R. M. Ballantyne
The Lively Poll: A Tale of the North Sea
Chapter One
The Fleet
Manx Bradley was an admiraladmiral of the fleetthough 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 admiralas 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 admirals 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 directionthe 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 nights workthe 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 thingsspecially 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 seetall, 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 vessels 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 piecesbut didnt!
Looks like as if wed got hold of a lump o wreck, gasped Bob Lumsden, the smacks boy, who was also the smacks cook.
No, no, Lumpy, remarked David Duffy, who was no respecter of names or persons, it aint a wreck, its a mermaid. Ive bin told they weigh over six ton when young. Look out when she comes aboardshell bite.
I do believe its old Neptune himself, said Jim Freeman, another of the hands. Theres his head; an something like his pitchfork.
It does feel heavier than I ever knowed it afore, remarked Fred Martin.
Thats all along of your bein ill, Fred, said the mate.
It may be so, returned Martin, for I do feel queer, an amost 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 donedone, 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 ones feet. Among the dangers are two which merit notice. The one is the fishermans 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 its him, cause he dont curse an swear.
Stubleyor Stubby, as his mates called himdid 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 Jos 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.
Whats 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 its no worse, boy, observed Freeman, for weve got no medicine-chest to fly to like that lucky Short-Blue fleet.
Thats 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 cant mention the name o them mission craft without rousin you up to some o your hypocritical chaff. For my part, if it wasnt for the medicine-chest and the mittens, I think wed be better by a long way without Gospel ships, as ye call em. Why, what good ave they done the Short-Blues? Im sure we doesnt 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 amost can pass either from books or anything else, you mustnt think weve bin all built on the same lines. I likes a good book myself, an, though I dont care about prayin or psalm-singin, seein I dont 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 ladiesbless their hearts!is so fond o sendin to us.
Ay, an the cheap baccy, too, that they say theyre a-goin to send to us, added Freeman.
Praps theyll send us cheap grog at last, said Puffy, with a laugh.
Theyll hardly do that, remarked Martin; for its to try an keep us from goin for our baccy to the copers that theyve 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. Ive 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 dont 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, its time to think of goin home, interrupted Jay, with a laugh. But lets 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. Praps itll be as well to send you into dock to refit. Youd 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 henot, 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 nights 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 ensuedthe 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.