But it was evident
that they were deeply interested, and utterly oblivious of all around
them. Like a schoolboy with a good story, they could not bear to be
interrupted, and were prone to explosive commentary.
David Duffy, who had fallen upon a volume of Dickens, was growing purple
in the face, because of his habit of restraining laughter until it
forced its way in little squeaks through his nose. Stephen Lockley, who
had evidently got hold of something more serious, sat on a locker, his
elbows resting on his knees, the book in his hands, and a solemn frown
on his face. Hawkson was making desperate efforts to commit to memory a
hymn, with the tune of which he had recently fallen in love, and the
meaning of which was, unknown to himself, slowly but surely entering
deep into his awakening soul. Bob Lumsden, who read his pamphlet by the
binnacle light on deck, had secured an American magazine, the humorous
style of which, being quite new to him, set him off ever and anon into
hearty ripples of laughter.
But they were not equally persevering, for Joe Stubley, to whom reading
was more of a toil than a pleasure, soon gave in, and recurred to his
favourite game of "checkers." The mate, Peter Jay, was slowly pacing
the deck in profound meditation. His soul had been deeply stirred by
some of the words which had fallen from the lips of John Binning, and
perplexities as well as anxieties were at that time struggling fiercely
in his mind.
"Well done, little marchioness!" exclaimed David Duffy, with eyes
riveted on his book, and smiting his knee with his right palm, "you're a
trump!"
"Shush!" exclaimed Lockley, with eyes also glued to his book, holding up
his hand as if to check interruption. "There's somethin' in this,
although I can't quite see it yet."
A roar of laughter on deck announced that Bob Lumsden had found
something quite to his taste. "First-rate--ha! ha! I wonder if it's
all true."
"Hold your noise there," cried Hawkson; "who d'ee think can learn off a
hymn wi' you shoutin' like a bo'sun's mate an' Duffy snortin' like a
grampus?"
"Ah, just so," chimed in Stubley, looking up from his board. "Why don't
you let it out, David? You'll bu'st the b'iler if you don't open a
bigger safety-valve than your nose."
"Smack on the weather beam, that looks like the Gospel ship, sir," said
the mate, looking down the hatchway.
The skipper closed his book at once and went on deck, but the night was
so dark, and the smack in question so far off, that they were unable to
make her out among the numerous lights of the fleet.
In another part of that fleet, not far distant, floated the _Cormorant_.
Here too, as in many other smacks, the effects of the _Sunbeam's_
beneficent influence had begun to tell. Groggy Fox's crew was noted as
one of the most quarrelsome and dissipated in the fleet. On this
particular Saturday night, however, all was quiet, for most of the men
were busy with books, pamphlets, and tracts. One who had, as his mate
said, come by a broken head, was slumbering in his berth, scientifically
bandaged and convalescent, and Groggy himself, with a pair of
tortoiseshell glasses on his nose, was deep in a book which he
pronounced to be "one o' the wery best wollums he had ever come across
in the whole course of his life," leaving it to be inferred, perhaps,
that he had come across a very large number of volumes in his day.
While he was thus engaged one of the men whispered in his ear, "A
_coper_ alongside, sir."
The skipper shut the "wery best wollum" at once, and ordered out the
boat.
"Put a cask o' oysters in her," he said.
Usually his men were eager to go with their skipper, but on this night
some of them were so interested in the books they were reading that they
preferred to remain on board. Others went, and, with their skipper, got
themselves "fuddled" on the proceeds of the owner's oysters. If oysters
had not been handy, fish or something else would have been used instead,
for Skipper Fox was not particular--he was still clinging to "the poor
old stranded wreck."
It was dawn when, according to their appropriate phrase, they "tumbled"
over the side of the _coper_ into their boat. As they bade the Dutchman
good night they observed that he was looking "black as thunder" at the
horizon.
"W-wat's wrong, ol' b-boy?" asked Groggy.
The Dutchman pointed to the horizon. "No use for me to shtop here, mit
_dat_ alongside!" he replied.
The fishermen turned their drunken eyes in the direction indicated, and,
after blinking a few seconds, clearly made out the large blue flag, with
its letters MDSF, fluttering in the light breeze that had risen with the
sun.
With curses both loud and deep the Dutchman trimmed his sails, and
slowly but decidedly vanished from the scene. Thus the tide began to
turn on the North Sea!
The light breeze went down as the day advanced, and soon the mission
vessel found herself surrounded by smacks, with an ever-increasing tail
of boats at her stern, and an ever-multiplying congregation on her deck.
It was a busy and a lively scene, for while they were assembling, Fred
Martin took advantage of the opportunity to distribute books and
medicines, and to bind up wounds, etcetera. At the same time the
pleasant meeting of friends, who never met in such numbers anywhere
else--not even in the _copers_--and the hearty good wishes and shaking
of hands, with now and then expressions of thankfulness from believers--
all tended to increase the bustle and excitement, so that the two
invalid clergymen began at once to experience the recuperative influence
of glad enthusiasm.
"There is plenty to do here, both for body and soul," remarked one of
these to Fred during a moment of relaxation.
