Few people know that large numbers of the splendid seamen who man our
North Sea fishing fleets are arrant Cockneys. In the North-country and
in Scotland the proud natives are accustomed to regard the Cockney as a
being who can only be reckoned as human by very charitable persons. To
hear a Scotch fisherman mention a "Kokenee" is an experience which lets
you know how far scorn may really be cherished by an earnest man. The
Northerners believe that all the manliness and hardiness in the country
reside in their persons; but I take leave to dispute that pleasing
article of faith, for I have seen hundreds of Londoners who were quite
as brave and skilful sailors as any born north of the Tees. The Cockney
is a little given to talking, but he is a good man all the same.
In the smacks many lads from the workhouse schools are apprenticed, and
some of the smartest skippers in England come originally from Mitcham or
Sutton. Jim Billings was a workhouse boy when he first went to sea, and
he sometimes ran up to London after his eight weeks' trips were over.
When I first cast eyes on Jim I said quite involuntarily, "Bob Travers,
by the living man!" The famous coloured boxer is still alive and hearty,
and it would be hard to tell the difference between him and Jim Billings
were it not that the prize-fighter dresses smartly. Jim doesn't; his
huge chest is set off by a coarse white jumper; his corded arms are
usually bared nearly to the elbow, and his vast shock of twining curls
relieves him generally from the trouble of wearing headgear. On Sundays
he sometimes puts on a most comfortless felt hat, but that is merely a
chance tribute to social usage, and the ugly excrescence does not
disfigure Jim's shaggy head for very long. Billings's father was a
mulatto prize-fighter, who perished early from the effects of those
raging excesses in which all men of his class indulged when they came
out of training. The mulatto was as powerful and game a man as ever
stripped in a twenty-four-foot ring; but he ruined his constitution with
alcohol, and he left his children penniless. The little bullet-headed
Jim was drafted off to the workhouse school, and from thence to a small
fishing-smack.
Does anyone ever think nowadays of the horrors that were to be seen
among the fleets not so very long ago? It is not a wonder that any of
the fishers had a glimmer of human feeling in them when they reached
manhood, for no brute beast--not even a cabhorse in an Italian town--was
ever treated as an apprentice on a smack was treated. Some of the
sea-ruffians carried their cruelty to insane extremes, for the lust of
blood seemed to grow upon them. It is a naked truth that there was no
law for boys who lived on the high seas until very recent years. One
fine, hardy seadog (that is the correct and robust way of talking) used
to strip his apprentice, and make him go out to the bowsprit end when
the vessel was dipping her stem in winter time. He was such a merry
fellow, was this bold seadog, and I could make breezy, "robust" Britons
laugh for hours by my narratives of his drolleries. He would not let
this poor boy eat a morsel of anything until he had mixed the dish with
excrements, and when the lad puked at the food the hardy mariner cut his
head open with a belaying-pin or flung him down the hatchway. Sometimes
the hardy one and the mate lashed the apprentice up in the fore-rigging,
and they had rare sport while he squealed under the sting of the knotted
rope's end. On one night the watch on deck saw a figure dart forward and
spring on the rail; the contumacious boy had stripped himself, and he
was barely saved from throwing his skinny, lacerated carcass into the
sea. Shortly after this the youngest apprentice went below, and found
the ill-used lad standing on a locker, and gibbering fearfully. The tiny
boy said:
"Oh! Jim, Jim, what's come to you?" but James never uttered a rational
word more. He was sent to his mother's house at Deptford, and he went to
bed with four other children. In the early morning the youngsters
noticed that Jim seemed rather stiff, and he had exceedingly good
reasons, for he was stone-dead, and doubled up. The coroner's jury
thought that death resulted from a stoppage of the intestines. That was
very funny indeed, for Jim's shipmates observed that as he was bruised
and rope's-ended more and more he lost all power of retaining his food,
and everything he swallowed passed from him undigested. Jim succumbed to
the wholesome, manly, hardening, maritime discipline of the good old
times, and no one was hanged for murdering him.
The mind of the kindly, shoregoing man cannot rightly conceive the
monstrosities of cruelty which were perpetrated. Fancy a boy bending
over a line and baiting hooks for dear life while the blood from a
fearful scalp wound drained his veins till he fainted. The lad came to
in four hours; had he died he would have been quietly reported as washed
overboard. If you can stand a few hours of talk from an old smacksman
you may hear a sombre litany of horror. Those fishers are, physically,
the flower of our race, and many of them have the noblest moral
qualities. Knowing what I do of the old days, I wonder that the men are
any better than desperate savages.