"Yes, sir, thank God. We come out here to work, and we find the work
cut out for us. A good many surgical cases, too, you observe. But we
expect that. In five of the fleets there were more than two thousand
cases treated last year aboard of the mission smacks, so we look for our
share. In fact, during our first eight weeks with this fleet we have
already had two hundred men applying for medicine or dressing of
wounds."
"Quite an extensive practice, Dr Martin," said the clergyman, with a
laugh.
"Ay, sir; but ours is the medical-missionary line. The body may be
first in time, but the soul is first in importance with us."
In proof of this, as it were, the skipper now stopped all that had been
going on, and announced that the _real_ work of the day was going to
begin; whereupon the congregation crowded into the hold until it was
full. Those who could not find room clustered on deck round the open
hatch and listened--sometimes craned their necks over and gazed.
It was a new experience for the invalid clergymen, who received another
bath of recuperative influence. Fervour, interest, intelligence seemed
to gleam in the steady eyes of the men while they listened, and thrilled
in their resonant voices when they sang. One of the clergymen preached
as he had seldom preached before, and then prayed, after which they all
sang; but the congregation did not move to go away. The brother
clergyman therefore preached, and, modestly fearing that he was keeping
them too long, hinted as much.
"Go on, sir," said the Admiral, who was there; "it ain't every day we
gets a chance like this."
A murmur of assent followed, and the preacher went on; but we will not
follow him. After closing with the hymn, "How sweet the name of Jesus
sounds in a believer's ear," they all went on deck, where they found a
glory of sunshine flooding the _Sunbeam_, and glittering on the still
tranquil sea.
The meeting now resolved itself into a number of groups, among whom the
peculiar work of the day was continued directly or indirectly. It was
indeed a wonderful condition of things on board of the Gospel ship that
Sunday--wheels within wheels, spiritual machinery at work from stem to
stern. A few, whose hearts had been lifted up, got out an accordion and
their books, and "went in for" hymns. Among these Bob Lumsden and his
friend Pat Stiver took an active part. Here and there couples of men
leaned over the side and talked to each other in undertones of their
Saviour and the life to come. In the bow Manx Bradley got hold of Joe
Stubley and pleaded hard with him to come to Jesus, and receive power
from the Holy Spirit to enable him to give up all his evil ways. In the
stern Fred Martin sought to clear away the doubts and difficulties of
Ned Bryce. Elsewhere the two clergymen were answering questions, and
guiding several earnest souls to a knowledge of the truth, while down in
the cabin Jim Freeman prevailed on several men and boys to sign the
temperance pledge. Among these last was Groggy Fox, who, irresolute of
purpose, was still holding back.
"'Cause why," said he; "I'll be sure to break it again. I can't keep
it."
"I know that, skipper," said Fred, coming down at the moment. "In your
own strength you'll _never_ keep it, but in God's strength you shall
conquer _all_ your enemies. Let's pray, lads, that we may all be
enabled to keep to our good resolutions."
Then and there they all knelt down, and Skipper Fox arose with the
determination once again to "Leave the poor old stranded wreck, and pull
for the shore."
But that was a memorable Sunday in other respects, for towards the
afternoon a stiff breeze sprang up, and an unusually low fall in the
barometer turned the fishermen's thoughts back again to wordly cares.
The various boats left the _Sunbeam_ hurriedly. As the _Lively Poll_
had kept close alongside all the time, Stephen Lockley was last to think
of leaving. He had been engaged in a deeply interesting conversation
with one of the clergymen about his soul, but at last ordered his boat
to be hauled alongside.
While this was being done, he observed that another smack--one of the
so-called "ironclads"--was sailing so as to cross the bows of his
vessel. The breeze had by that time increased considerably, and both
smacks, lying well over, were rushing swiftly through the water.
Suddenly some part of the ironclad's tackling about the mainsail gave
way, the head of the vessel fell to leeward; next moment she went
crashing into the _Lively Poll_, and cut her down to the water's edge.
The ironclad seemed to rebound and tremble for a moment, and then passed
on. The steersman at once threw her up into the wind with the intention
of rendering assistance, but in another minute the _Lively Poll_ had
sunk and disappeared for ever, carrying Peter Jay and Hawkson along with
her.
Of course several boats pushed off at once to the rescue, and hovered
about the spot for some time, but neither the men nor the vessel were
ever seen again.
There was a smack at some distance, which was about to quit the fleet
next morning and return to port. The skipper of it knew well which
vessel had been run down, but, not being near enough to see all that
passed, imagined that the whole crew had perished along with her.
During the night the breeze freshened to a gale, which rendered fishing
impossible. This vessel therefore left the fleet before dawn, and
carried the news to Gorleston that the _Lively Poll_ had been run down
and sunk with all her crew.
It was Fred Martin's wife who undertook to break this dreadful news to
poor Mrs Lockley.
Only those who have had such duty to perform can understand the struggle
it cost the gentle-spirited Isa. The first sight of her friend's face
suggested to Mrs Lockley the truth, and when words confirmed it she
stood for a moment with a countenance pale as death. Then, clasping her
hands tightly together, the poor woman, with a cry of despair, sank
insensible upon the floor.