Jim Billings endured the bitterest hardships that could befall an
apprentice. For six years he was not allowed to have a bed, for that
luxury was generally denied to boys. He secured a piece of old netting,
and he used to sleep on that until it became rotten by reason of the
salt water which drained from his clothes. On mad winter nights, when
the sea came hurling along, and crashed thunderously on the decks, the
smack tugged and lunged at her trawl. All round her the dark water
boiled and roared, and the blast shrieked through the cordage with
hollow tremors. That One who rideth on the wings of the wind lashed the
dark sea into aimless fury, and the men on deck clung where they could
as the smothering waves broke and seethed in wild eddies over the
reeling vessel. At midnight the sleepers below heard the cry, "Haul, O!
haul, haul, haul!" and they staggered to their feet in the reeking den
of a cabin.
"Does it rain?"
"No, it snows."
That was the fragment of dialogue which passed pretty often. Then the
skipper inquired, "Do you want any cinder ashes?" The ashes were spread
on the treacherous deck; the bars were fixed in the capstan, and the
crew tramped on their chill round. Men often fell asleep at their dreary
work, and walked on mechanically; sometimes the struggle lasted for an
hour or two, until strong fellows were ready to lie down, and over the
straining gang the icy wind roared and the piercing drift flew in
vicious streams. When the big beam and the slimy net came to hand the
worst of the work began; it often happened that a man who ran against a
shipmate was obliged to say, "Who's that?" so dense was the darkness;
and yet amid that impenetrable gloom the intricate gear had to be
handled with certainty, and when the living avalanche of fish flowed
from the great bag, it was necessary to kill, clean, and sort them in
the dark. When the toil was over Jim Billings went below with his mates,
and their dripping clothes soon covered the cabin floor with slush.
"Surely they changed their clothes?" I fancy I hear some innocent asking
that question. Ah! No. The smacksmen have no time for changes of
raiment. Jim huddled himself up like the rest: the crew turned in
soaking, and woke up steaming, just as the men do even nowadays.
Week in, week out, Jim Billings led that hard life, and he grew up
brawny and sound in spite of all his troubles. His frame was a mass of
bone and wire, and no man could accurately measure his strength. His
mind was left vacant of all good impressions; every purely animal
faculty was abnormally developed, and Jim's one notion of relaxation was
to get beastly drunk whenever he had the chance. Like too many more of
those grand seamen, he came to regard himself as an outcast, for he was
cut off from the world during about forty-six weeks of every year, and
he thought that no creature on earth cared for him. If he broke a finger
or strained a tendon, he must bear his suffering, and labour on until
his eight weeks were up; books, newspapers, rational amusements were
unknown to him; he lived on amid cursing, fighting, fierce toil, and
general bestiality.
Pray, what were Jim's recreations? When he ran up to London he remained
violently, aggressively drunk while his money lasted, and at such times
he was as dangerous as a Cape buffalo in a rage. With all his weight he
was as active as a leopard, and his hitting was as quick as Ned
Donnelly's. He enjoyed a fight, but no one who faced him shared his
enjoyment long; for he generally settled his man with one rush. He used
both hands with awful severity; and in short, he was one of the most
fearsome wild beasts ever allowed to remain at large. I have known him
to take four men at once, with disastrous results to the four, and, when
he had to be conveyed to the police-station (which was rather
frequently), fresh men were always brought round to handle him. Speaking
personally, I may say that I would rather enter a cage of performing
lions than stand up for two rounds with Mr. Billings. He only once was
near The Chequers, and I fear I entertained an unholy desire to see some
of our peculiar and eloquent pugilists raise his ire. Here was a pretty
mass of blackguard manhood for you! Everyone who knew him felt certain
that Jim would be sent to penal servitude in the end for killing some
antagonist with an unlucky blow; no human power seemed capable of
restraining him, and of superhuman powers he only knew one thing--he
knew that you use certain words for cursing purposes.
Over the grey desolation of that cruel North Sea no humanising agency
ever travelled to soften Jim Billings and his like; but there were many
agencies at work to convert the men into brutes.
On calm days there came sinister vessels that sneaked furtively among
the fleet. A little black flag flew from the foretopmast stay of these
ugly visitors, and that was a sign that tobacco and spirits were on sale
aboard. The smacksmen went for tobacco, which is a necessity of life to
them; but the clever Dutchmen soon contrived to introduce other wares.
Vile aniseed brandy--liquid fire--was sold cheap, and many a man who
began the day cool and sober ended it as a raving madman. Mr. Coper, the
Dutch trader, did not care a rush for ready money; ropes, nets, sails
were quite as much in his line, and a continual temptation was held out
to men who wanted to rob their owners. Jim Billings used to get drunk as
often as possible, and he himself told me of one ghastly expedient to
which he was reduced when he and his shipmates were parched and craving
for more poison. A dead man came past their vessel; they lowered the
boat, and proceeded to haul the clothes off the corpse. The putrid flesh
came away with the garments, but the drunkards never heeded. They
scrubbed the clothes, dried them in the rigging, and coped them away for
brandy.
Mr. Coper had other attractions for young and lusty fishermen. There are
certain hounds in France, Holland, and even in our own virtuous
country, who pick up a living by selling beastly pictures. In the North
Sea fleets there are 12,000 powerful fellows who are practically
condemned to celibacy, and the human apes who sold the bawdy pictures
drove a rare trade among the swarming vessels.
Jim Billings was a capital customer to the Copers, for his animalism ran
riot, and he was more like a tremendous automaton than like a man.
So this mighty creature lived his life, drinking, fighting, toiling,
blaspheming, and dwelling in rank darkness. He often spoke of "Gord,"
and his burly childishness tickled me infinitely. I liked Jim; he was
such a Man when one compared him with our sharps and noodles; but I
never expected to see him fairly distance me in the race towards
respectability. I am still a Loafer; Jim is a most estimable member of
the gentlest society; and this is how it all came about.
On one grey Sunday morning a pretty smack came creeping through the
fleet. Far and near the dark trawlers heaved to the soft swell, and they
looked picturesque enough; but the strange vessel was handsomer than
any of the fishing-boats, and Jim's curiosity was roused. The new smack
was flying a flag at her masthead, but Jim could not read well enough to
make out the inscription on the flag. He said, "Who's he?" and his mate
answered, "A blank mission ship. Lot o' blokes come round preachin' and
prayin'."
"What? To our blank chaps? How is it I've never seen his blank flag
afore?"
"Ain't been werry long started. I heerd about 'em at Gorleston. Fat Dan
got converted board o' one on 'em."
Just then the smart smack shoved her foresail a-weather and hove-to;
then a small boat put out, and a stout grizzled man hailed Jim.
"What cheer, old lad, what cheer? Come and give us a look. Service in an
hour's time. Come and have a pot o' tea and a pipe."
I am grieved to say that Mr. Billings remarked, "Let's go aboard the
blank, and capsize the whole blank trunk."
Certainly he jumped up the side of the mission ship with very evil
intentions. Boat after boat came up and made fast astern of the dandy
vessel, and soon the decks were crowded with merry groups. Jim couldn't
make it out for the life of him. These fellows had their pipes and
cigars going; they were full of fun, and yet Jim could not hear an oath
or a lewd word. Gradually he began to feel a little sheepish, but
nevertheless he did not relinquish his desire to break up the service.
The skipper of the smack invited Jim to go below, and handed him a
steaming mug of tea.
"Where's your 'bacca?" said the skipper.
"Left him aboard."
"Never mind. Take half a pound and pay for it to-morrow. We sell the
best at a shilling a pound."
Jim gaped. Here was a decidedly practical religious agency. A shilling a
pound! Cheaper than the Copers' rubbish. Jim took a few pulls at the
strong, black tobacco, and began to reconsider his notion about smashing
up the service. He found the religious skipper was as good a fisherman
as anyone in the fleet; the talk was free from that horrible cant which
scares wild and manly men so easily, and the copper-coloured rowdy
almost enjoyed himself.
Presently the lively company filed into the hold, squatted on fish
boxes, and proceeded to make themselves comfortable. Two speakers from
London were to address the meeting, and Jim gazed very critically on
both.
A hymn was sung, and the crash of the hoarse voices sounded weirdly over
the moan of the wind. Jim felt something catch at his throat, and yet he
was unable to tell what strange new feeling thrilled him. His comrades
sang as if their lives depended on their efforts. Jim sat on, half
pleased, half sulky, wholly puzzled. Then one of the speakers rose. At
first sight the preacher looked like anything but an apostle; his plump,
rounded body gave no hint of asceticism, and his merry, pure eye
twinkled from the midst of a most rubicund expanse of countenance. He
looked like one who had found the world a pleasant place, and Jim
gruffly described him as a "jolly old bloke." But the voice of this
comfortable, suave-looking missionary by no means matched his
appearance. He spoke with a grave and silvery pitch that made his words
seem to soar lightly over his audience. His accent was that of the
genuine society man, but a delicate touch--a mere suspicion--of Scotch
gave the cultured tones a certain odd piquancy. A solemn note of deep
passion trembled, as it were, amid the floating music, and every word
went home. This jolly, rosy missionary is one of the best of living
popular speakers, and his passionate simplicity fairly conquers the very
rudest of audiences. The man believes every word he says, and his power
of rousing strong emotion has seldom been equalled.
Jim Billings sat and glowered; he understood every simply lucid sentence
that the orator uttered, and he was charmed in spite of himself.
"This is the blankest, rummiest blank go ever I was in," muttered the
would-be iconoclast.
His visions of a merry riot were all fled, and he was listening with the
eagerness of a decorous Sunday-school child.
Speaker Number Two arose, and Jim's bleared eyes were riveted on him.
The rough saw before him a pallid, worn man, whose beautiful face seemed
drawn by suffering. Long, exquisite artist hands, silky beard, kindly,
humorous mouth, marked by stern lines; these were the things that Jim
dimly saw. But the dusky blackguard was really daunted and mastered by
the preacher's eye. The wonderful eye was like Napoleon's and Mary
Stuart's in colour; but the Emperor's lordly look hinted of earthly
ambition: the missionary's wide, flashing gaze seemed to be turned on
some solemn vision. Twice in my life have I seen such an eye--once in
the flesh when I met General Gordon, once in a portrait of Columbus.
Poor Jim was fascinated; he was in presence of the hero-martyr who has
revolutionised the life of a great population by the sheer force of his
own unconquerable will. Jim did not know that the slim man with the
royal eye must endure acute agony as he travels from one squalid vessel
to another; he did not know that the sublime modern Reformer has
overcome colossal difficulties while enduring tortures which would make
even brave men pray for death. Jim was in the dark. He only knew that
the saintly man talked like a "toff," and said strange things. After a
little the "toff" dropped the accent of the Belgravian and began to
speak in low, impassioned tones; he told one little story, and Jim found
that he must cry or swear. With sorrow I must say that he did the
latter, in order to bully the lump out of his bull throat. Then the
"toff" broke into a cry of infinite tenderness and pity; he implored the
men to come, and some sturdy fellows sobbed; but Jim did not understand
where they were wanted to go, and he growled another oath.
After this some of the fishermen spoke, and Jim heard how drunkards,
fighting men, and spendthrifts had become peaceable and prosperous
citizens.
Puzzles were heaped on the poor man's brain. He could have broken that
pale man in halves with one hand; yet the pale man mastered him. He knew
some of the burly seamen as old ruffians; yet here they were--talking
gently, and boasting about their happiness and prosperity. When the last
crashing chorus had been sung, the two swells went round and chatted
freely with all comers.
"No ---- 'toffs' never treated me like that afore."
All that day, until the trawl went down, Jim sat growling and brooding.
He was inarticulate, and the crowding thoughts that surged in his dim
soul were chaotic.
Next day he inquired, "Do you know anything 'bout this yere Jesus as
they yarns about?"
"Devil a bit! Get the bloke on the Mission ship to tell you."
"See him and you damned fust!"
Thus spoke the impolite James. But on the ninth day the Mission smack
ran into the Blue fleet again, and Jim took a desperate resolution. His
boat was astern, so he jumped over the counter and sculled himself
straight to the Mission smack.
"Got them gents aboard?"
The skipper was wild with delight at seeing the most notorious ruffian
on the coast come voluntarily, and Mr. Billings was soon below in the
after cabin. Poor Jim stuttered and haggled while trying to explain what
was the matter with him.
"I tell you, guvnor, I've got a something that must come out, or I shall
choke straight off. I want to speak, and I can't get no words."
I shall say nothing of the long talk that went on. I know something
about it, but the subject is too sacred for a Loafer to touch. I shall
only say that Jim Billings got release, as the fishers say, and his
wild, infantine outburst made powerful men cry like children.
He is now a very quiet soul, and he neither visits The Chequers nor any
other hostelry. There was great fun among the Gorleston men when Jim
turned serious, and one merry smacksman actually struck at the quadroon.
Jim bit his lip, and said,
"Bill, old lad, I'd have killed you for that a year ago. Shake hands;
God bless you!"
Which was rather a plucky thing to do.
Some blathering parsons say that this blessed Mission is teaching men to
talk cant and Puritanism. Speaking as a very cynical Loafer, I can only
say that if Puritanism turns fishing fleets and fishing towns from being
hells on earth into being decent places; if Puritanism heals the sick,
comforts the sufferers, carries joy and refinement and culture into
places that were once homes of horror, and renders the police force
almost a superfluity in two great towns--then I think we can put up with
Puritanism.
I know that Jim Billings was a dangerous untamed animal; he is now a
jolly, but quiet fellow. I was always rather afraid of him; but now I
should not mind sailing in his vessel. The Puritan Mission has civilised
him and hundreds on hundreds more, and I wish the parsons had done just
half as much.
For my own part, I think that when I am clear of The Chequers I shall go
clean away into the North Sea. If on some mad night the last sea heaves
us down, and the Loafer is found on some wind-swept beach, that will be
as good an end as a burnt-out, careless being can ask. Perhaps Jim
Billings, the rough, and I, the broken gentleman, may go triumphantly
together. Who knows? I should like to take the last flight with the
fighting nigger.